Thou darest not say I love, and yet thou _lovest_, And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down, That in thy spirit shall upspring forever! Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts-- It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years, And colored with its deep, empurpled hue, The passionate aspirations of thy youth. Go, take from June her roses--from her streams The bubbling fountain-springs--from life, take _love_, Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom and strength. There is a grandeur in the soul that dares To live out all the life God lit within; That battles with the passions hand to hand, And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield! That plucks its joy in the shadow of death's wing-- That drains with one deep draught the wine of life, And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye, May stand upon a dizzy precipice, High o'er the abyss of ruin, and not _fall_! THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Oh, thou whose beauty on us beams With glimpses of celestial light; Thou halo of our waking dreams, And early star that crown'st our night-- Thy light is magic where it falls; To thee the deepest shadow yields; Thou bring'st unto these dreary halls The lustre of the summer-fields. There is a freedom in thy looks To make the prisoned heart rejoice;-- In thy blue eyes I see the brooks, And hear their music in thy voice. And every sweetest bird that sings Hath poured a charm upon thy tongue; And where the bee enamored clings, There surely thou in love hast clung:-- For when I hear thy laughter free, And see thy morning-lighted hair, As in a dream, at once I see Fair upland scopes and valleys fair. I see thy feet empearled with dews, The violet's and the lily's loss; And where the waving woodland woos Thou lead'st me over beds of moss;-- And by the busy runnel's side, Whose waters, like a bird afraid, Dart from their fount, and, flashing, glide Athwart the sunshine and the shade. Or larger streams our steps beguile;-- We see the cascade, broad and fair, Dashed headlong down to foam, the while Its iris-spirit leaps to air! Alas! as by a loud alarm, The fancied turmoil of the falls Hath driven me back and broke the charm Which led me from these alien walls:-- Yes, alien, dearest child, are these Close city walls to thee and me: My homestead was embowered with trees, And such thy heritage should be:-- And shall be;--I will make for thee A home within my native vale Where every brook and ancient tree Shall whisper some ancestral tale. Now once again I see thee stand, As down the future years I gaze, The fairest maiden of the land-- The spirit of those sylvan ways.