Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/118

 02 THE BROKEN VASE.

Of her far home, and seem to breathe the tones Of her young, sporting sisters.

Tis in vain ;

No art may join these fragments, or cement Their countless chasms.

And yet there's many a wreck Of costlier things, for which the wealth of Earth May yield no reparation.

He who hangs

His all of happiness on beauty's smile, And, 'mid that dear illusion, treads on thorns, And feels no wound, or climbs the rocky steep Unconscious of fatigue, hath oft-times mark'd A dying dolpin's brightness at his feet, And found it but the bubble of his hope, Disparting like the rainbow.

They who run

Ambition's race, and on their compeers tread With fever 'd eagerness to grasp the goal, Oft see the envied prize, like waxen toy, Melt in the passion-struggle.

He who toils

Till lonely midnight, o'er the waning lamp, Twining the cobwebs of poetic thought, Or forging links from learning's molten gold, Till his brain dazzles, and his eye turns dim, Then spreads his gatherings with a proud delight To the cold bosom 'd public, oft perceives

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