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IN ANSWER TO STANZAS CONTAINING SEVERAL PASSAGES OF DISTINGUISHED BEAUTY, ADDRESSED TO ME BY----.

As by the wayside the worn traveller lies, And finds no pillow for his aching brow, Except the pack beneath whose weight he dies,-- If loving breezes from the far west blow, Laden with perfume from those blissful bowers Where gentle youth and hope once gilded all his hours, As fans that loving breeze, tears spring again, And cool the fever of his wearied brain.

Even so to me the soft romantic dream Of one who still may sit at fancy's feet, Where love and beauty yet are all the theme, Where spheral concords find an echo meet. To the ideal my vexed spirit turns, But often for communion vainly burns. Blest is that hour when breeze of poesy From far the ancient fragrance wafts to me; This time thrice blest, because it came unsought, "Sweet suppliance," and dear, because unbought.

INFLUENCE OF THE OUTWARD.

The sun, the moon, the waters, and the air, The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair; Flower-alphabets, love-letters from the wave, All mysteries which flutter, blow, skim, lave; All that is ever-speaking, never spoken, Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,-- Have played upon my soul, and every string Confessed the touch which once could make it sing Triumphal notes; and still, though changed the tone, Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known, It would, if fitly played, and all its deep notes wove Into one tissue of belief and love, Yield melodies for angel-audience meet, And paeans fit creative power to greet.

O, injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred; No garlands deck thee; no libations poured Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song; No princely halls echo thy strains along; But still the strings are there; and if at last they break, Even in death some melody will make. Mightst thou once more be strung, might yet the power be given, To tell in numbers all thou hast of heaven! But no! thy fragments scattered by the way, To children given, help the childish play. Be it thy pride to feel thy latest sigh Could not forget the law of harmony, Thou couldst not live for bliss--but thou for truth couldst die!