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A wild and weary life is thine;

A wasting task and lone,

Though treasure-grots for thee may shine,

To all besides unknown!

A weary life! but a swift decay
Soon, soon shall set thee free;

Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read—
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled!

And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be;

A star to all in the festive hall—

But who will think on thee?

None!-as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one 'midst throngs will say,

"A life hath been like a rain-drop shed,

For that pale quivering ray.”

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
-And are not those like thee,

Who win for earth the gems of thought?

O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,

Gathering the jewels far below

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Wringing from lava-veins the fire,

That o'er bright words is pour'd; Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre A spirit in each chord.

But, oh! the price of bitter tears,

Paid for the lonely power

That throws at last, o'er desert years,
A darkly-glorious dower!

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strew'd;

-The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!

And who will think, when the strain is

Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd,

sung,

What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gush'd with every word?

None, none!-his treasures live like thine,

He strives and dies like thee;

—Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,

O wrestler with the sea!

L

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.

Les poètes dont l'imagination tient à la puissance d'aimer et de souffrir, ne sont ils pas les bannis d'une autre region?

MADAME DE STAEL. De L'Allemagne.

No tears for thee !—though light be from us gone With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one! No tears for thee!

They that have loved an exile, must not mourn

To see him parting for his native bourne
O'er the dark sea.

All the high music of thy spirit here,

Breathed but the language of another sphere,
Unechoed round;

And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weeping

skies

Some half-remember'd strain of paradise

Might sadly sound.

Hast thou been answer'd? thou, that from the night

And from the voices of the tempest's might,

And from the past,

Wert seeking still some oracle's reply,

To pour the secrets of man's destiny

Forth on the blast!

Hast thou been answer'd?-thou, that through the

gloom,

And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb,

A cry didst send,

So passionate and deep? to pierce, to move,

To win back token of unburied love

From buried friend!

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