All that is left of life's promise is here,

Thou, my young idol, in sorrow more dear!

But thy murmurs remind me of many away,

And though I am glad, love! I cannot be gay !--All has departed that offered like truth,

Save thou-only thou,-and the song of my youth!

THE VISIONIST.

AFTER A PICTURE OF A GIRL, NEWLY AWAKENED, AND IN A MUSING ATTITUDE.

SHE has been dreaming!—and her thoughts are, still, On their far journey in the land of dreams!

The forms we call-but may not chase at will,
And soft, low voices,-sweet as distant streams,
Heard in the night-hush,-linger round her heart!
Oh, dark-eyed dreamer! must thy spirit sail
Into the years when dreams of joy depart,
With each bright morning,-like the nightingale!
When hope is only for the slumbering hours,
A thing on which the waker thinks—and weeps;
And pleasant fancies-like night-blowing flowers,—
Give out their perfume but while memory sleeps!-
Thine is the precious privilege of youth,

That paints all visions in the hues of truth!

OH! that the Spirit of thy votive song
Would pour her Sibyl oracles along,

Go forth where despots sway, and dastards yield,
And rouse a tented Israel to the field!

-Oh! for the mystic harp of Kedron's vale,
To fling its music on the tameless gale!
As erst, in Israel, when, at God's command,
Saul was sent forth to blight the chartered land,
When Siloa's brook was gathered to a flood,
And Sion wept-till every tear was blood!

Oh! for a spell-like her's who called the dead,

And brought the prophet from his dreamless bed,— To wake the spirit of the martyred brave,

And break the slumber of Riego's grave!

-Oh! for the warrior-youth of Judah's line,
Divinely missioned to a work divine,-

A David to "go up"-with staff and sling,
And pebbles for the forehead of a king,-
And, in the spirit of a holy wrath,

Smite the Goliath of a sceptered Gath!

Alas, the lovely land!-where fetters bind
All but the sighs their captives give the wind!
Where life is stagnant-but when stirred by fears,
And patriots have no weapons-but their tears !
Where the free breezes and the dancing waves
Utter vain language to a world of slaves;
And hope-a "fitful fever"—wakes and dies,

Like clouds that form-to melt--in Spanish skies!

It comes--it comes !—like a far trumpet-blast, I hear the tumult and the stir, at last!

Through the dull distance of a few short years, The gathering-cry is borne to prophet ears, When nations shall go forth, like water poured, To see an Agag hewn before the Lord,

And Freedom lift, again, her starry crest,

High o'er the new-born Hebron of the West!

D