AMBITION.

A FRAGMENT.

IT is not hard to rise

To brilliant destinies,

If men will hang upon the breath of Power;

Will catch from it a tone

And leaning not their own,

Tame creatures of another's prosperous hour.

To win Ambition's goal

With pure, unbarter'd soul

And that free strength which loftiest hearts desire,—

Methinks 'twere easier far

To o'ertake the falling star,

Or steal from wakeful Heav'n Promethean fire.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

Freundlich glänzt an stiller Quelle,

Wie des Mondes Silberlicht,

Eine Blume, zart und helle,

O verkenn' diess Blümchen nicht.

MÜCHLER.

STAY, Gale of the Ocean! whither

Wouldst thou on thy light wings flee?

O come but a moment hither,

A boon would I ask of thee;

For long hast thou been reposing
In lands of the spreading palm,
And com'st o'er the sea, disclosing

Fresh sweets from their groves of balm.

'Tis soft as a dulcet measure,

The tale which thou lov'st to bring, And speaks of a hidden treasure,

Conceal'd 'neath thy viewless wing.

Then, Gale of the Ocean, whither Wouldst thou on thy light wings flee? Come, waft, with its sweet tones, hither The voice of my love to me.

Thy love, when I left, was lying
'Neath the shade of a spreading tree,

And I heard her at even sighing;-
A sigh dost thou bring for me?

No; lovers were round her, wooing With gifts which the rich ones shower, And maidens were o'er her strewing

The sweets of an Eastern bower.

"Tis sad and beyond believing

The tale which thou bring'st to me; Hath a young heart prov'd deceiving? -And what said the maid to thee?

She told me of waters flowing

All fresh from their honied springs, Of flowers in her garden growing, Of birds with their painted wings.

'Tis sad and beyond believing

The tale which thou bring'st to me; Hath a young heart prov'd deceiving? -And said she no more to thee?

She rose, when I shook at parting
The leaves of that spreading tree,

As if from a day-dream starting,
And softly she call'd to me ;

Then paus'd but a moment, stooping
To the source of a limpid spring,
And pluck'd from its edge, all drooping,
A flower, which she bade me bring;

And, "Onward," she cried, "nor linger In field nor in bower for rest;

But drop, from thy gentle finger,

This flower on my true love's breast.

"Bruise not its stalk so slender,

And soil not its azure hue :"

And I come o'er the seas to tender
This gift from thy love so true.

'Tis soft as a dulcet measure,

The tale which thou lov'st to bring,

And speaks of a hidden treasure,

Conceal'd 'neath thy viewless wing.