omb
Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne'er so brave.

Complain not of thy life!--for what art thou
More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not weep?
Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow,
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.

Marvel not at thy life!--patience shall see
The perfect work of wisdom to her given;
Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

TO ---

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers
All the sad night, when he is far away?
What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,
Till back again he leads the smiling day?

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,
And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,
In his great glory he goes through the sky,
And recks not of the blessing from the sod.

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!
That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?
That thy departing, leaves me desolate,
That thy returning, brings back life to me?

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,
That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;
I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,
That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.

I blame not thee, that I may ne'er impart
The tempest, and the death, and the despair,
That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart,
And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.

Oh! I have found my sin's sharp scourge in thee,
For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven;
Therefore, oh, thou beloved! I blame not thee,
But by my anguish hope to be forgiven.

TO ---

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,
The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,
Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:
How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,
Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away
Light, life, and motion, and along its way
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,--
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest
Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,
The swollen waters once again gush forth,
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.

EPISTLE FROM THE RHINE.
To Y---, with a bowl of Bohemian glass.

From rocky hills, where climbs the vine;
Where on his waves the wandering Rhine
Sees imaged ruins, towns and towers,
Bare mountain scalps, green forest bowers;
From tha