There is a tone in my bosom as yet unexpressed, And fain would I bid it to ever there rest, But the woes of the earth for its utterance plead, Then may it go forth as a merciful deed:— O, Jenny, while shining so brilliant on high, Like the Lyrian star on the vault of the sky, While the peers of the realms bow in homage to thee, Dost never thy race in their miseries see? To the charm of thy music we ever would yield, By thee would be borne to Elysium’s field, And forgetful that wrong or that wo were on earth, Forever would list to thine angel-like mirth. But the heart fraught with sympathies true, must embrace The lowest as well as the stars of our race— Round the poor and the wretched in bitterness twine— On devotion’s wings rise to where pure seraphs shine;— In our pathway to Heaven we encounter the thorn, Each brother’s woes feel and the proud tyrant’s scorn— The way that our holy Redeemer has trod But leads us through tears to the throne of our God. I know that thine own gushing spirit is free As the winds that o’ersweep the high mountains and sea; Thy genius has burst from all species of chains, And freedom unbounded swells forth in thy strains; But while ever exulting on fetterless wing, Wouldst not the blest boon to each lorn spirit bring? Thy music, which thrills to the depths of the heart, Might bid us to deeds of true chivalry start; Might bid the kind fountain in proud bosoms flow, To heal the crushed hearts that are writhing in wo. Both Knowledge and Virtue like angels descend, The sad thralls of Sin and of Darkness to rend, Perchance that the tyrant may yield to thy charms, And avert the dread doom of the Future’s alarms, Till unwilling vassals no more bend the knee, But rise at his bidding and ever be free. And the gold thou hast won by the charm of thy name, To its splendor might add the philanthropist’s fame, Till many an oasis from deserts shall spring, When the arches of Heaven with thy praises shall ring. * * * * * STORM-LINES. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. When the rains of November are dark on the hills, and the pine-trees incessantly roar To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, and the floods that in foam through their black channels pour: When the breaker-lined coast stretches dimly afar, through the desolate waste of the gale, And the clang of the sea-gull at nightfall is heard from the deep, like a mariner's wail: When the gray sky drops low, and the forest is bare, and the laborer is housed from the storm, And the world is a blank, save the light of his home through the gust shining redly and warm:—