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62  63
MARIA A. BROOKS.

As spirits feel,—yet not for man we mourn,
Scarce o'er the silly bird in state were he,
That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn's return,
And sleeps at evening; save by aid of thee.

Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept;
The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,
The pencil's colours, all in earth had slept, 
Now see them mark with death his victim's strife.

Man found thee: but Death and dull decay,
Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;
By mighty works he swells his narrow day,
And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves. 

Yet what the price?  With stings that never cease
Thou goad'st him on; and when too keen the smart,
His highest dole he'd barter but for peace,
Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart.

THE OBEDIENT LOVE OF WOMAN HER HIGHEST BLISS.
(FROM THE SAME.)

WHAT bliss for her who lives her little day,
In blest obedience, like to those divine,
Who to her loved, her earthly lord can say,
'God is thy law,' most just, 'and thou art mine.'

To every blast she bends in beauty meek;—
Let the storm beat,—his arms her shelter kind,—
And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek
With thoughts befitting his superior mind.

Who only sorrows when she sees him pain'd,
Then knows to pluck away pain's keenest dart;
Or bid love catch it ere its goal be gain'd,
And steal its venom ere it reach his heart.

'T is the soul's food:—the fervid must adore.—
For this the heathen, unsufficed with thought,
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore, And shrines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.

What bliss for her, ev'n in this world of woe,
Oh! Sire, who mak'st yon orb-strewn arch thy throne
That sees thee in thy noblest work below
Shine undefaced, adored, and all her own!

This I had hoped; but hope too dear, too great,
Go to thy grave!—I feel thee blasted, now. 
Give me, fate's sovereign, well to bear the fate
Thy pleasure sends; this, my sole prayer, allow!

ZÓPHIËL'S OFFERINGS TO EGLA.
(FROM THE SAME.)

THEN, lowly bending, with seraphic grace,
The vase he proffer'd full; and not a gem
Drawn forth successive from its sparkling place,
But put to shame the Persian diadem.

While he, "Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind
These orient pearls, less smooth; Egla, for thee,
(My thrilling substance pained by storm and wind,)
I sought them in the caverns of the sea.

"Look! here's a ruby; drinking solar rays,
I saw it redden on a mountain tip;
Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze;
'T will blush still deeper to behold thy lip.

"Here's for thy hair a garland; every flower
That spreads its blossoms, water'd by the tear
Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower, Might see its frail bright hues perpetuate here.

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