And tell me not with those cold eyes
That I am wondrous fair.

I will not chide, I will not blame,
And yet the thought is here,

The thought so fraught with bitterness-
It yieldeth me no tear.

I gave thee tenderness too deep

Too deep for aught but tears;

And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule,
Which learned, the heart but seres.

I gave thee all the soul's deep trust-
Its truth by sorrow tried;

Nay, start not thou! what hast thou given?
Alas! 'tis but thy pride.

Give back, give back the tenderness

That blessed my simple love, And call me, as in those dear days, Thine own, thy gentle dove!

THE APRIL RAIN.

THE April rain-the April rain-
I hear the pleasant sound;
Now soft and still, like little dew,

Now drenching all the ground.
Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see

Than falling drops of other rain?
I'm sure it is to me.

I wonder if 'tis really so

Or only hope the while,

That tells of swelling buds and flowers,
And Summer's coming smile.
Whate'er it is, the April shower

Makes me a child again;

I feel a rush of youthful blood
Come with the April rain.

And sure, were I a little bulb

Within the darksome ground,

I should love to hear the April rain

So gently falling round;

Or any tiny flower were I,

By Nature swaddled up,

How pleasantly the April shower

Would bathe my hidden cup!

The small brown seed, that rattled down
On the cold autumnal earth,
Is bursting from its cerements forth,
Rejoicing in its birth.

The slender spears of pale green grass
Are smiling in the light,
The clover opes its folded leaves
As if it felt delight.

The robin sings on the leafless tree,
And upward turns his eye,
As loving much to see the drops

Come filtering from the sky;

No doubt he longs the bright green leaves
About his home to see,

And feel the swaying summer winds
Play in the full-robed tree.

The cottage door is open wide,

And cheerful sounds are heard,
The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wilding bird;
The creeping child by the old, worn sill
Peers out with winking eye,

And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand,
As the drops come pattering by.
With bounding heart beneath the sky,
The truant boy is out,

And hoop and ball are darting by
With many a merry shout.
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng-
For yours is the April day;

I love to see your spirits dance
In your pure and healthful play.

ATHEISM.

FAITH.

BEWARE of doubt-faith is the subtle chain
Which binds us to the Infinite: the voice
Of a deep life within, that will remain
Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice
With an exceeding joy, and make our life,
Ay, this external life, become a part
Of that which is within, o'erwrought and rife
With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart.
The order and the harmony inborn

With a perpetual hymning crown our way,
Till callousness, and selfishness, and scorn, [play.
Shall pass as clouds where scatheless lightnings
Cling to thy faith-'t is higher than the thought
That questions of thy faith, the cold external doubt.

REASON.

THE Infinite speaks in our silent hearts,
And draws our being to himself, as deep
Calleth unto deep. He, who all thought imparts,
Demands the pledge, the bond of soul to keep;
But reason, wandering from its fount afar,
And stooping downward, breaks the subtle chain
That binds it to itself, like star to star,

And sun to sun, upward to God again:
Doubt, once confirmed, tolls the dead spirit's knell,
And man is but a clod of earth, to die
Like the poor beast that in his shambles fell-
More miserable doom than that, to lie

In trembling torture, like believing ghosts, [Hosts. Who, though divorced from good, bow to the Lord of

ANNIHILATION.

DOUBT, cypress crowned, upon a ruined arch
Amid the shapely temple overthrown,
Exultant, stays at length her onward march:
Her victim, all with earthliness o'ergrown,
Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there;
His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight,
Dying, deluding, are his hopes, though fair—
And death, the spirit's everlasting night.
Thus, midnight travellers, on some mountain steep,
Hear far above the avalanche boom down,
Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep,
And lost in glens to human foot unknown-
The death-plunge of the lost come to their ear,
And silence claims again her region cold and drear.

LET ME BE A FANTASY.

LIKE the faint breathing of a distant lute

Heard in the hush of evening still and low,
For which we lingering listen, though 'tis mute,
I would be unto thee, and nothing moe-
Oh, nothing moe

Or like the wind-harp trembling to its pain
With music-joy, which must perforce touch wo
Ere it shall sing itself to sleep again,

So I would pass to thee, and be no moe-
A breath, no moe!
Like lustre of a stone, that wakens thought
Pure as the cold, far-gleaming mountain snow-
Like water to its crystal beauty wrought-

Like all sweet Fancy dreams, but nothing moe-
A dream, no moe!

Like gleams of better worlds and better truth,
Which our lone hours of aspiration know,
I would renew to thee the dew of youth-
Touch thy good-angel wing-oh, nothing moe—
Oh, nothing moe!

STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS.

COME up unto the hills-thy strength is there.
Oh, thou hast tarried long,

Too long, amid the bowers and blossoms fair,
With notes of summer song.

Why dost thou tarry there? what though the bird
Pipes matin in the vale-

The plough-boy whistles to the loitering herd,
As the red daylights fail—

Yet come unto the hills, the old strong hills,
And leave the stagnant plain;

Come to the gushing of the newborn rills,
As sing they to the main;

And thou with denizens of power shalt dwell,
Beyond demeaning care;

Composed upon his rock, mid storm and fell,
The eagle shall be there.

Come up unto the hills: the shattered tree
Still clings unto the rock,

And flingeth out his branches wild and free,
To dare again the shock.

Come where no fear is known: the seabird's nest

On the old hemlock swings,

And thou shalt taste the gladness of unrest,
And mount upon thy wings.

Come up unto the hills. The men of old,
They of undaunted wills,

Grew jubilant of heart, and strong, and bold,
On the enduring hills—

Where came the soundings of the sea afar,
Borne upward to the ear,

And nearer grew the moon and midnight star,
And God himself more near.

EROS AND ANTEROS.

"TIS said sweet Psyche gazed one night
On Cupid's sleeping face-
Gazed in her fondness on the wight
In his unstudied grace:
But he, bewildered by the glare
Of light at such a time,
Fled from the side of Psyche there
As from a thing of crime.
Ay, weak the fable-false the ground-
Sweet Psyche veiled her face-
Well knowing Love, if ever found,
Will never leave his place.
Unfound as yet, and weary grown,

She had mistook another:

"T was but Love's semblance she had foundNot Eros, but his brother!

THE POET.

NON VOX SED VOTUM.

It is the belief of the vulgar that when the nightingale sings, she leans her breast upon a thorn.

SING, Sing-Poet, sing!

With the thorn beneath thy breast, Robbing thee of all thy rest; Hidden thorn for ever thine, Therefore dost thou sit and twine

Lays of sorrowing

Lays that wake a mighty gladness, Spite of all their mournful sadness.

Sing, sing-Poet sing !

It doth ease thee of thy sorrow—
Darkling" singing till the morrow;
Never weary of thy trust,
Hoping, loving as thou must,

Let thy music ring;

Noble cheer it doth impart,
Strength of will and strength of heart.

Sing, sing-Poet, sing !
Thou art made a human voice;
Wherefore shouldst thou not rejoice
That the tears of thy mute brother
Bearing pangs he may not smother,
Through thee are flowing-
For his dim, unuttered grief
Through thy song hath found relief?

Sing, sing-Poet, sing ! Join the music of the stars, Wheeling on their sounding cars; Each responsive in its place To the choral hymn of spaceLift, oh lift thy wingAnd the thorn beneath thy breast, Though it pierce, shall give thee rest.

THIS fine poet is the daughter of an old and respected merchant, Mr. David L. Dodge, who retired from business many years ago. She was born, and chiefly educated, in the city of New York, where most of her life has been passed, in the pursuit of favorite studies, and the intercourse of a large circle of friends. A few years ago she was married to Mr. William B. Kinney, of the Newark Daily Advertiser, one of the most able, accomplished, and honorable of the men who preserve to journalism its proper rank, in a republic, of the first of professions. With a modesty equal to her genius, and an adequate sense of their function, she never deemed herself of the company of poets. Possessing in a remarkable degree the "fatal facility," she has written verse from childhood, but never with any of the usual incentives, except the desire of utterance, and the gratification of friends. The Spirit of Song, one of her latest pieces, is but a simple expression of her habitual feelings on the subject. The idea

of publication always brought a sense of constraint, and her early improvisations, produced under this embarrassment, for the Knickerbocker, Graham's Magazine, and other periodicals, at "Cedar Brook," her father's country residence, in the vicinity of Newark, appeared under the name of Stedman. One of her friends, whose opportunities to know are as great as his acknowledged sagacity of criticism to judge, observes, in a letter to me, that "decidedly the most free, salient, and characteristic effusions of her buoyant spirit, have been thrown off, currente calamo, in correspondence and intercourse with her friends."

It will gratify the reader, who can appreciate the delicacy and strength and melodious cadences, of the illustrations of her abilities that are here quoted, to learn that Mrs. Kinney is turning her attention more and more to composition, and that she is meditating an elaborate poem, which will serve as the just measure of her powers.

TO THE EAGLE.

IMPERIAL bird! that soarest to the sky, [wayCleaving through clouds and storms thine upward Or, fixing steadfastly that dauntless eye, Dost face the great, effulgent god of day! Proud monarch of the feathery tribes of air! My soul exulting marks thy bold career,

Up, through the azure fields, to regions fair, Where bathed in light thy pinions disappear.

Thou with the gods upon Olympus dwelt, The emblem and the favorite bird of Jove

And godlike power in thy broad wings hast felt Since first they spread o'er land and sea to rove: From Ida's top the Thunderer's piercing sight Flashed on the hosts which Ilium did defy; So from thy eyry on the beetling height Shoot down the lightning-glances of thine eye! From his Olympian throne Jove stooped to earth For ends inglorious in the god of gods! Leaving the beauty of celestial birth, To rob Humanity's less fair abodes: Oh, passion more rapacious than divine, That stole the peace of innocence away!

So, when descend those tireless wings of thine, They stoop to make defencelessness their prey.

Lo! where thou comest from the realms afar! Thy strong wings whir like some huge bellows' breath;

Swift falls thy fiery eyeball, like a star, And dark thy shadow as the pall of death! But thou hast marked a tall and reverend tree, And now thy talons clinch yon leafless limb; Before thee stretch the sandy shore and sea, And sails, like ghosts, move in the distance dim. Fair is the scene! Yet thy voracious eye Drinks not its beauty; but with bloody glare Watches the wild fowl idly floating by, Or snow-white sea-gull winnowing the air: Oh, pitiless is thine unerring beak! Quick as the wings of Thought thy pinions fallThen bear their victim to the mountain-peak Where clamorous eaglets flutter at thy call. Seaward again thou turn'st to chase the storm, Where winds and waters furiously roar! Above the doomed ship thy boding form Is coming Fate's dark shadow cast before! The billows that engulf man's sturdy frame As sport to thy careering pinions seem; And though to silence sinks the sailor's name, His end is told in thy relentless scream.