THE DIVER.

215

THE DIVER.

MRS. HEMANS.

THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow;
Thou hast fought with eddying waves;
Thy cheek is pale and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves.

Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old, And wrecks where the brave have striven; The deep is a strong and fearful hold,

But thou its bar hast riven!

A wild and weary life is thine,
A wasting task and lone,

Though treasure-grots for thee may shine
To all beside unknown.

A weary life; but a swift decay

Soon, soon shall set thee free;
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read —
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled.

And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be,
A star to all in the festive hall;
But who will think on thee?

216

THE DIVER.

None; as it gleams from the queen-like head,
Not one midst throngs will say: —
"A life hath been like a rain-drop shed
For that pale, quivering ray.”

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
And are not those like thee,

Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below

From many a buried urn; —

Wringing from lava veins the fire
That o'er bright words is poured;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.

But O, the price of bitter tears,

Paid for the lonely power

That throws at last o'er desert years
A darkly glorious dower!

Like flower seeds, by the wild wind spread, So radiant thoughts are strewed;

The soul whence those high gifts are shed May faint in solitude.

And who will think, when the strain is sung Till a thousand hearts are stirred,

LIFE AND DEATH.

What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gushed with every word?

None, none! his treasures live like thine;

He strives and dies like thee;

217

Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,
O wrestler with the sea!

LIFE AND DEATH.

BEN JONSON.

THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds;
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,
And hath it in his powers to make his way.
This world death's region is; the other, life's;
And here, it should be one of our first strifes
So to front death as men might judge us past it;
For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

THE COUNTRY LASSIE.

ANON.

SHE blossomed in the country,
Where sunny summers fling
Their rosy arms about the earth,

And brightest blessings bring;

218

THE COUNTRY LASSIE.

Health was her sole inheritance,
And grace her only dower;
I never dreamed the wildwood
Contained so sweet a flower.

Far distant from the city,
And inland from the sea,
My lassie bloomed in goodness,
As pure as pure could be;
She caught her dewy freshness
From hill and mountain bower;
I never dreamed the wildwood
Contained so sweet a flower.

The rainbow must have lent her
Some of its airy grace,
The wild rose parted with a blush
That nestled on her face;
The sunbeam got entangled in

The long waves of her hair,

For she had grown to be

So modest and so fair.

The early birds had taught her
Their joyous matin song,
And some of their soft innocence,
She's been with them so long;

And for her now, if need be,

I'd part with wealth and power; I never dreamed the wildwood Contained so sweet a flower.

THE BREEZE IN THE CHURCH. 219

THE BREEZE IN THE CHURCH.

MISS HINXHAM.

'Twas a sunny day, and the morning psalm
We sung in the church together;
We felt in our hearts the joy and calm
Of the calm and joyous weather.

The slow and sweet and sacred strain,
Through every bosom stealing,

Checked every thought that was light and vain,
And waked each holy feeling.

We knew by its sunny gleam how clear
Was the blue sky smiling o'er us,
And in every pause of the hymn could hear
The wild birds' happy chorus.

And lo! from its haunts by cave or rill,
With a sudden start awaking,
A breeze came fluttering down the hill,
Its fragrant pinions shaking.

Through the open windows it bent its way,
And down the chancel centre,

Like a privileged thing that at will might stray,
And in holy places enter.

From niche to niche, from nook to nook,

With a lightsome rustle flying,

It lifted the leaves of the Holy Book,

On the altar cushion lying.