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SARAH FLOWER ADAMS.

1805-1849.

THE OLIVE BOUGHS.

They bear the hero from the fight, dying;
But the foe is flying:

They lay him down beneath the shade
By the olive branches made:

The olive boughs are sighing.

He hears the wind among the leaves, dying;
But the foe is flying:

He hears the voice that used to be
When he sat beneath the tree:

The olive boughs are sighing.

Comes the mist around his brow, dying;
But the foe is flying:

Comes that form of peace so fair,—
Stretch his hands unto the air:

The olive boughs are sighing.

Fadeth life as fadeth day, dying;
But the foe is flying:

There's an urn beneath the shade

By the olive branches made :

The olive boughs are sighing.

SIR WILLIAM ROWAN HAMILTON. 1805-1865.

A PRAYER.

O brooding Spirit of Wisdom and of Love! Whose mighty wings even now o'ershadow me,Absorb me in thine own immensity,

And raise me far my finite self above!

Purge vanity away, and the weak care

That name or fame of me may widely spread ;
And the deep wish keep burning in their stead
Thy blissful influence afar to bear,

Or see it borne! Let no desire of ease,
No lack of courage, faith, or love, delay
Mine own steps on that high thought-paven way
In which my soul her clear commission sees:
Yet with an equal joy let me behold

Thy chariot o'er that way by others roll'd!

THOMAS WADE.

1805-1876.

THE NET-BRAIDERS.

Within a low-thatch'd hut, built in a lane
Whose narrow pathway tends toward the ocean,
A solitude which, save of some rude swain

Or fisherman, doth scarce know human motion,— Or of some silent poet to the main

Straying, to offer infinite devotion

To God in the free universe,—there dwelt
Two women old, to whom small store was dealt

Of the world's mis-named good, mother and child,
Both aged and mateless. These two life sustain'd
By braiding fishing-nets; and so beguil'd

Time and their cares, and little e'er complain'd Of Fate or Providence: resign'd and mild,

Whilst day by day, for years, their hour-glass rain'd

Its trickling sand, to track the wing of Time,

They toil'd in peace and much there was sublime

In their obscure contentment: of mankind
They little knew, or reck'd; but for their being
They bless'd their Maker, with a simple mind;
And in the constant gaze of his all-seeing

Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind,

Deeming they dwelt, they bore their sorrows fleeing, Glad still to live, but not afraid to die,

In calm expectance of Eternity.

And since I first did greet those braiders poor,

If ever I behold fair women's cheeks
Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the door

Is shut to all but Pride, my cleft heart seeks

For refuge in my thoughts,-which then explore
That pathway lone near which the wild sea breaks :
And to Imagination's humble eyes

That hut, with all its want, is Paradise.

NYMPHS.

Beautiful Things of Old! why are ye gone for ever
Out of the earth? O, why?

Dryad and Oread, and ye, Nereids blue!

Whose presence woods and hills and sea-rocks knew.
Ye have pass'd from Faith's dim eye,

And save by poet's lip your names are honour'd never.

The sun on the calm sea sheddeth a golden glory,
The rippling waves break whitely,

The sands are level and the shingle bright,

The green cliffs wear the pomp of heaven's light,

And sea-weeds idle lightly

Over the rocks; but ye appear not, Dreams of Story!

Nymphs of the Sea! Faith's heart hath fled from ye-hath fled;

Ye are her boasted scorn;

Save to the poet's soul, the sculptor's thought,

The painter's fancy, ye are now as nought:

Mute is old Triton's horn,

And with it half the voice of the Old World is dead.

Our creeds are not less vain; our sleeping life still dreams;

The present, like the past,

Passes in joy and sorrow, love and shame;

Truth dwells as deep; wisdom is yet a name;

Life still to death flies fast;

And the same shrouded light from the dark future gleams.

Spirits of vale and hill, of river and of ocean,—

Ye thousand deities!

Over the earth be president again;

And dance upon the mountain and the main

In view of mortal eyes:

Love us, and be beloved, with the Old Time's devotion !

JOHN STERLING.

1806-1844.

DEDALUS.

Wail for Dædalus, all that is fairest !
All that is tuneful in air or wave!

Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest,
Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave!

Statues! bend your heads in sorrow :

Ye that glance amid ruins old,

That know not a past nor expect a morrow,
On many a moonlight Grecian wold.

By sculptured cave and speaking river,
Thee, Dædalus! oft the Nymphs recall;
The leaves with a sound of winter quiver,
Murmur thy name, and withering fall.

Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest
Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm'd eye,
Though, Dædalus! thou no more commandest
New stars to that ever widening sky.

Ever thy phantoms arise before us,

Our loftier brothers, but one in blood; By bed and table they lord it o'er us,

With looks of beauty and words of good.

Calmly they show us mankind victorious
O'er all that is aimless, blind, and base;
Their presence has made our nature glorious,
Unveiling our night's illumined face.

Thy toil has won them a god-like quiet;

Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely sphere; Their eyes to peace rebuke our riot

And shape us a home of refuge here.

For Dædalus breathed in them his spirit;
In them their sire his beauty sees:
We too, a younger brood, inherit

The gifts and blessings bestow'd on these.

But ah! their wise and graceful seeming

Recalls the more that the Sage is gone: Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming And find our voiceless chamber lone.

Dædalus! thou from the twilight fleèst

Which thou with visions hast made so bright; And when no more those shapes thou seèst, Wanting thine eye they lose their light.

Even in the noblest of Man's creations,
Those fresh worlds round this old of ours,
When the Seer is gone, the orphan'd nations
See but the tombs of perish'd powers.

Wail for Dædalus, Earth and Ocean!
Stars and Sun! lament for him;
Ages! quake in strange commotion;
All ye realms of Life! be dim!

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