314 GEORGE W. CUTTER. [1840-50. The deepest recesses of earth are mine ; I traverse its silent core ; Around me the starry diamonds shine, And the sparkhng fields of ore ; And oft I leap from my throne on high To the depths of the ocean caves, Where the fadeless forests of coral lie Far under the world of waves. My being is like a lovely thought That dwells in a sinless breast ; A tone of music that ne'er was caught ; A word that was ne'er expressed ! I dwell in the bright and burnish'd halls Where the fountains of sunlight play, Where the curtain of gold and opal falls O'er the scenes of the dying day. With a glance I cleave the sky in twain ; I light it with a glare. When fall the boding drops of rain Through the darkly-curtain'd air ! The rock-built towers, the turrets gray, The piles of a thousand years. Have not the strength of potter's clay ^ Beneath my glittering spears. From the Alps' or the Andes' highest crag, From the peaks of eternal snow, The blazing folds of my fiery flag Illumine the world below. The earthquake heralds my coming power, The avalanche bounds away. And howling storms at midnight's hour Proclaim my kingly sway. Ye tremble when my legions come — When my quivering sword leaps out O'er the hills that echo my thunder drum And rend with my joyous shout. Ye quail on the land, or upon the seas Ye stand in your fear aghast, To see me burn the stalworth trees, Or shiver the stately mast. The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall — The letters of high command — Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall, Were traced by my burning hand. And oft in fire have I wrote, since then, What angry Heaven decreed ; But the sealed eyes of sinful men Were all too blind to read. At length the hour of light is here. And kings no more shall bind. Nor bigots crush with craven fear The forward march of mind. The words of Truth and Freedom's rays Are from my pinions hurl'd ; And soon the light of better days Shall rise upon the world. But away ! away ! through the sightless air Stretch forth your iron thread ! For I would not dim my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread ! Aye! rear it up on its thousand piers — Let it circle the world around — And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a sing^le bound. TO ALTHEA.* "FoKGET me not!" as soon the sun At morning shall forget to rise. The streams forget their course to run, The moon forget the starry skies ; As soon the flowers forget to blow. The magnet shall forget the pole. The hills forget the summer's glow, * The ocean waves forget to roll. " Forget me not ! " O it were well. Thou gentle one, perchance for me. If I could break the pleasing spell That binds my every thought to thee ;
- On being prcseiited by her with a flower commonly
called the " Foi-!ret-Me-Not."
