Of manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,-- The veriest phantom of all phantasies-- For which he wields the sword, or lights the flame Whose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,-- Or by his star-out.w.a.tching taper, plies His pen or pencil, to gain--what? a name, A pa.s.sing sound--an echo--a mere breath, Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death!

And of a later period, when the soul Forsakes its high resolves and wild desires, When stern Ambition can no more control, And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires; When Expectation ceases to console, And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires; And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest, Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast.

And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, sore And fainting from its wounds--the palsied limb-- The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore-- The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim-- The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more-- The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim Of life's drained cup,--behind all gloom, before A deep, dark gulf--we plunge, and all is o'er!

ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO.

It is a circ.u.mstance connected with the history of Nero, that every spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand.

Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian, and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first, and who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a stranger.

Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers were doubtless the tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring love!

Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath?

That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death; And thou--why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom?

Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb!

"It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear, And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here; That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee, But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me!

"And I,--my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years, And has one only task--to bathe its buried love in tears; The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath; Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?"

But maiden, he of whom you speak was of a savage mood, That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood; His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue, And love is for the high of soul--the gentle and the true.

"The voice that taught an abject world to tremble at its words, To me was mild and musical, and mellow as a bird's-- A bird's--that couched among the green, broad branches of the date, Tells, in its silvery songs, its gushing gladness to its mate.

"I saw him first beside the sea; near to ray father's home, When like an ocean deity he bounded from the foam; Ev'n then a glory seemed to breathe around him as he trod, And my haughty soul was bowed, as in the presence of a G.o.d.

I knew not, till my heart was his, the darkness of his own, Nor dreamed that he who knelt to me was master of a throne!

And when the fearful knowledge came, its coming was in vain,-- I had forsaken all for him, and would do so again."

Is love the offspring of the will? or is it, like a flower, So frail that it may fade and be forgotten in an hour?

No, no! it springs unbidden where the heart's deep fountains play, And cherished by their hallowed dew, it cannot pa.s.s away!

THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG.

Unmoor the skiff,--unmoor the skiff,-- The night wind's sigh is on the air, And o'er the highest Alpine cliff, The pale moon rises, broad and clear.

The murmuring waves are tranquil now, And on their breast each twinkling star With which Night gems her dusky brow, Flings its mild radiance from afar.

Put off upon the deep blue sea, And leave the banquet and the ball; For solitude, when shared with thee, Is dearer than the carnival.

And in my heart are thoughts of love, Such thoughts as lips should only breathe, When the bright stars keep watch above, And the calm waters sleep beneath!

The tale I have for thee, perchance, May to thine eye anew impart The long-lost gladness of its glance, And soothe the sorrows of thy heart; Come, I will sing for thee again, The songs which once our mothers sung, Ere tyranny its galling chain On them, and those they loved, had hung.

Thou'rt sad; thou say'st that in the halls Which echoed once our father's tread, The stranger's idle footstep falls, With sound that might awake the dead!

The mighty dead! whose dust around An atmosphere of reverence sheds; If aught of earthly voice or sound, Might reach them in their marble beds.

That she to whom the deep gave birth,-- Fair Venice! to whose queenly stores The wealth and beauty of the earth Were wafted from an hundred sh.o.r.es!

Now on her wave-girt site, forlorn, Sits shrouded in affliction's night,-- The object of the tyrant's scorn, Sad monument of fallen might.

Well, tho' in her deserted halls The fire on Freedom's shrine is dead, Tho' o'er her darkened, crumbling walls, Stern Desolation's pall is spread; Is not the second better part, To that which rends the despot's chain, To wear it with a dauntless heart, To feel yet shrink not from its pain?

Then let the creeping ivy twine Its wreaths about each ruined arch, Till Time shall crush them in the brine, Beneath its all-triumphant march!

Then let the swelling waters close Above the sea-child's sinking frame, And hide for ever from her foes, Each trace and vestige of her shame.

Shall we at last less calmly sleep, When in the narrow death-house pent, Because the bosom of the deep Shall be our only monument?

No! by the waste of waters bid, Our tombs as well shall keep their trust, As tho' a marble pyramid Were piled above our mangled dust!

Written in the National Gallery, at the city of Washington, on looking at a Mummy, supposed to have belonged to a race extinct before the occupation of the Western Continent by the people in whose possession the Europeans found it.

Sole and mysterious relic of a race That long has ceased to be, whose very name, Time, ever bearing on with steady pace, Has swept away from earth, leaving thy frame, Darkened by thirty centuries, to claim, Among the records of the things that were, Its place,--Tradition has forgot thee--Fame, If ever fame was thine, has ceased to bear Her record of thee,--say, what dost thou here?

Three thousand years ago a mother's arms Were wrapped about that dark and ghastly form, And all the loveliness of childhood's charms Glowed on that cheek, with life then flushed and warm; Say, what preserved thee from the hungry worm That haunts with gnawing tooth the gloomy bed Spread for the lifeless? Tell what could disarm Decay of half its power, and while it fed On empires--races--make it spare the dead!

How strange to contemplate the wondrous story, When those deep sunken eyes first saw the light, Lost Babylon was in her midday glory,-- Upon her pride and power had fall'n no blight; And Tyre, the ancient mariner's delight, Whose merchantmen were princes, and whose name Was theme of praise to all, has left her site To utter barren nakedness and shame,-- Yet thou, amid all change, art still the same.

And she who, by the "yellow Tiber's" side, Sits wrapped in her dark veil of widowhood, With scarce a glimmer of her ancient pride, To cheer the gloom of that deep solitude Which o'er the seat of vanquished pow'r doth brood, Since thou wast born has seen her glories rise, Burn, and expire! quenched by the streams of blood Which her slaves drew from her own veins, the price Of usurpation, proud Ambition's sacrifice!

And darker in her fate, and sadder still, The sacred city of the minstrel king, That proudly sat on Zion's holy hill, The wonder of the world! Destruction's wing Hath from her swept each fair and goodly thing; Her palaces and temples! where are they?

Her walls and marble tow'rs lie mouldering, Her glory to the spoiler's hand a prey,-- And yet time spares a portion of thy clay!

And thou art here amid a stranger race, To whom these sh.o.r.es four centuries ago, Tho' now proud Freedom's boasted dwelling-place, Were all unknown; the wide streams that now flow Where Cultivation's hand has steered her plough, Had then but seen the forest huntsman guide His light canoe across the waves which now Reflect the snowy sails that waft in pride The stately ship along their rippling tide.

Thou art the silent messenger of ages, Sent back to tread with Time his constant way, To shame the wisdom of conceited sages, Whose lore is but a thing of yesterday; What would their best, their brightest visions weigh Beside the fearful truths thou couldst reveal?

The secrets of eternity now lay Unveiled before thee, and for we or weal, Thy doom is fixed beyond ev'n heaven's repeal.

I will not ask thee of the mysteries That lie beyond Death's shadowy vale; but thou Mayst tell us of the fate the Destinies Wove for thine earthly sojourn. Was thy brow Graced with the poet's, hero's garland? How Dealt Fortune with thee? Did she curse or bless Thee with her frown or smile? Speak! thou art now Among the living,--they around thee press.

Still silent? Then thy lot we can but guess.

Perhaps thou wast a monarch, and hast worn The sceptre of some real El Dorado!

Perhaps a warrior, and those arms have borne The foremost shield, and dealt the deadliest blow That drew the life-blood of a warring foe!

Perhaps thou wor'st the courtier's gilded thrall,-- Some glittering court's gay, proud papilio!

Perchance a clown, the jester of some hall, The slave of one man, and the fool of all!

Oh life! and pride! and honour! come and see To what a depth your visions tumble down!

Behold your wearer,--who shall say if he Were monarch, warrior, parasite, or clown!

And ye, who talk of glory and renown, And call them bright and deathless! and who break Each dearer tie to grasp fame's gilded crown, Come, hear instruction from this shadow speak, And learn how valueless the prize ye seek!

See where ambition's loftiest flight doth tend, Behold the doom perhaps of blood-bought fame, And know that all which earth can give must end, In dust and ashes, and an empty name!

Ye pa.s.sions! which defy our pow'r to tame Or curb your headlong tides, behold your home!

Love! see the breast where thou didst light thy flame!

Immortal spirit! see thy shattered dome!

When shall its hour of renovation come?