In those bright hours, when gliding down Each flower-reflecting stream, When health, hope, fancy—all had thrown Their light o’er boyhood’s dream— Ah! little did I dream, my boat, That thou and I should be Alone upon the world, afloat Upon the wide, wide sea. Yet speed we forth—what care I now That once those bright hours shone? Is there a blight upon my brow? No—’tis enough, they’re gone. Then speed we forth—we leave behind A home still passing fair, Some spot to call a home to find— I know not—care not where. Be it but distant, distant far, Across the billowy deep, Where thought and passion cease to war— Where misery may sleep. Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought, That may not, cannot be— O’er the wide world there is no spot Of sleep for misery. Wherever winds the ocean fan, To-morrow’s born and dies, Wherever man deceiveth man, And woman lisps and lies— In city, or in solitude, In banquet-hall, or cell— The past—the past will still intrude— Memory—the wretch’s hell. Chance choose the clime—I only seek— To what else tortures bound— The spirit feel no vulture beak Of pity in the wound. Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth— I know not—care not where; Thou’lt build on any spot of earth Thy lone, proud home, Despair. So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will— Misery hath taught to know Still the fierce strength invincible, That springs to meet the blow. False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of old May not forgotten be— But room, and hurrah! for joys untold Of brave heart’s victory. This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark, As prouder far to bear Her master, now the heav’ns are dark, Than when they smiled most fair. The purpling waters, as they leap Around her eager prow, Laugh out in sympathy, and keep Dark commune with me now. On, on, my bark, thy gallant keel Is bounding merrily— Tossing the white foam, thou dost feel That now we both are free. And we are free—oh! we are free— A sky of storms is o’er us— A glorious strife, to end with life And victory, before us. * * * * * THE LIGHT OF LIFE. BY MRS O. M. P. LORD. Thou can’st not dream of darkness now, My child! so full of radiant light Thy morning breaks, with song of birds; That beaming eye no gloomy night Discerns, when weary petals close, And birds with folded wing repose. Nor would I change this fair design; As well the dew might fall at noon, Or fierce December’s coming blast Assail the shrinking flowers of June, As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed, From dim, prospective ill, a shade.