So many eyes that dim tears fill, That a glance of love could clear; So many ears, all sad and still, That a sigh of love could cheer; So many hearts that are beating to greet Love that will heed no sign; So many lips that are parting to meet Love that is air, like mine;— Dykes that fashion has bank’d so fast, Burst from our souls apart! Burst! and let the truth flow past, Filling each unfill’d heart. THE IDEALIST. I Hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Who smiles when one is youthful, But oft in sudden shades will hide, And prove at times untruthful. “When through the skies,” They say, “she flies And leaves behind each earthly care; When round about her in the air No danger seems attending The light we find her wending, Beware! amid the brightest air The storm may burst, the lightning tear, Beware and fear! With earth so near None can be free from care.” I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Of rarest grace and beauty; But prone to lead the soul aside From irksome paths of duty. “Man is but man: He cannot scan Too high delights, and highly rate The lowly joys of earth’s estate. A soul to fancy turning,” They say, “is fill’d with yearning; And lives in dreams and idle schemes, That with their lure of rival gleams Make dim the light About the sight The working soul esteems.” I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Oft rendering life distressful, With views that loom too high, too wide, To make a man successful. They say, “We err Who soar with her. Earth only shoos or shoots a bird; To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd.— But few are those not tiring Of natures too aspiring. The common leaders of the day Amid the common people stay, Who but confide In those that guide Along the common way.” And yet my dear and dangerous guide, I prize thy peerless beauty. I chose thee long ago my bride For love and not for booty. How much is wrought By risking naught? When I behold a path of bliss, Tho’ bordering on the worst abyss, My fears of falling under Will not restrain my wonder. And, from what thou hast found for me, Full many a truth my soul can see That earth must know Ere it forego Its need of knowing thee. A PHASE OF THE ANGELIC. I wonder not that artists’ hands, Inspired by themes of joy To picture forms of angel-bands, Paint, first of all, the boy. I know if I were set the task To lure a man’s desire By traits the heavenliest one could ask, When most our souls aspire, I would not take a blushing bride, For she may wed for pelf; Nor him who stands the bride beside, He may but love himself;