That seems some hill-side sown with flowers, Odorous, as if with budding truth, Shoots into wild fantastic bowers. The spark for ever tends to flame; The ray that quivers in the plash Of yonder river, is the same That feeds the lightning's ruddy flash. The summer breeze that fans the rose, Or eddies down some flowery path, Is but the infant gale that blows To-morrow with the whirlwind's wrath. And He alone, who wields the storm, And bids the arrowy lightning play, Can guide the heart, when wild and warm, It springs on passion's wing away! One angel minister is sent, To guard and guide us to the sky, And still Her sheltering wing is bent, Till manhood rudely throws it by. Oh, then with mad disdain we spurn A mother's gentle teaching; throw Her bosom from us, and we burn, To rush in freedom, where the glow Of pleasure lights the dancing wave: We launch the bark, we woo the gale, And reckless of the darkling grave That yawns below, we speed the sail! XIII. "Stranger! a murderer stands before thee! To tell the guilty tale were vain-- It is enough--the curse is o'er me-- And I am but a wandering Cain. What boots it that the world bestows, For deeds of death its honors dear? The blood that from the duel flows, Will cry to heaven, and heaven will hear! Thou shalt not kill!' 'Twas deeply traced In living stone, and thunder-sealed; It cannot be by man effaced, Or fashion's impious act repealed. And though we seek with thin deceit, To blind Jehovah's piercing gaze, Call murder, honor,--can we cheat The Omniscient with a specious phrase? Alas! 'tis adding crime to crime, To veil the blood our hands have spilt, And seek by words of softening chime, To lend blest virtue's charm to guilt. Oh, no! in vain the world may give The fearful deed a gentle name-- I slew my friend, and now I live To feel perdition's glowing flame. His missile cut the upward air-- Mine, winged with murder won its way, Straight to his manly bosom,--there He fell, unconscious as the clay! One thrill of triumph through me swept,-- But, as I gazed upon his brow, A chilling horror o'er me crept,-- And I am what thou seest now! [Illustration: The Moonlit Prairie] XIV.