Through the world which the Spirit creative and kind First formed out of chaos, I fly like the wind, Until on the strand Of its billows I land, My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the shore. I saw infant stars into being arise, For thousands of years to roll on through the skies; I saw them in play Seek their goal far away,-- For a moment my fugitive gaze wandered on,-- I looked round me, and lo!--all those bright stars had flown! Madly yearning to reach the dark kingdom of night. I boldly steer on with the speed of the light; All misty and drear The dim heavens appear, While embryo systems and seas at their source Are whirling around the sun-wanderer's course. When sudden a pilgrim I see drawing near Along the lone path,--"Stay! What seekest thou here?" "My bark, tempest-tossed, I sail toward the land where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the shore." "Stay, thou sailest in vain! 'Tis INFINITY yonder!"-- "'Tis INFINITY, too, where thou, pilgrim, wouldst wander! Eagle-thoughts that aspire, Let your proud pinions tire! For 'tis here that sweet phantasy, bold to the last, Her anchor in hopeless dejection must cast!" FORTUNE AND WISDOM. Enraged against a quondam friend, To Wisdom once proud Fortune said "I'll give thee treasures without end, If thou wilt be my friend instead." "My choicest gifts to him I gave, And ever blest him with my smile; And yet he ceases not to crave, And calls me niggard all the while." "Come, sister, let us friendship vow! So take the money, nothing loth; Why always labor at the plough? Here is enough I'm sure for both!" Sage wisdom laughed,--the prudent elf!-- And wiped her brow, with moisture hot: "There runs thy friend to hang himself,-- Be reconciled--I need thee not!" ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN. [5] Mournful groans, as when a tempest lowers, Echo from the dreary house of woe; Death-notes rise from yonder minster's towers! Bearing out a youth, they slowly go; Yes! a youth--unripe yet for the bier, Gathered in the spring-time of his days, Thrilling yet with pulses strong and clear, With the flame that in his bright eye plays-- Yes, a son--the idol of his mother, (Oh, her mournful sigh shows that too well!) Yes! my bosom-friend,--alas my brother!-- Up! each man the sad procession swell!