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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
None!—as it gleams from the queen-like head,
Not one 'midst throngs will say,
"A life hath been like a rain-drop shed,
For that pale quivering ray."
Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
—And are not those like thee,
Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!
Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below
From many a buried urn:
Wringing from lava-veins the fire,
That o'er bright words is pour'd;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.
