“Thou art, within my soul, a birth of happiness and peace. I have been, of all men, the most ambitious: not as valuing the opinions of the world, for I am not yet sunk so low; but that I might in the interest of action and creation find some comfort to my spirit. I have had some applause; as much as satisfied the most craving vanity of many around me. It wearied and fretted me unutterably, and as praise increased, I feared to go mad with the anguish of disappointment. In this distress of an intellect always seeking but incapable of finding, thy gentle beauty beamed upon my heart. It awoke therein life and a fountain of light. Yet was it not its own light, but the reflection of thy glorious lustre; as in the blank waters on a starry night we recognise the impassioned splendor of the heavens. I have placed thee within my heart; and henceforth shall I find thee, forever, a source of joy and a spring of inspiration.” * * * * * STANZAS. BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDHAM. “My harp also is turned to mourning.—Where is God my Maker, who giveth songs in the night?” The flush of young Hope, and the smile have departed, That tinted my cheek—that enlivened my brow; In sackcloth I sit, with the desolate-hearted, And hushed is the song of my mirthfulness now. All Nature rejoiceth to welcome gay Summer: The out-going morn “walks in beauty” more bright; And the streamlet replenished, forgetting its murmur, Is dancing along in the gush of delight. All, all save my heart, beats responsive to Nature! In vain do _I_ hear the sweet warbling of birds, In vain the rejoicing of each living creature— The bleat of the lambs, or the low of the herds; My spirit returneth no echo of gladness; “The harp of the heart,” by affliction unstrung, Can only reply in the numbers of sadness, Or, silent with grief, on the willows is hung. Great Parent of Nature! if to the bleak mountains, The light of thy smile bringeth verdure again; Doth gladden the desert with palm trees and fountains, And scatter new beauties o’er valley and plain; If the wealth of thy bounty, in showers descending, Can make “the waste-places” bloom fresh as the rose; And thy rainbow of promise, in loveliness bending Upon the dark cloud, hush the storms to repose; Oh! cannot the light of thy favor awaken The well-springs of joy in a desolate heart, And clothe with new verdure the bosom forsaken Of all that could pleasure or solace impart? And hast thou not showers for the _spirit’s_ refreshing, And songs in the night-time of sorrow to give? Then open thy windows and pour down a blessing— O smile! and this wilderness heart shall revive. Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J. * * * * *