ENIGMA.

BY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

It must tremble on earth! for it dies off in air,

And ocean forbids it to have a place there;

Yet it haunts the rough shores of a storm-harass'd lake,
And where sea-surfs are foaming, its image will break,
While the quietest dew-drop on bowery spray
Will perish at once if you steal it away.

The lawn and the meadow its presence may spare,
But no shrub can e'er sprout save it ministers there!
In the odor of blossoms it floats on the breeze,
It freshens the verdure of moss-covered trees,
And no flower can flourish in rock-shelter'd nook,
But it shares of its fragrance by forest and brook.

The knight from his pennon may blot it in vain,
With the stream of the battle it pours o'er the plain;
It climbs the rough rampart, it springs the broad arch,
And marshals the army wherever it march :
'Mid the broadside of navies it rides on each spar,
And gives life in each charge to the cheering hurrah.

It loves not the chase; yet at sound of the horn

It will rouse with the hunter at break of the morn :

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It shares not the feast, though it sits at the board, — Yet when music is breathing it strings every chord,

And when beakers are brimming, and healths offered up, It floats on the bumper, but dies in the cup.

It delights in the churchyard, the bier, and the grave,
Yet without it no birth, and no bridal you have,
And when orisons rise to the Father above,

It hovers around every offering of love;

For, rife in all hearts, though for aye linked with care, It begins our repentance, and ends every prayer.