Bright Hesperus! who on the eyes Of Milton poured thy brightest ray! Effulgent dweller of the skies, Take not from me thy light away-- I look on thee, and I recall The dreams of by-gone years-- O'er many a hope I lay the pall With its becoming tears; Yet turn to thee with thy full beam, And bless thee, Oh love-giving star! For life's sweet, sad, illusive dream Fruition, though in Heaven afar-- "A silver lining" hath the cloud Through dark and stormiest night, And there are eyes to pierce the shroud And see the hidden light. Thou movest side by side with Jove, And, 'tis a quaint conceit, perchance-- Thou seem'st in humid light to move As tears concealed thy burning glance-- Such Virgil saw thee, when thine eyes, More lovely through their glow,[2] Won from the Thunderer of the skies An accent soft and low. And Mars is there with his red beams, Tumultuous, earnest, unsubdued-- And silver-footed Dian gleams Faint as when she, on Latmos stood-- God help the child! such night brought forth When Love to Power appeals, And strong-willed Mars at frozen north Beside Diana steals. BROOKLYN, August, 1850. [Footnote 2: "Lachrymis oculos effusa nitentes."] * * * * * FRIENDSHIP. How oft the burdened heart would sink In fathomless despair But for an angel on the brink-- In mercy standing there: An angel bright with heavenly light-- And born of loftiest skies, Who shows her face to mortal race, In Friendship's holy guise. Upon the brink of dark despair, With smiling face she stands; And to the victim shrinking there, Outspreads her eager hands: In accents low that sweetly flow To his awakening ear, She woos him back--his deathward track. Toward Hope's effulgent sphere. Sweet Friendship! let me daily give Thanks to my God for thee! Without thy smiles t'were death to live, And joy to cease to be: Oh, bitterest drop in woe's full cup-- To have no friend in need! To struggle on, with grief alone-- Were agony indeed! August. WILLIAM C. RICHARDS. * * * * * THE BALANCE OF LIFE. All daring sympathy--clear-sighted love-- Is, from its source, a ray of endless bliss; Self has no place in the pure world above, Its shadows vanish in the strife of this. The toil--the tumult--the sharp struggle o'er,-- The casket breaks;--men say, "A martyr dies!" The death--the martyrdom--has past before: The soul, transfigured, finds its native skies. The good--the ill--we vainly strive to weigh With Reason's scales, hung in the mists of Time: Yet child-like Faith the balance doth survey, Held high in ether, by a hand sublime. May, 1850. HERMA. * * * * * SCIENCE. * * * * *