Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/486

 470 MARY E. FEE SHANNON. [1850-60. NEVER STOP TO LOOK BEHIND YOU. Never stop to look behind you, Never loiter through the day, Never let inaction bind you In its woof of brown and gray ; But up ! and onward, ever ! To the left, nor to the right, Let your gaze be turning never ; But where beams the beacon light Of duty, straight before you. Keep your feet upon the way ; For though clouds should gather o'er you, They must quickly pass away. Never stop to mope in sadness. To mourn, and sigh, and fret, 'Tis a sinful kind of madness, To believe your star is set In a night of hopeless sorrow ; Oh, arouse, and soon forget. In the stirring, bright to-morrow, Each unworthy, vain regret ; Fortune never stoops when, sighing, The suppliant breathes her name ; At her feet are only lying. For the brave, her wreaths of fame. What though the friends you've cherished, And the hearts that were your own. And the dreams your fancy nourished, Like meteor gleams have flown; The soul is narrow moulded. If, in all this world of ours. Brighter gems ai-e not enfolded In the hearts of human flowers, To give thee at the asking, Their freshness and their bloom, — If but earnest smiles were basking Where now hangs that sullen gloom. With youth and health distilling, In that manly frame of thine. The blue veins, softly filling With life's sweet, rosy wine, 'Tis naught but rank insanity To fold the arms, and sigh O'er the faults of frail humanity, And moan, and pray to die; With slaves and cowards, never Let the powers you possess Ignobly sink forever, In the slough of idleness ! A WISH. O! WOULD I were a poet ! I'd teach my harp to breathe Like a bright, enchanted thing. And from its chords and bosom fling The sunny lays I'd weave. ! would I were a poet — Not for the wreath of Fame That twines around a poet's brow. Nor the homage of the souls that bow Unto a deathless name ; But, oh ! in sorrow's trying hour, 'Tis surely sweet, to rove Afar on Fancy's iris wing. To a world of our imagining, All pure, and bright with love. I'd be a poet — ah, and yet One other boon I crave — A priceless gem, that is not bought With yellow gold, nor is it brought From 'neath the crystal wave : It is a gentle heart, to thrill In concord with mine own. To hold for me affection pure — Abiding love, which shall endure When change-fraught }ears have flown.