THE SCULPTOR'S LOVE.

THE Sculptor paused before his finished work-
A wondrous statue of divinest mould.
Like Cytherea's were the rounded limbs,
The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep,
Like sleeping Loves, the chiselled dimples lay,
The hair's rich fall, the lip's exquisite curve;
But most like Juno's were the brow of pride,
And lofty bearing of the matchless head.
While over all a mystic holiness,

Like Dian's purest smile, around her hung,
And hushed the idle gazer, like the air
Which haunts at night the temples of the gods.
As stood the sculptor, with still-folded arms,
And viewed this shape of rarest loveliness,
No flush of triumph crimsoned o'er his brow,
Nor grew his dark eye luminous with joy.
Heart-crushed with grief, worn with intense desires,
And wasting with a mad, consuming flame,
He wildly gazed-his cold cheek rivalling
The whiteness of the marble he had wrought.
The robe's loose folds which lay upon his breast
Tumultuous rose and fell, like ocean-waves
Upheaved by storms beneath; and on his brow,
In beaded drops, the dew of anguish lay.
And thus he flung himself upon the earth,
And poured in prayer his wild and burning words:
"Great Jove, to thy high throne a mortal's prayer
In all the might of anguish struggles up!
Thou see'st this statue, chiselled by my hand-
Thou hast beheld, as day by day it grew
To more than earthly beauty, till it stood
The wonder of the glorious world of art.
The sculptor wrought not blindly: oft there came
Blest visions to his soul of forms divine;
Of white-armed Juno, in that hour of love,
When fondling close the cuckoo, tempest-chilled,
She all unconscious in that form did press
The mighty sire of the eternal gods
To her soft bosom !-Aphrodite fair
As first she trod the glad, enamored earth
With small, white feet, spray-dripping from the sea;
Of crested Dian, when her nightly kiss
Pressed down the eyelids of Endymion-
Her silvery presence making all the air
Of dewy Latmos tremulous with love.

"And now (deem not thy suppliant impious,
Our being's source, thou Father of all life,)
A wild, o'ermastering passion fires my soul:
I madly love the work my hand hath wrought!
Intoxicate, I gaze through all the day,
And mocking visions haunt my couch at night;
My heart is faint and sick with longings vain,
A passionate thirst is parching up my life.

"I call upon her, and she answers not! The fond love-names I breathe into her ear Are met with maddening silence; when I clasp Those slender fingers in my fevered hand, Their coldness chills me like the touch of death! And when my heart's wild beatings shake my frame, And pain my breast with love's sweet agony, No faintest throb that marble bosom stirs !

"Oh, I would have an eye to gaze in mine; An ear to listen for my coming step;

A voice of love, with tones like Joy's own bells,
To ring their silver changes on mine ear;
A yielding hand, to thrill within mine own,
And lips of melting sweetness, full and warm!
Would change this deathless stone to mortal flesh,
And barter immortality for love!

"If voice of earth, in wildest prayer, may reach
To godhood, throned amid the purple clouds,
To animate this cold and pulseless stone,
Grant thou one breath of that immortal air
Which feedeth human life from age to age,
And floats round high Olympus.-Hear, O Jove!
"And so this form may shrine a soul of light,
Whose starry radiance shall unseal these eyes,
Send down the sky's blue deeps, O Sire divine-
One faintest gleam of that benignant smile
Which glows upon the faces of the gods,
And lights all heaven.-Hear, mighty Jove!"

He stayed his prayer, and on his statue gazed.
Behold, a gentle heaving stirred its breast!
O'er all the form a flush of rose-light passed;
Along the limbs the azure arteries throbbed;
A golden lustre settled on the head,

And gleamed amid the meshes of the hair;
The rounded cheek grew vivid with a blush;
Ambrosial breathings cleft the curved lips,
And softly through the archéd nostril stole ;
The fringed lids quivered and uprose, and eyes
Like violets wet with dew drank in the light.

Moveless she stood, until her wandering glance
Upon the rapt face of the sculptor fell:
Bewildered and abashed, it sank beneath
The burning gaze of his adoring eyes.
And then there ran through all her trembling frame
A strange, sweet thrill of blissful consciousness:
Life's wildest joy, in one delicious tide,
Poured through the channels of her newborn heart,
And Love's first sigh rose quivering from her breast!
She turned upon her pedestal, and smiled,
And toward the kneeling youth bent tenderly.
He rose, sprang forward with a passionate cry,
And joyously outstretched his thrilling arms;
And lo! the form he sculptured from the stone,
Instinct with life, and radiant with soul,
A breathing shape of beauty, soft and warm,
Of mortal womanhood, all smiles and tears,
In love's sweet trance upon his bosom lay.

THE DREAM.

LAST night, my love, I dreamed of thee-
Yet 't was no dream elysian;
Draw closer to my breast, dear Blanche,
The while I tell the vision:
Methought that I had left thee long,

And, home in haste returning-
My heart, lip, cheek, with love and joy
And wild impatience burning-

I called thee through the silent house;
But here, at last, I found thee,
Where, deathly still and ghostly white,
The curtains fell around thee.
Dead-dead thou wert!--cold lay that form,
In rarest beauty moulded,

And meekly o'er thy still, white breast

The snowy hands were folded. Methought thy couch was fitly strewn

With many a fragrant blossom; Fresh violets thy fingers clasped,

And rosebuds decked thy bosom:
But thine eyes, so like young violets,
Might smile upon me never,

And the rose-bloom from thy cheek and lip
Had fled away for ever!

I raised thee lovingly-thy head
Against my bosom leaning,

And called thy name, and spoke to thee
In words of tenderest meaning.

I sought to warm thee at my breast-
My arms close round thee flinging;
To breathe my life into thy lips,

With kisses fond and clinging.
Oh, hour of fearful agony!

In vain my phrensied pleading;

Thy dear voice hushed, thy kind eye closed,
My lonely grief unheeding!
Pale wert thou as the lily-buds

Twined mid thy raven tresses,
And cold thy lip and still thy heart
To all my wild caresses!.......

I woke, amid the autumn night,

To hear the rain descending,
And roar of waves and howl of winds
In stormy concert blending.
But, oh my waking joy was morn,

From heaven's own portals flowing,
And the summer of thy living love

Was round about me glowing!

I woke ah, blessedness! to feel

Thy white arms round thee wreathingTo hear, amid the lonely night,

Thy calm and gentle breathing!

I bent above thy rest till morn,

With many a whispered blessing

Soft, timid kisses on thy lips

And blue-veined eyelids pressing.

While thus from Slumber's shadowy realm
Thy truant soul recalling,

Thou couldst not know whence sprang the tears
Upon thy forehead falling.

And oh, thine eyes!-sweet wonderment,
When thou didst ope them slowly,

To mark mine own bent on thy face
In rapture deep and holy!

Thou couldst not know, till I had told

That dream of fearful warning, How much of heaven was in my words "God bless thee, love-good-morning!"

DARKENED HOURS.

WITH folded arms and drooping head,
I stand, my heart's blest goal unwon;
My soul's high purpose unattained-

But life-but life goes hurrying on!
I pause and linger by the way,

With fainting heart and slumbering powers,

And still the grand, immortal height

Which I would climb, before me towers. And still far up its rugged steep,

The poet-laurel mocks mine eyes;
While sweetly on its summit wave
The fadeless flowers of paradise.
My voice is silent, though I mark
The toil and wo of human lives,
The beauty of that human love
That meekly suffers, trusts, and strives.
My voice is silent, though I see
The captive pining in his cell,
And hear the exiled patriot breathe
O'er the wild seas his sad farewell
The song of joy is on my lip

While Freedom's banners are unfurled,
And Freedom's fearless battle-shouts
And triumph-lays ring round the world!
No glow of rapturous feeling comes

To flush my cheek, or light mine eye, While golden splendors of the morn Are kindling all the eastern sky. Nor when, while dews weigh down the rose, I read amid the shadowy even That bright Evangel of our God,

Whose words are worlds, the starry heaven. Yet was my nature formed to feel

The gladness and the grief of life-
To thrill at Freedom's name, and joy
In all her brave and holy strife;
To tremble with the perfect sense

Of all things lovely or sublime,
The glory of the midnight heaven,
The beauty of the morning time.
God-written thoughts are in my heart,
And deep within my being lie
Eternal truths and glorious hopes,
Which I must speak before I die
Who shall restore the early faith,

The fresh, strong heart, the utterance bold?
Ah! when may be this weary weight
From off my groaning spirit rolled?
To Thee I turn, before whose throne
No earnest suppliant bows in vain :
My spirit's faint and lonely cry

Thou wilt not in thy might disdain.
Awake in me a truer life!

A soul to labor and aspire;
Touch thou my mortal lips, O God,
With thine own truth's immortal fire!

Be with me in my darkened hours

Bind up my bruised heart once more;
The grandeur of a lofty hope
About my lowly being pour!
Give strength unto my spirit's wing,
Give light unto my spirit's eye,
And let the sunshine of thy smile
Upon my upward pathway lie!
Thus, when my soul in thy pure faith
Hath grown serene, and free, and strong,
Thy greatness may exalt my thought,
Thy love make beautiful my song.

LOVE AND DARING.

THOU darest not love me! thou canst only see The great gulf set between us: hadst thou love, "I would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire! Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup, The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst, For fear a poison in the chalice lurks? Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage, The power, the rapture, and the crown of life, By the poor guard of danger set about it? I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart: And wouldst not sooner peril life to win That royal flower, that thou mightst proudly wear The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way? How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones, As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear! Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word, Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer, Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee, On banks of sunshine ?-voices silver-toned Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies, Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song; Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams, Joy hover near, impatient for thy wakingHer quick wing glancing through the fragrant air. Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed Why turn thee from the paradise of youth, [gate? Where Love's immortal summer blooms and glows, And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud? Perchance 'tis well for thee-yet does the flame That glows with heat intense and mounts toward As fitly emblem holiest purity

[heaven, As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow. Thou darest not say, "I love," and yet thou lovest, And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down, That in thy spirit shall upspring for ever! Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts, It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years, And colored with its deep, empurpled hue, The passionate aspirations of thy youth. Go, take from June her roses; from her streams The bubbling fountain-springs; from life take love, Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom, and strength.

There is a grandeur in the soul that dares To live out all the life God lit within; That battles with the passions hand to hand, And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield; That plucks its joy in the shadow of Death's wing, That drains with one deep draught the wine of life, And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye May stand upon a dizzy precipice, High o'er the abyss of ruin, and not fall!

A MORNING RIDE

WHEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife

When its fruits turned to ashes are mocking my taste,

And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste;
Then come ye not near me my sad heart to cheer
With Friendship's soft accents or Sympathy's tear;
No counsel I ask, and no pity I need,

But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed,
With his high-arched neck and his nostril spread
His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride! [wide,
As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein,
The strength of my spirit returneth again:
The bonds are all broken which fettered my mind,
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind;
My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down,
And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown.
Now we're off like the winds to the plains whence
they came,

And the rapture of motion is filling my frame.
On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod,
Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod.
On, on, like a deer, when the hounds' early bay
Awakes the wild echoes, away and away!
Still faster, still farther he leaps at my cheer,
Till the rush of the startled air whirrs in my ear;
Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth my track-
See his glancing hoof tossing the white pebbles back;
Now a glen dark as midnight-what matter?—
we'll down,

Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us

frown;

The thick branches shake as we're hurrying through,
And deck us with spangles of silvery dew.
What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand
Such a steed in the might of his strength may com-
mand!

What a glorious creature! ah, glance at him now,
As I check him a while on this green hillock's brow;
How he tosses his mane with a shrill, joyous neigh,
And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play!
Hurrah, off again-dashing on, as in ire,
Till the long flinty pathway is flashing with fire!
Ho, a ditch!-shall we pause? No, the bold leap
we dare-

Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air.
Oh! not all the pleasure that poets may praise-
Not the 'wildering waltz in the ballroom's blaze,
Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race,
Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase,
Nor the sail high heaving waters o'er,
Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore-
Can the wild and fearless joy exceed
Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed.

"HELEN IRVING" is the graceful nom de plume of Miss ANNA H. PHILLIPS, of Lynn, Massachusetts-probably the youngest of our young American poetesses. She is not a professional authoress, having written but little, and published less; but, judging by the quality rather than the quantity of her productions, she can not be denied the possession of a fine poetical genius. Her first poem, Love and Fame, which appeared in the Home Journal, in the spring of 1847, Mr. Willis

thus introduced to the public; "We might have called attention, very reasonably and justly, to the beautiful versification of this production-to the melody, and the varied succession of melody, in the flow of the stanzas. They prove the nicest possible ear, with the happiest subjection to critical judgment, True genius is in the conception, we think, and an assurance of successful genius lies in the twin excellence of giving so beautiful a thought its fit embodiment."

And stand-a glorious brotherhood-to form that bow of light!

Aspiring thoughts his spirit thrilled-" Oh, let me join them, love !

I'll set thy beauty's impress on yon bright arch above,

And, as a world's admiring gaze is raised to iris fair,

'T will deem my own dear rosebud's tint the loveliest color there!"

The gentle bud released her clasp-swift as a thought he flew,

And brightly mid that glorious band he soon was glowing too

All quivering with delight to feel that she, his rosebud bride,

Was gazing, with a swelling heart, on this, his hour of pride!

But the shadowy night came down at last-the glittering bow was gone,

One little hour of triumph was all the drop had

won:

He had lost the warm and tender glow, his distant bud-love's hue,

And he sought her sadly sorrowing-a tear-dimmed star of dew.

NINA TO RIENZI."

LEAVE thee, Rienzi! Speak not thus,
Why should I quit thy side?

Say, shall I shrink with craven fear,

Thine own, and freedom's bride? Whence comes the sternness on thy lipNeeds Nina to be tried?

It is recorded, that when the "last of the tribunes" saw, in the discontent of the people and the withdrawal of the favor of the church, approaching peril, he bade his young wife seek shelter with those who would cherish and shield her, and leave him to meet danger alone. But she nobly preferred suffering and death with him she loved, to life with separation from him.