 | The forest minstrel |  |
FAME.
Imperial Goddess of the air,
Enthroned in intellectual light,
Thy signet kings are proud to wear,
And Virtue deems it bright.
Enthroned in intellectual light,
Thy signet kings are proud to wear,
And Virtue deems it bright.
But Genius worships at thy feet,
With burning heart upraised to thee,
While on its coals, like incense sweet,
His life consumes away.
With burning heart upraised to thee,
While on its coals, like incense sweet,
His life consumes away.
He feels the dying embers glow
Without one pang of fond regret,—
Content if on his death-white brow
Thy signet may be set.
Without one pang of fond regret,—
Content if on his death-white brow
Thy signet may be set.
More precious than the purest gem
From ocean cave, or mountain mine,
More glorious than the diadem,
Is that bright seal of thine.
From ocean cave, or mountain mine,
More glorious than the diadem,
Is that bright seal of thine.
207
No power of darkness can conceal,
No flood can quench its living ray:
Its lustre is the earthly seal
Of immortality.
No flood can quench its living ray:
Its lustre is the earthly seal
Of immortality.
Once uttered by thy voice divine,
A name must live for evermore—
An anthem of the sea of Time,
Along the sounding shore.
A name must live for evermore—
An anthem of the sea of Time,
Along the sounding shore.
But why should Woman kneel to thee,
And ask the gift that men adore?
Why should she wish to have her name
Remembered evermore?
And ask the gift that men adore?
Why should she wish to have her name
Remembered evermore?
The meekness of a holy love
Should shed its radiance on her brow,
With Piety, a gem above
Thy meteoric glow.
Should shed its radiance on her brow,
With Piety, a gem above
Thy meteoric glow.
One loving heart alone should bear
The living impress of her name,
And children, trained with tender care,
Should be her all of Fame.
The living impress of her name,
And children, trained with tender care,
Should be her all of Fame.
The heart is sick; it hath no rest,
Where Woman's sacred rest should be,
If in its yearnings to be blest
It wildly follows thee.
Where Woman's sacred rest should be,
If in its yearnings to be blest
It wildly follows thee.
But oh! to Woman's soul thou art
A mirage on life's desert sand,
Luring the weary, burning heart
As to a heavenly land.
A mirage on life's desert sand,
Luring the weary, burning heart
As to a heavenly land.
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But when she thinks to wear thy flowers,
To rest beside thy fountain fair,
And banquet in thy vocal bowers—
The hot dry sand is there.
To rest beside thy fountain fair,
And banquet in thy vocal bowers—
The hot dry sand is there.
| The forest minstrel | |