Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/477

 1850-60.] CAROLINE A. CHAM BERLIN. 4Gi We cannot rank those with the dead, Who of our lives are part. Let the stern cannon boom his fame, Who, red with carnage, dies ; But let love's holiest, heavenly flame. In deathless souls arise, For those who, with seraphic might. By the pale night-lamp's rays, Have fought the holy spirit-fight, Unheeding gold or bays. He is not in thy halls, Death ! Amidst forgotten things. Who took the water's fiery breath, And wove it into wings : Through poverty and fearful strife He won a victory brave ; And praise, that should have crowned his Ufe, Wreathes garlands o'er his grave. Amidst the busy city's mass, Where life beats full and strong. We feel his influence as we pass Among the motley throng ; On sterile height — in bloom-clad dell, Where earth a home can give, — And where the blue waves proudly swell. His name for aye must live ! Wait not his death, thou wreath, thou lyre ! — His life thy gifts shed o'er. Who placed the lightning on the wire, And bid space be no more ! Who gave thought pinions, as the wind Wafts flower-seeds o'er earth's face. And closer knit the bands that bind In brotherhood the race. The only good, the only true. Blessed, ever blessed, they'll be. Who've still some solemn work to do For wronged humanity ! Nor shall the poet ask a theme For deep and burning song, While, mingling with his loveliest dream, Uprise that holy throng. A PICTURE. She stole upon one unaware, — As sunbeams through the cloud-rifts play,— And ere they'd asked if she was fair, She'd kissed the critic-spell away ; With step as falling blossoms mute. And smile caught from celestial sphere — And plaintive voice, like dove or lute. She waked the thought, " What doth she here ? " Too swiftly o'er her cheek's pure snow, For health's warm flush, the rose tinge flew ; — Too lightly dawned — too soon to ^o — And left that cheek too pale of hue. A sorrow, beauteously borne, As earth bears twilight on her face — As holy vesture meekly worn. Spoke from lip, eye, and form of grace, Whose every movement seemed to be Attuned to touching melody. One asks not why the flower love wakes. Blessed in the spell it doth impart — The sweet bird-minstrel captive takes The soul — unquestioned of its art; — The star-beams oft the heart have swayed. All coldly dead to sterner power ; — And heaven in her the charms displayed. The blended force of bird, star, flower ; So to the spirit's depths she stole With gentle, yet with queenly grace. And throned herself within the soul. As if alone her rightful place ; Yet bound she not that soul to earth, Nor filled it with an earthling's love ; — To love her, it must feel its worth, — To love her it must soar above.