story is the world's own doom."     "Hope thou hast felt,—thy wages, then, are paid; Thy faith 'twas formed the rapture pledged to thee. Thou might'st have of the wise inquiry made,—    The minutes thou neglectest, as they fade, Are given back by no eternity!" 

  

       THE CONFLICT.     

    No! I this conflict longer will not wage, The conflict duty claims—the giant task;—    Thy spells, O virtue, never can assuage The heart's wild fire—this offering do not ask True, I have sworn—a solemn vow have sworn, That I myself will curb the self within; Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn—     Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin. Rent be the contract I with thee once made;—     She loves me, loves me—forfeit be the crown! Blessed he who, lulled in rapture's dreamy shade, Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down. She sees the worm that my youth's bloom decays, She sees my spring-time wasted as it flees; And, marvelling at the rigor that gainsays The heart's sweet impulse, my reward decrees. Distrust this angel purity, fair soul! It is to guilt thy pity armeth me; Could being lavish its unmeasured whole, It ne'er could give a gift to rival thee!     Thee—the dear guilt I ever seek to shun, O tyranny of fate, O wild desires! My virtue's only crown can but be won In that last breath—when virtue's self expires! 

  

       THE ARTISTS.     

    How gracefully, O man, with thy palm-bough, Upon the waning century standest thou, In proud and noble manhood's prime, With unlocked senses, with a spirit freed, Of firmness mild,—though silent, rich in deed, The ripest son of Time, Through meekness great, through precepts strong, Through treasures rich, that time had long     Hid in thy bosom, and through reason free,—    Master of Nature, who thy fetters loves, And who thy strength in thousand conflicts proves, And from the desert soared in pride with thee! Flushed with the glow of victory, Never forget to prize the hand That found the weeping orphan child Deserted on life's barren strand, And left a prey to hazard wild,—    That, ere thy spirit-honor saw the day, Thy youthful heart watched over silently, And from thy tender bosom turned away Each thought that might have stained its purity; That kind one ne'er forget who, as in sport, Thy youth to noble aspirations trained, And who to thee in easy riddles taught   

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