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306 LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. His much-loved book—the poet's lofty lay, The traveller's tale of strange and far-off lands, The voyager's story of the mighty sea, The attention of the little group commands. We listen, full of wonder and delight, Until the witching volume is laid by, And loving voices breathe the kind "Good night!" And light lids close above each sleepy eye. SING ON! "Sing on!—You will win the wreath of Fame: if not in life, it will bloom gloriously over your tomb."—Friendly Correspondence. 'TIS not for Fame: I know I may not win A wreath from high Parnassus, for my name Is written on the page of humble life, From which the awarders of the laurel wreath Avert their eyes with scoring. I have felt The mildew of affliction, the east wind Of withering contempt, the pelting storms Of care, and toil, and bitterness, and wo, In almost every form. I too have known The darkness of bereavement, and keen pangs Which woman may not utter, though her heart Consume amid their fierceness, and her brain Burn to a living cinder; though the wound Which is so hard to bear, lie festering deep Within her outraged spirit; though her sighs Disturb the quiet of the blessed night, While sweet dews cool and soothe the fever'd breast Of every other mourner; though she pour The flood of life's sweet fountain out in tears Along her desert pathway; while the blooms LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 307 Of health, and hope, and joy, that should have fed Upon its gushing waters and rich dew, Lie wither'd in her bosom, breathing forth The odours of a crush'd and wasted heart, That cannot hope for soothing or redress, Save in the quiet bosom of the grave, And in the heaven beyond. 'Tis not for Fame That I awaken with my simple lay The echoes of the forest. I but sing As sings the bird, that pours her native strain, Because her soul is made of melody; And lingering in the bowers, her warblings seem To gather round her all the tuneful forms, Whose bright wings shook rich incense from the flowers, And balmy verdure of the sweet young spring, O'er which the glad day shed his brightest smile, And night her purest tears. I do but sing Like that sad bird, who in her loneliness Pours out into song the treasures of her soul, Which else would burst her bosom, which has nought On which to lavish the warm streams that gush Up from her trembling heart, and pours them forth Upon the sighing winds, in fitful strains. Perchance one pensive spirit loves the song, And lingers in the twilight near the wood To list her plaintive sonnet, which unlocks The sealed fountain of a hidden grief.— That pensive listener, or some playful child, May miss the lone bird's song, what time her wings Are folded in the calm and silent sleep, Above her broken heart. Then, though they weep In her deserted bower, and hang rich wreaths Of ever-living flowers upon her grave,
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