Heavy! Heavy! Oh, my heart Seems a cavern deep and drear, From whose dark recesses start, Flutteringly, like birds of night, Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, Screaming in their flight; Wildly o’er the gloom they sweep, Spreading a horror dim—a wo that cannot weep! Weary! Weary! What is life But a spectre-crowded tomb? Startled with unearthly strife— Spirits fierce in conflict met, In the lightning and the gloom, The agony and sweat; Passions wild and powers insane, And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain! Gloomy—gloomy is the day; Tortured, tempest-tost the night; Fevers that no founts allay— Wild and wildering unrest— Blessings festering into blight— A gored and gasping breast! From their lairs what terrors start, At that deep earthquake voice—the earthquake of the heart! Hopeless! Hopeless! Every path Is with ruins thick bestrown; Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe All the greenness of my heart; And I now am Misery’s own— We never more shall part! My spirit’s deepest, darkest wave Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! Sleep! The grave! The grave! * * * * * ROSABELLE. BY “CARO.” A thing all life and sunshine, A glad and happy child, With spirits ever changing, Half earnest and half wild; As fleet a little fairy As ever graced a dell, Or frolicked in a blossom, Is our sweet Rosabelle. I wish that you could meet her; Her clear and happy eyes Would break upon your vision, Like light from Paradise! You’d know her in a moment— You couldn’t help it well— For there’s no other _like_ her— Our own, dear Rosabelle! Her brow is just as open, And sunny as the day; And curls are dancing o’er it, In their unfettered play. Ah! loveliness and beauty Have thrown their brightest spell, Around our darling blossom— Our witching Rosabelle! Her mouth is made for kisses, And when she lifts her face, She seems to ask the tribute, With her unconscious grace. Her lips are ripe and glowing, With just that pouting swell That painters like to copy— Our peerless Rosabelle! Her voice is soft and child-like, Yet gleeful as a bird’s; I love to list the cadence Of her half-warbled words. Her laugh is like the music Of some sweet, silver bell; I hear it in the passage, And know ’tis Rosabelle.