No more to thee, no more, no more, Till thy circling life be o'er, A mutual heart shall be a home, Of weary wishes happy tomb. No more, no more--O words which sever Hearts from their hopes, to part forever! They can believe it never! LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.[50] Some names there are at sight of which will rise Visions of triumph to the dullest eyes; They breathe of garlands from a grateful race, They tell of victory o'er all that's base; To write them eagles might their plumage give, And granite rocks should yield, that they may live. Others there are at sight of which will rise Visions of beauty to all loving eyes, Of radiant sweetness, or of gentle grace, The poesy of manner or of face, Spell of intense, if not of widest power; The strong the ages rule; the fair, the hour. And there are names at sight of which will rise Visions of goodness to the mourner's eyes; They tell of generosity untired, Which gave to others all the heart desired; Of Virtue's _uncomplaining_ sacrifice, And holy hopes which sought their native skies. If I could hope that at my name would rise Visions like these, before those gentle eyes, How gladly would I place it in the shrine Where many honored names are linked with thine, And know, if lone and far my pathway lies, My name is living 'mid the good and wise. It must not be, for now I know too well That those to whom my name has aught to tell O'er baffled efforts would lament or blame. Who heeds a breaking reed?--a sinking flame? Best wishes and kind thoughts I give to thee, But mine, indeed, an _empty name_ would be. TO S. C. Our friend has likened thee to the sweet fern, Which with no flower salutes the ardent day, Yet, as the wanderer pursues his way, While the dews fall, and hues of sunset burn, Sheds forth a fragrance from the deep green brake, Sweeter than the rich scents that gardens make. Like thee, the fern loves well the hallowed shade Of trees that quietly aspire on high; Amid such groves was consecration made Of vestals, tranquil as the vestal sky. Like thee, the fern doth better love to hide Beneath the leaf the treasure of its seed, Than to display it, with an idle pride, To any but the careful gatherer's heed-- A treasure known to philosophic ken, Garnered in nature, asking nought of men; Nay, can invisible the wearer make, Who would unnoted in life's game partake. But I will liken thee to the sweet bay, Which I first learned, in the Cohasset woods, To name upon a sweet and pensive day Passed in their ministering solitudes.