564 CAROLINE MYER. [1850-60. Still here the Unattained doth blaze ! Ah ! here the Never Won may shine ! These shadows once were real things — These phantoms strange were living forms ; These floating shapes, with airy wings, Once battled with the thunder-storms ! When far beyond the fiery track Of orbs immense, entranced we soar, ! will the spirit wander back To walk again the phantom shore ? Oh ! bright and haunted picture land ! Oh, dreams of eld ! Oh, visions blessed ! What wizard king, with heavy hand, Hath laid this spell of wild unrest ? Sad Shadow-land ! I visit thee, And long, in many a pensive hour, As prisoned captive, to be free To rise above the futile power Of words and songs of mortal birth ; For vain my striving to invest Expression — else of little worth — With aught of that which thrills my breast. When wand'ring in this cypress shade, Or standing on yon sunny shore, 1 list the low, sweet music played By hands whose earthly toil is o'er. UP AND DOWN THE HILL. A LITTLE work — a little play— A loitering oft along the way — This is the sum and substance still Of going up and down the hill. And yet 'tis more than fleeting dream, Or idle poet's silly theme — Or blending of the sea and rill — This going up and down the hill. That group with garlands on their heads — Oh, what a glory round them spreads ! Their cheeks are bright, their pulses thrill, For they are going up the hill. And shall the stormy cloud that lowers. Make them forget the stars and flowers ? Is change, and blight, and darkness still The end of going up the hill ? But some now lying in the shade, With myrtle on their pale brows laid, E'en while they heard the song-bird's trill. Grew tired of going up the hill. Alas, for lips so strange and cold ! Alas, for hearts so early old ! That eyes are stern, and voices shrill ! 'Tis dreary going down the hill. But here the sunbeams' softened sheen Falls o'er a band with looks serene. And hope and faith their spirits fill, Though they are going down the hill. And here is one who walks aside From all the crimson glare of pride ; Her pathway leads through shadows chill. For she is going down the hill. The rosy days have long passed by, Yet joy is hers that cannot die ; Love is her speech — love is her will, Though she is going do^vn the hill. Oh, may the angels ever smile, And soft sweet sounds our souls beguile Into the valley dark and still — The end of ffoing down the hill.
