THE DIVER. 215 THE DIVER. MRS. HEMANS. THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow; 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, Though treasure-grots for thee may shine A weary life; but a swift decay Soon, soon shall set thee free; In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, And bright in beauty's coronal 216 THE DIVER. None; as it gleams from the queen-like head, Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought! Who win for earth the gems of thought? Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, From many a buried urn; — Wringing from lava veins the fire But O, the price of bitter tears, Paid for the lonely power That throws at last o'er desert years 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, None, none! his treasures live like thine; He strives and dies like thee; 217 Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, LIFE AND DEATH. BEN JONSON. THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds; THE COUNTRY LASSIE. ANON. SHE blossomed in the country, And brightest blessings bring; 218 THE COUNTRY LASSIE. Health was her sole inheritance, Far distant from the city, The rainbow must have lent her The long waves of her hair, For she had grown to be So modest and so fair. The early birds had taught her 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 The slow and sweet and sacred strain, Checked every thought that was light and vain, We knew by its sunny gleam how clear And lo! from its haunts by cave or rill, Through the open windows it bent its way, Like a privileged thing that at will might stray, 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. |