O mighty Genius! thy wondrous power
Confers on thy children a glorious dower!
Thou biddest the poet rehearse his lay,

And crown'st him immortal, with wreaths of bay;
Thy magic spell round the sculptor is thrown,
And beauty is born from the lifeless stone!

Thy spirit is breathed in the painter's soul,
And he pants to arrive at the glorious goal,
PERFECTION! he enters the charmed ring,
And breathing forms from his pencil spring.
O, happy the artist whose skill can weave
Such radiant fancies as GENEVIEVE!

SONG.

I DID not love thee first! My heart
Hath whispered words as fond before;
But I have seen bright dreams depart,
And skies the clearest clouded o'er.

I did not feel for thee that burst

Of Passion's wild and startling flame

I felt for her I loved the first,

If such may bear love's holy name!

That, meteor-like, in darkness set;

This brightly beams, life's morning-star!

I did not love thee first, but yet,

Thou knowest I love thee better far!

The frosts of time shall never chill
The fount of passion pure as this;

It shall go on increasing still,

And added years bring added bliss!

And when the parting hour shall come,
Strong in the love that blessed us here,
We'll seek a brighter, happier home,
Together, in yon radiant sphere!

ON THE DEATH OF MISS E. A. HOLT.

THERE are forms with sorrow bending,
There are hearts in sackcloth drest;
For a loved one hath departed

To the silent land of rest!
Wail for the young and beautiful,
The gay and glad of heart;
Yet sorrow not as hopeless ones,
Who see their loved depart!

She has faded like a flower

Which the spring-time shall renew,

With sunshine and with shower,
And the gently-falling dew.
And though she sleep unconscious
'Neath the snow-enmantled sod,
She shall wake to glorious beauty
In the garden of our God!

She has vanished like a meteor

From our dim, bewildered sight;

But the spirit, like that pilgrim-star,
Tends to the source of Light;

And though through realms of space unknown

To mortal ken it roam,

Yet He who marks the comet's track

Will guide the spirit home.

Mother, upon whose faithful breast
In infancy she slept,

Seek not to stay thy gushing tears,

We know that JESUS WEPT.

And to the heart surcharged with woe
It is a sweet relief,

And God shall send the Comforter
To sanctify thy grief!

Sister and brother, who bewail

A form the grave hath hid,

Whose tears have fallen thick and fast

Dwell not upon the darksome tomb
Which doth her limbs imprison,
For lo! from thence a voice declares,
"She is not here, but risen!"

Thou, in the heaven of whose heart
The brightest star has set,
O, turn not to the memories
Of the past, with fond regret!
But let them linger round thee,

To cheer life's twilight hours,
Like strains of far-off music,

Or the breath of summer flowers!

A mission unto her was given,
The good and pure in heart,
Lessons of faith and gentleness,
And patience, to impart.

There's sorrow in the home on earth,

Joy in the home above;

That gentle spirit hath fulfilled

Her ministry of love!

WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD!

O, WEEP not for the dead!

Why should our spirits fondly cling to dust,
Why sorrow vainly o'er the lowly bed
Where rest the ashes of the pure and just?

Why mourn we for the young,

The loved and beautiful, the gentle-hearted?
Why should their dirge in mournful tones be sung
Who in the spring-time of their lives departed?

Not for the quiet dead,

Whose weary pilgrimage hath found a close,
Whose toils are over, let a tear be shed,

Or yearning prayer be uttered

Weep for the guilty soul

not for those!

That still travaileth in the pangs of sin!
Within whose depths the troubled waters roll,
And not a gleam of sunshine breaketh in!

Weep for the stricken one

Who in the midnight of affliction gropes,
And, unillumined by the risen SUN,
Sits mid the ashes of her dearest hopes!

O, weep for those who live —

Far worse than death!—in base, tormenting fear! Who never knew the blessed word, "forgive," And wait in terror for the judgment near!

For these let prayer be made,

And intercession at the throne of God,

Through Him on whom were our transgressions laid, Who saves a world by his redeeming blood!

For these let tears be shed!

Let them descend, like gentle summer showers,
And like the dew upon the violet's bed,
Revivify the heart's decaying flowers!

SONG.

O, HASTE with me to the green, green fields,
Where we loved in youth to stray,

For my heart leaps up, with a joyous thrill,
Like a frolicsome child at play!

And I dream of a cottage, embowered in trees,
'Neath the weight of their foliage bending,
And flowers, and birds, and all beautiful things,
In Nature's sweet harmony blending.

Come, haste thee, then, to our fairy bower,
Far down in the woody dell,

Where all is still, save the drowsy hum
Of the bee in the foxglove bell.
I'll sit me down at thy feet, beloved,
'Neath the shadow of some old tree,
And sing thee a lay of the olden times,
Of knighthood and chivalry.

We'll weave full many a bright romance
Of a life in some sweet, lone spot,
With music, and flowers, and love alone

The world and its cares forgot.

O, fair are the dreams of the youthful heart,
And bright are its summer hours;

But haste thee, love! - 't is the "witching time,"
The season of Love and Flowers.