THE PRIZE POEM.

Evening Star, Volume VIII, Issue 2084, 10 January 1870, Page 2

THE PRIZE POEM.

THE HEART’S FIRST LESSONS. (Continued.) Part I. THE ORE. l. Hither love, dear love ! come stay with mo And talk thy sweetest nonsense Tell mo whither hast thou been Wandering so far, . All the wide world over ? Tell me all that thou hast done, Tell me what things thou hast seen,, Wandering so far, ' All the wide World over. Tell me— is thy name as here All the wide world over, Cruelty! cruelty! All the wide world over ? Tell me, tell me, dearest love, As I love thee, tell me. 11. Ah love is dead ! he answers not. He has no ear, he has no eye, He will not hear,- he will not see ! Ah deaf ! all dumb Ah dead dead love ! nr, Nay ! love, immortal love ! doth live. Love’s eye sees all things everywhere, Love’s ear doth catch faint whisperings, And where the lip’s so eloquent As love’s ? IV. Love is no spirit of the air,_ No voiceless -wandering" sprite; Love is no boy with golden bow And golden hair and golden smile, Mischief loving, mischief making : Love is no child of Beauty's Queen, Wandering ever by her side ; These are but fond imaginings, For love is part of our humanity Its greatest holiest part. And I must look within for love, Search my own heart and find him there, v. Pour out thyself oh heart, Pour out thyself my heart in song, So shall my song be love. I. What is love ? Canst say my he irt Tell me first what ’tis thou art, Or if love is part of thee Say what is’t the rest can be? Show thyself to me my heart, Tell me," tell me, what thou art. ir. Heart, lonely heart, this quiet cell Suits it not thy nature well ? Lov’st thou not alone to dwell With the gifts fair knowledge brings, Feasting on her dainty things, Drinking only from the fount’ That bubbles by the Phooian mount ? Quiet heart, what canst thou know Of love with all its pain and woe ? m. Heart, vain heart, ambition's child, Full of hopes and fancies wild, If for thee Fame’s coronet Glittering fair, with baubles set Be held forth, what thought of love Shall o’er thee its mastery prove ? Spurning holier things away What “ hope of love ” shall make thee stsy When thy “ hope of fame ” hath caught One view at last of the goal it sought ? I'". Heart — hard heart — wrapped up in self In life’s endeavours —earthly pelf. Eyes gloating as thy coffers fill. Worshipper of Mammon still, Oh ! can love find aught in thee That for him bears sympathy? Thy slow pulses are too cold Thou would’st sell poor love for gold, Of his simpleness make gain, Laugh to hear how love was slain. If thy coffers did but fill, Oh ! worshipper of Mammon still* (To he continued.)