LVII. TRUE LOVE BINDS SOUL AND BODY.

True love's-th' gift-th't God hath given-
T' man-alone-beneath th' heavens.

It is th' secret sympathy,—

Th' silver chord,-the silken tie

Which-(heart—t' heart—and mind—t' mind)—
In body-and in soul-can bind.

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No; let the eagle-change his plume,

Th' leaf-its hue,-th' flower-its bloom;

But ties around th' heart-were spun

That could not,-would not-be undone.

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A BARK- —(at midnight)—sent—alone—
T' drift-upon a moonless sea,—
A LUTE-whose leading chord—is gone,—
A wounded BIRD-th't has but one-
Imperfect wing—t' soar upon,—

Is like-what I am-without THEE.

LVIII. THE VARIOUS ROADS TO FAME. POLLOK.

Many-the roads-men took, the plans-they tried.
The man of science-to the shade retired,
And laid his head-upon his hand,-in mood-
Of awful thoughtfulness,—and dived—and dived
Again,-deeper-and deeper still,—to sound
The cause remote; resolved-(before he died)
To make some grand discovery by which-
He should be known-to all posterity.
And (in the silent vigils—of the night,
When un-inspired men-reposed,)—the bard,
(Ghastly of countenance,—and from his eye-
Oft streaming wild,-unearthly fire,)—sat up
And sent his imagination forth,—and searched
The far-and near,—heaven,-earth,—and gloomy hell,
For fiction new,-for thought-un-thought-before;
And when some curious,-rare idea-peered

Upon his mind-he dipped his hasty pen,—

And (by the glimmering lamp-or moonlight beam

Th't through his lattice peeped)-wrote fondly down
What seemed-in truth-imperishable song.

And sometimes too-the reverend divine,

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(In meditation deep-of holy things

And vanities-of time,)—heard Fame's sweet voiceApproach his ear,-and hung another flower

(Of earthly sort) about the sacred truth,

And ventured-(whiles) to mix—the bitter text
With relish-suited to the sinner's taste.

And ofttimes-too-the simple hind,—(who seemed
Ambitionless,-arrayed in humble garb,

While round him—spreading-fed his harmless flock,)
Sitting-was seen-by some wild-warbling brook,
Carving his name upon his favorite staff,
Or in ill-favored letters-tracing it—
Upon the aged thorn,—or on the face-
Of some conspicuous-oft-frequented stone,
With persevering,-wondrous industry;
And hoping-as he toiled amain, and saw
The characters-taking form-some other wight,-
Long after he was dead-and in his grave,
Should loiter there-at noon and read his name.

LIX.-EARTHLY REPUTATION. POLLOK.

In purple—some,—and some—in rags,-stood forth
For reputation. Some-displayed a limb-
Well-fashioned; some,—(of lowlier mind,)—a cane—
Of curious workmanship—and marvelous twist.
In strength-some-sought it, and in beauty—more.
Long, long, the fair one-labored at the glass,
And (being tired,) called in auxiliar skill,

To have her sails (before she went abroad)

Full spread, and nicely set-to catch the gale

Of praise; and much—she caught,—and much-deserved, When outward loveliness-was index fair

Of purity-within. But oft,-alas!

The bloom-was on the skin-alone; and when
She saw,-(sad sight!) the roses-on her cheek-
Wither, and heard the voice of Fame retire-
And die away,—she heaved most piteous sighs,
And wept-most lamentable tears; and while
In wild delirium made rash attempt,
(Unholy mimicry-of nature's work!)

To re-create-(with frail—and mortal things)
Her withered face. Attempt-how fond—and vain!
Her frame-itself soon mouldered-down to dust;
And in the land-of deep forgetfulness-
Her beauty and her name-were laid-beside
Eternal silence-and the loathsome worm,
Into whose darkness-FLATTERY-ventured not,

Where none-had ears-to hear the voice--of Fame.

LX.-THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. LONGFELLOW.

Somewhat back-from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees-their shadows throw;
And (from its station-in the hall)
An ancient time-piece-says-to all,-
"Forever-never! Never-forever!"

Half-way-up-stairs-it stands,

And points and beckons-with its hands
From its case-of massive oak,
Like a monk who, (under his cloak,)
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—
Forever-never! Never-forever!

By day-its voice-is low and light;
But-in the silent dead-of night,
Distinct-as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes-along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling,-along the floor,

And seems to say—(at each chamber door,)—
"Forever-never! Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow-and of mirth,
Through days of death-and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged-it has stood;
And as if, (like God,)—it all things saw,
It calmly repeats-those words of awe,-
Forever-never! Never-forever!

In that mansion-used to be
Free-hearted-Hospitality:

His great fires-up the chimney roared;
The stranger-feasted at his board;
But, (like the skeleton-at the feast,)
That warning time-piece-never ceased,—
"Forever-never! Never-forever !"

There-groups-of merry children played,—
There-youths and maidens-dreaming-strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime!

And affluence-of love-and time

Even as a miser-counts his gold

Those hours the ancient time-piece told,—
"Forever-never! Never-forever!"

From that chamber,-(clothed in white,)

The bride-came forth-on her wedding-night;

There,-(in that silent room-below,)
The dead lay-in his shroud of snow,
And (in the hush-th't followed the prayer)
Was heard the old clock-on the stair,-
“Forever—never! Never-forever!"

All are scattered-now and fled;
Some-are married,—some—are dead!
And when I ask, (with throbs of pain,)
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days-long since gone by,
The ancient time-piece-makes reply,—
"Forever—never! Never-forever!”

Never-here,-forever—there!
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death-and time-shall disappear;-
Forever-there,-but never-here!

The horologue-of eternity—

Sayeth this incessantly,—

"Forever—never! Never-forever!”

LXI.-EARTHLY AMBITION VAIN. POLLOK.

Many-the roads-men took,-the plans-they tried,
And awful—oft the wickedness-they wrought.
To be observed,-some-scrambled up to thrones,
And sat in vestures-dripping wet-with gore.

The WARRIOR-dipped his words—in BLOOD,—and wrote
His name on lands-and cities-desolate.

The RICH-bought fields,—and houses built,—and raised The monumental piles-up to the clouds,

And called them-by their names; and,-(strange-to tell,)
Rather than be unknown,—and pass away-

Obscurely to the grave,―SOME-(small of soul,
That else had perished-unobserved,) acquired
Considerable renown— -by oaths profane;
By jesting boldly-with sacred things,
And uttering-fearlessly, whate'er occurred,
Wild, blasphemous,perditionable thoughts
Th't Satan-in them moved; by wiser men-
Suppressed-and quickly banished—from the mind.
Many the roads they took,-the plans they tried;
But all-in vain. Who grasped-at earthly fame-
Grasped wind; nay worse,—a serpent grasped, th❜t through
His hand-slid smoothly,—and was gone; but left

A sting behind,-which wrought him-endless pain.

For oft-her voice-was old Abaddon's lure,
By which-he charmed the foolish soul—to death!

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LXII.-INTERVIEW BETWEEN YOUTH AND SORROW. MACKAY.

"Get thee back,-Sorrow, get thee back!

My brow-is smooth,-mine eyes—are bright,
My limbs are full of health and strength,—
My cheeks-are fresh,-my heart—is light;-
So get thee back! Oh! get thee back!
Consort with age,-but not with me;
Why should'st thou follow on my track?
I am too young-t' live with thee."

"O foolish youth!-t' scorn thy friend!
T'harm thee-wherefore-should I seek?
I would not dim-thy sparkling eyes,—
Nor blight-th' roses-on thy cheek:
I would but teach thee-to be true;
And-should I press thee-overmuch,—
Ever-th' flowers--that I bedew-

Yield sweetest fragrance-t' th' touch."

"Get thee back,-Sorrow,-get thee back!
I like thee not; thy looks-are chill;
Th' sunshine-lies upon my heart,—
Thou showest me th' shadow-still.
So get thee back! Oh, get thee back!
Nor touch my golden locks-with gray.
Why should'st thou follow-on my track?
Let me be happy-while I may."

"Good friend,-thou needest-sage advice;
I'll keep thy heart-from growing proud;-
I'll fill thy mind-with kindly thoughts,—
And link thy pity-t' the crowd.
Would'st have a heart-of pulseless stone?
Would'st be too happy-to be good?
Nor make a human woe-thine own,—
For sake of human brotherhood?"

"Get thee back,-Sorrow,-get thee back!
Why should I weep-while I am young?
I have not piped,-I have not danced,—
My morning songs-I have not sung:
Th' world is beautiful t' me,-

Why tarnish it-to soul-and sense?
Prithee-begone! I'll think of thee-

Some half a hundred winters-hence."

"O-foolish youth!--thou know'st me not;
I-am th' mistress-of the earth;—
'Tis I-give tenderness-t' love;
Enhance-th' privilege—of mirth,—