Viewing page 146 of 309

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

258   ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

Her heart is full of trust and love;
For an angel mission from above,
In tranquil beauty, o'er the earth she beareth.

The music of Humanity
Flows from her tuneful lips in sweetest numbers:
Of all life's pleasant ministries—
Of universal harmonies—
She sings: no care her mind encumbers.

Glad tidings doth she ever sound;
Good will to man throughout the world is sending;
Blessings and gifts she scatters round;
Peace to her name, with whom is found
The olive branch, in holy beauty bending.


LINES.

"Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh."—Solomon.

"Of making many books there is no end,"
Said the wise monarch of the olden time;
Yet, through all ages, and in every clime
Doth the pale seeker o'er his studies bend
The intellectual Numen to obey,
Eager and anxious still. Still doth he toil
(Making the night familiar as the day,)
To find the clew to loose the ravell'd coil—
To pierce the depth of things that hidden lie
The oil of life consumeth! this he knoweth—
Yet with a feverish brow and streaming eye,
He seeks to find;—and patiently bestoweth
His midnight labourings in Wisdom's mine,
To win for Earth the gems that midst its darkness shine.



ELIZABETH J. EAMES.   259

"Much study is a weariness." The sage
Who gave his mind, to seek and search until
He knew all Wisdom, found that on the page
Knowledge and grief were vow'd companions still:
And so the students of a later day
Sit down among the records of old time
To hold high commune with the thoughts sublime
Of minds long gone; so they too pass away,
And leave us what? their course, to toil—reflect—
To feel the thorn pierce through our gather'd flowers—
Still midst the leaves the earth-worm to detect.
And this is Knowledge;—Wisdom is not ours.
Oh! well the Preacher bids his son admonish'd be,
That all the days of man's short life are Vanity!


ON THE PICTURE OF A DEPARTED PEOTESS.

This still, clear, radiant face! doth it resemble
In each fair, faultless lineament thine own?
Methinks on that enchanting lip doth tremble
The soul that breathes thy lyre's melodious tone.
The soul of music, O! ethereal spirit,
Fills the dream-haunted sadness of thine eyes;
Sweet Poetess! thou surely didst inherit
Thy gifts celestial from the upper skies.

Clear on the expansion of that snow-white forehead
Sits intellectual beauty, meekly throned;—
Yet, O! the expression tells that thou hast sorrow'd,
And in thy yearning, human heart atoned
For thy soul's lofty gifts!—on earth, O, never
Was the deep thirsting of thy bosom still'd!—
The "aching void" followed thee here forever,
The Better Land thy DREAM OF LOVE fulfilled.