1840-50.] HANNAH E. G. AREY 387 The tempest howled in wrath, And the fire wheeled madly on, And the embers, far, on the wind's wild path, Through the murky night, had gone. Yet there, in his pride, he stood, With a steady hand, and strong; And his ax came down on the burning wood. Till the heart of the old oak rung. There was many an earnest eye. Through the rolling smoke, that gazed, While he stood, with his dauntless soul, and high, Wliere the hottest fire-brands blazed. And prayers were faltered forth. From the aged, and the young ; For the safety of many a housebold hearth, On the strokes of his strong arm hung. There was many a proud knight there. With his mantle round him rolled, That aloof, in the light of that sweeping fire, Stood shivering in the cold. And oft from the firemen's bands, A summons for aid was heard ; But never the tips of their well-gloved hands, From their ermined cloaks were stirred. And no white and fervent lip. For their welfai'e, or safety prayed ; For no children's weal and no mother's hope, In the strength of their arms was stayed. Were I searching earth's mingled throng For slielter, my claim would be A hand, like that Fireman's, nerved and strong, And a fearless heart for me. FAME. Fame ! not for me, if my heart's life must pay for it ! What ! shall I seek it through falsehood and wrong? Trample down honor and truth, to make way for it? Truckle, and smile for the praise of the throng? Not while this earth rolls ! the hand that shall offer me Guerdon so worthless hath never been born, I — if this gaud is the prize that ye profier me — Fling back the gift with ineffable scorn. Lo, I see throngs quaff the goblet Fame crushed for them — Clusters of Peace poured their life in that wine; — Grapes of pure Truth, in God's sunshine that blushed for them. Yielded their forms for its sparkle, and shine ; Bring it not — name it not : — sweet things are blessing me Down in the pathway obscure where I tread ; In, by the fireside, soft hands are caress- ing me ; — Out, in the sunlight, God's smile is o'er- head. Cull these sweet home-flowers to twine a proud wreath for me ? Yield, for that thorn-crown, these gar- lands of love ? Not while fond hearts and pale violets can breathe for me Bliss that the angels might stoop for above. Back with thy tempting, pure hands shall win bread for me ; —
