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452 ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH.

There are God and Heaven above thee,
Wilt thou languish in despair?
Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet,
Scale the walls of Heaven by prayer.

'T is the key of the Apostle
That will open Heaven below;
'T is the ladder of the Patriarch,
Whereon angels come and go.

SONNET.

The honey-bee, that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips,
But from all rank and noisome weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness ever prest
Within the poison chalice. Thus if we
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet
In all the varied human flowers we meet
In the wide garden of humanity,
And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.

SONNET.
(ON SEEING THE IVORY STATUE OF CHRIST.)

THE enthusiast brooding in his cell apart
O'er the sad image of the Crucified,
The drooping head, closed lips, and piercéd side,
A holy vision fills his raptured heart;


ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH.  453

With heavenly power inspired, his unskill'd arm
Shapes the rude block to this transcendant form.
Oh! Son of God! thus, ever thus, would I
Dwell on the loveliness enshrined in thee;
The lofty faith, the sweet humility,
The boundless love, the love that could not die.
And as the sculptor, with thy glory warm,
Gives to this chisell'd ivory thy fair form,
So would my spirit in thy thought divine
Grow to a semblance, fair as this, of Thine.

SONNET.

Go forth in life, oh friend, not seeking love;—
A mendicant that with the imploring eye
And outstretch'd hands ask of the passers-by
The alms his strong necessities may move:
For such poor love, to pity near allied,
Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait—
A suppliant whose prayer may be denied
Like a spurn'd beggar's at a palace gate—
But thy heart's affluence lavish, uncontroll'd,
The largess of thy love, give full and free,
As monarchs in their progress scatter gold;
And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea,
That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow,
Though tributary streams or ebb or flow.

SONNET.

NIGHT closes round me, and wild threatening forms
Clasp me with icy arms and chain me down,
And bind upon my brow a cypress crown
Dewy with tears, and heaven frowns dark with storms.
But the one glorious memory of thee

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 18:50:04