294 REBECCA S. NICHOLS. [1840-50. All of my spring's sweet children that could die ; But some there were, though shrunken by the fire, Bright blossoms grown for immortality — Stood up beneath the fierceness of that ire, As strings, though broke, will cling unto the master's lyre. The year was young — it was the tender May, When violet-sandaled feet were wet with dew ; The roses budded on the nodding spray. And leaves were green upon the solemn yew That from the bosom of the church-yard grew; The moss assumed a softer, deeper tone, Where streams tripped hghtly o'er their pebbled way, And in its emerald robes, with diamond zone. The Earth lay like a child that sleeps without a moan. The soul that wandered through the halls of night. Where darkness curtained every windowed dome. Was stung to madness ere it fled the light ; And as a star unsphered might wildly roam Through seas of space, and airy clouds of foam. Blind to all laws that govern, rule, or guide, Still shooting onward in its dreary flight ! Thus did that soul from this warm life di- vide. And rush where darkness rolls its strong and swollen tide. The year was young, and to the blushing morn That came all smiling from the arms of night, And to the soft-eyed flowers, then newly born. And to the winds that whispered their de- light, Where winged odors nestled from the sight. My heart, in passionate entreaty cried (Still bleeding inward from a deadly thorn), •■' Oh, give me back my soul ! the true — the tried " — But echo's empty voice alone to it replied! Along new paths, o'er beds of perfumed thyme. Whose soul exhaled beneath my lingering tread ; And under roofs, where soft the yellow lime Shone like faint stars amid the leaves o'er- head ; And through the valleys where the way- worn dead Had made firm covenant with Death for rest From all the tortures of this present time, This heart, still throbbing wildly in its breast. My half-reluctant feet yet onward, onward pressed. Through lone, black forests, and through blacker caves, The darkness rustling like a velvet pall, Where roars the sound of unseen, hurry- ing waves. That dash against the adamantine wall, Or rush all sullen to their dreadful fall ! No star e'er lighting the perpetual gloom. But where the imprisoned wind more hoarsely raves. Whirling its victims to an awful doom, If guideless they go down the fearful, sun- less tomb ! On, o'er frail bridges swung from steep to steep Of cloud-defying clifi's, whose dizzy height
