Well! when these painted lizards crawled aside, And I clung, like the wretched mariner, Unto a straw, I deemed a plank, for life. Whose voice came o’er the deep and angry sea, Bidding me be of faith and hope? Speak, now! What! art thou voiceless? Nearer, bend thine ear! Nay, shudder not—there’s “method in my madness!” I would not shriek it out aloud, for fear The sound might create revelry in Hell! Not the one I loved. Not hers, whose every thought was mine—not hers, Who should have searched my deep, unquiet heart, And soothed it in its agony. Oh no! Too hard a task to ask this boon of her, Whose dearest thought seemed but to learn the way To help to crush—not save. Oh God! forgive me! How much of sorrow, sin and shame, my life Would have been guiltless of, had but the one— The only one of earth—reached forth her hand, And with that hand, her heart, to lift me up And keep my manhood pure. It was a dream! I only deemed it but her duty here; I may have asked too much! ’Tis over now. The sharpest strife is o’er, and I must be Sufficient to myself. The past can ne’er Recall itself to me, but with my tears, That have been tears of blood. Would that the fate Of the Olympus-stricken Niobe Had been mine also—that I had been marble. Oh charity! oh love! how much we need Thy softening power. Ye, whose hearts are bowed Before a great Creator; ye, whose thoughts Should be all purity—cannot ye feel The power given you to soothe and calm The troubled souls of weary-hearted men, Who wrestle, like the Titan, ’gainst the power Of the Omnipotent! Hurling ever back Against the thunderer’s bolts, an avalanche, Cleft from the cloud-topped hills of human pride, The settlings of a world of hate and scorn. So fades my life, And with it, all the poetry of youth, The summer of existence—lost forever. As fleeting as the bubble, Reputation— As false as social ties—delusive all— The mirage of the world. In this, my deep communing with myself, New strength has come upon me. Oh, my soul! Gird on thy armor of Indifference, And forth into the world to toil and strive, Bearing thy secret ever present to thee, Lest weak Humanity should tamely yield Unto its earlier promptings: Up and work! There is a pathway left for Lucifer; All portals are not closed. Up, up, the time Is present now; fearless and bold press on; Stay not for counsel or impediment, But, like the Roman matron’s chariot, Pass recklessly upon thy destined course, Though Nature’s holiest ruin stops the way. * * * * * ALICE VERNON. BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.