ΤΟ HIRAM POWERS. HONORED be the name of Powers, By his noble art. 'Mid the Masters, old and grand, The Living with the Dead doth stand- And Genius in his heart. Far from home, across the brine, Where the Arno's waters shine 'Neath a golden sun, Midst the mighty temples, hoary, Grey with age, and rich in story, He a wreath hath won. In the land where Rome was great, Which wrecked her giant, pillared state, Full fixed upon his art intent, In War's wild thunder-gust. But his eye rests on the goal; Undimmed by storm or night. Where Vesuvius blazes red, Gazing through hope's open gate, To crown the faithful soul. As when a mariner doth launch, On stormy seas his shallop staunch, Faith holds the helm, and olive branch, Though mountain billows roll. Where Florence holds her stately reign, The queen of all the southern plain Begirt by vines and golden grain, He dwells afar from home. And constant plies the toiling hand, The marble shall from quarry rise; Pointing backward towards the Past, The wealth which history hath amassed THE THRUSH. In the wilderness dark, where the dogwood is white, He flits through the forest so dense and so green, And he glances along through the bushes, half seen, Where the Turkey-pea grows with its fairy-like flower, Where the wild vine is weaving its intricate bower, O'er the haunt of the spirit of Gloom; Where the Buckeye is dark, in the depth of its green, And the hazle bush covers the ground; Where the red-spotted deer, with its wild eyes is seen, And the pheasant's drum thunders around! 'Tis there when the daylight sinks back in its urn, The fountain of gold whence it rose, That from some mossy rock, decked with finger-leaved fern, He sings, 'till night's wings o'er him close. The red bird, whose fiery cap 'mid the green, Whose plume gleaming bright in the forest was secu, The Oriole, dressed in his scarlet-hued vest, To the mate of his bosom unburdens his breast, But thine is a strain where the joy is so deep That from sorrow it scarce can be told, And brings us sweet thoughts, like the angels in sleep, Which the day's eye doth never behold. It is not the mere happy sound to the ear, The mingling of cheerful and sweet, But the rush to the heart of all sounds that are dear, Yea! it trembles there like the pale leaf of the asp, And ecstasy, bliss, and beatitude, clasp |