"Break me my bounds, and let me fly To regions vast of boundless sky; Nor I, like piteous Daphne, be Root-bound. Ah, no! I would be free As yon same bird that in its flight Outstrips the range of mortal sight; Free as the mountain streams that gush From bubbling springs, and downward rush Across the serrate mountain's side,-- The rocks o'erwhelmed, their banks defied,-- And like the passions in the soul, Swell into torrents as they roll. Oh, circumscribe me not by rules That serve to lead the minds of fools! But give me pow'r to work my will, And at my deeds the world shall thrill. My words shall rouse the slumb'ring zest That hardly stirs in manhood's breast; And as the sun feeds lesser lights, As planets have their satellites, So round about me will I bind The men who prize a master mind!" He lived a silent life alone, And laid him down when it was done; And at his head was placed a stone On which was carved a name unknown! ON THE RIVER The sun is low, The waters flow, My boat is dancing to and fro. The eve is still, Yet from the hill The killdeer echoes loud and shrill. The paddles plash, The wavelets dash, We see the summer lightning flash; While now and then, In marsh and fen Too muddy for the feet of men, Where neither bird Nor beast has stirred, The spotted bullfrog's croak is heard. The wind is high, The grasses sigh, The sluggish stream goes sobbing by. And far away The dying day Has cast its last effulgent ray; While on the land The shadows stand Proclaiming that the eve's at hand. POOR WITHERED ROSE _A Song_ Poor withered rose, she gave it me, Half in revenge and half in glee; Its petals not so pink by half As are her lips when curled to laugh, As are her cheeks when dimples gay In merry mischief o'er them play. _Chorus_ Forgive, forgive, it seems unkind To cast thy petals to the wind; But it is right, and lest I err So scatter I all thought of her. Poor withered rose, so like my heart, That wilts at sorrow's cruel dart. Who hath not felt the winter's blight When every hope seemed warm and bright? Who doth not know love unreturned, E'en when the heart most wildly burned? Poor withered rose, thou liest dead; Too soon thy beauty's bloom hath fled. 'Tis not without a tearful ruth I watch decay thy blushing youth; And though thy life goes out in dole, Thy perfume lingers in my soul. WORN OUT You bid me hold my peace And dry my fruitless tears, Forgetting that I bear A pain beyond my years. You say that I should smile And drive the gloom away; I would, but sun and smiles Have left my life's dark day. All time seems cold and void, And naught but tears remain; Life's music beats for me A melancholy strain. I used at first to hope, But hope is past and, gone; And now without a ray My cheerless life drags on.