1850-60.] EMMA A. BROWNE. 685 Blow wind ! blow wind ! fall, desolate rain, And cry, oh! sorrowful sea, To the dumb, dead sand thy merciless pain. For such has my heart for me ! Pitiless! pitiless! homeless, and pitiless ! Such is the world to me ! THE CONQUERORS. Who are kings, and who are heroes ? Who are victors till the last ? They who with unfaltering courage, Quell the lions of the past. They who go from town and village, From the smithy and the farm. Nobler for the sign of labor. Branded on each stalwart arm ; — They who go from mart and city, From the rush and roar of trade, Go to grapple with the future. Strong of soul, and undismay'd; — They who from the toiling present. Look not back through mist of tears. But across the coming harvest Of the golden-fruited years ; — They who nurse a noble scorning, E'en in thought to be a slave — They who hailed the glorious morning, Of the arts that keep us brave ! Deeming all men are bom equal, Only by high deeds made best, They who strive to win the sequel, That shall crown the nations bless'd; — They who with their great endeavors, Build a never-dying name — They whose thunder-bolts of genius Wrap this living age in flame ! These are kings and conquerors glorious. From the lowliest haunts of men, Climbing unto heights victorious By the toil of press and pen ! These, the winners of true knowledge. Strong to battle for the right, From the workshop and the college. Striding full-armed to the fight ! Blessed be ye ! brawny workers. In the mighty fields of thought, Bless'd your planting and your reaping^ When the harvest shall be brought ! Go out, victors, late and early — Sow the fiery seed of thought ! Down by rivers still and pearly, Shall your perfect sheaves be brought; When the world's great heart sublimely. Throbs a full calm as of yore, And beside immortal waters Angels dwell with men, once more. AURELIA. The water-lihes float the way The tide floweth — So, to-day, Down purple memories far and dim, My happy heart doth follow him, The way he goeth ! The sunset's crimson cup, o'erfull. Stains the blue river Beautiful ! So is my nature's high divine. In his rare nature's costly wine, Rose-tinsed forever !
