To my spirit a balm is given,

And, fresh from their inmost cell, Shall fall on that flow'r at even

The dews of the soul-farewell!

GENIU S.

Oh! qui peindra jamais cet ennui dévorant,

Ces extases d'espoir, ces fureurs solitaires,

D'un grand homme ignoré qui lui seul se comprend,
Fou sublime insulté par des sages vulgaires?

Poursuis ta sublime carrière,
Poursuis le mépris du vulgaire
Est l'apanage des grands cœurs.

All the high music of thy spirit here

C. DELAVIGNE.

LAMARTINE.

Breath'd but the language of another sphere,
Unechoed round.

ALONE, alone, alone,

Yet not in the grove or glen,

But alone, alone, alone,

'Mid the crowded haunts of men ;

Offering thoughtful years

For a late, sepulchral fame,

While the torch of life burns on

With a self-consuming flame :

MRS. HEMANS.

Calling his fellow-men,

With the eager voice of youth, From the gloom of error's ways To the sunlit paths of truth;

Sorrowing, with the cares

Of a deep, unwavering zeal,

For the

eyes that will not see,

And the hearts that cannot feel:

Oh! thus, on a thorny track,

By the fire of love divine

Is the child of Genius led

To his rest in Glory's shrine!

He hath hope in his lonely heart,

And he bears on his furrow'd brow

The light of the living truths

Which the world receives not now;

Toiling early and late,

With a slow and wasting toil, By the beams of the rising sun,

By the glare of the midnight oil;

Alone, alone, alone,

Yet not in the grove or glen,

But alone, alone, alone,

'Mid the barren hearts of men.

COULDST thou love me, couldst thou love me, if

my youth had pass'd away?

As thou lov'st me in life's freshness, couldst thou love me in decay?

Couldst thou greet me, if the sable hand of Care

were on my brow,

With the same soft words of tenderness with which

you greet me now?