To find some secret, meaner home,
Less stormy and unsafe than thine?
Else why thy dusky pinions bend

So closely to this shadowy world,
And round thy searching glances send,
As wishing thy broad pens were furled i

Yet lonely is thy shattered nest,
Thy eyry desolate, though high;
And lonely thou, alike at rest,
Or soaring in the upper sky.
The golden light that bathes thy plumes
On thine interminable flight,
Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs,

And makes the North's ice-mountains bright

So come the eagle-hearted down,

So come the high and proud to earth,
When life's night-gathering tempests frown
Over their glory and their mirth :
So quails the mind's undying eye,

That bore, unveiled, Fame's noontide sun;

So man seeks solitude, to die,

His high place left, his triumphs done.

So, round the residence of Power,

A cold and joyless lustre shines,

And on life's pinnacles will lower

Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, oh, the mellow light that pours

From God's pure throne—the light that saves

It warms the spirit as it soars,

And sheds deep radiance round our graves.

THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA.

TALIA'S vales and fountains,

ITAL

Though beautiful ye be,

I love my soaring mountains.
And forests more than ye;
And though a dreamy greatness rise
From out your cloudy years,
Like hills on distant stormy skies,
Seen dim through Nature's tears,
Still, tell me not of years of old,
Or ancient heart and clime;
Ours is the land and age of gold,
And ours the hallowed time!

The jewelled crown and sceptre
Of Greece have passed away;
And none, of all who wept her,
Could bid her splendour stay.
The world has shaken with the tread
Of iron-sandalled Crime-
And, lo! o'ershadowing all the dead,
The conqueror stalks sublime!
Then ask I not for crown and plume
To nod above my land d;

The victor's footsteps point to doom,
Graves open round his hand!

Rome! with thy pillared palaces,
And sculptured heroes all,
Snatched, in their warm, triumphal days,
To Art's high festival;

Rome! with thy giant sons of power,
Whose pathway was on thrones,
Who built their kingdoms of an hour
On yet unburied bones,-

I would not have my land like thee,
So lofty-yet so cold!

Be hers a lowlier majesty,

In yet a nobler mould.

Thy marbles-works of wonder!
In thy victorious days,
Whose lips did seem to sunder
Before the astonished gaze;
When statue glared on statue there
The living on the dead,—
And men as ilent pilgrims were

Before some sainted head!
Oh, not for faultless marbles yet
Would I the light forego

That beams when other lights hamı sse
And Art herself lies low!

Oh, ours a holier hope shall be

Than consecrated bust, Some loftier mean of memory

To snatch us from the dust. And ours a sterner art than this, Shall fix our image here,The spirit's mould of loveliness

A nobler BELVIDERE!

Then let them bind with bloomless flowers The busts and urns of old,

A fairer heritage be ours,

A sacrifice less cold!

Give honour to the great and good,
And wreathe the living brow,
Kindling with Virtue's mantling bloud,
And pay the tribute now!

So, when the good and great go down,
Their statues shall arise,

To crowd those temples of our own,
Our fadeless memories!

And when the sculptured marble falls,
And Art goes in to die,

Our forms shall live in holier halls,

The Pantheon of the sky!

S. Margaret Fuller.

GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE.*

UPON

the

rocky mountain stood the boy,
A goblet of pure water in his hand;
His face and form spoke him one made for joy,
A willing servant to sweet Love's command ;

But a strange pain was written on his brow,
And thrilled throughout his silver accents now:

"My bird," he cries, "my destined brother-friend, Oh, whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight?

*On seeing THORWALDSEN's statue of Ganymede.

"Hast thou forgotten that I here attend,
From the full noon until this sad twilight?
A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring,
Since the full noon o'er hill and valley glowed,
I've filled the vase which our Olympian king
Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed;
That, at the moment when thou shouldst descend,
A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend.
"Hast thou forgotten Earth-forgotten me,
Thy fellow-bondsman in a royal cause,
Who, from the sadness of infinity,

Only with thee can know that peaceful pause
In which we catch the flowing strain of love
Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove.

"Before I saw thee I was like the May,

Longing for Summer that must mar its bloom, Or like the Morning Star that calls the Day,, Whose glories to its promise are the tomb; And as the eager fountain rises higher,

To throw itself more strongly back to earth, Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire,

More fondly it reverted to its birth;

For, what the rose-bud seeks tells not the roseThe meaning foretold by the boy the man cannot disclose. "I was all Spring, for in my being dwelt

Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit; Full feeling was the thought of what was feltIts music was the meaning of the lute:

But Heaven and Earth such life will still deny,

For Earth, divorced from Heaven, still asks the question,

'Why?'