But, amid thy load of wo,
Turn, thou stricken one, thine eyes
Upward, and behold that glow
Spreading brightly o'er the skies!
'Tis the day-star, beaming fair
In the blue expanse above;
Look on high, and know that there
Dwells the object of thy love,
Life's bright harp of thousand strings
By the spoiler's hand was riven,
But the realm seraphic rings
With the victor notes of heaven.
Over death triumphant—lo!
See thy cherished one appear!
Mourner, dry thy tears of wo,
Trust, believe, and meet her there!
SONNET.—CULTIVATION.
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
Weeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers
Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air,
And bloom on hills, in vales and everywhere—
As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers—
But wither while our lips pronounce them fair!
Flowers of more worth repay alone the care,
The nurture, and the hopes of watchful hours;
While plants most cultured have most lasting powers.
So, flowers of Genius that will longest live
Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil,
But are the birth of time, and mental toil,
And all the culture Learning's hand can give:
Fancies, like wild flowers, in a night may grow;
But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow.