POETRY.

AN INVOCATION. WHAT, cold and silent quite, Oh heart of mine, to-night ! Where is thine offering ?

Poet, the hour is late !

Hast thou no song to sing, No joy to celebrate P The long daylight has brought No guerdon then of Thought?

For shame, take up thy harp ! The listening ages wait.

Thou hast not proved in vain Love's ecstasy of pain, And yearnings infinite !

A universe is there Whose hidden deeps invite All such great souls as dare To traverse them; and thou, Returning thence but now, Owest a hymn to those dread Powers that deigned to spare.

Oh ! could I find a word For every thought that stirred Within me, I should wake The dead to hear my song !

I'd charm the world and make An end to every wrong !

The voices of the sea Would murmur back to me My music, and the hills would thunder it along !

But ah, my words are few !

False notes, that mock the true, Disgrace my royal theme And fill me with despair.

I view the Past, and seem To read the Future there, But when I snatch my lyre, The visions that inspire Fade with a subtle smile and turn to empty air.

But let use not complain, The splendour comes again, A right celestial show !

Glory that wildereth, Lights that no shadows throw.

Ah me! I pant for breath,

For now I meet the eyes,

Whose glances make men wise, .Of her whose kiss is Fame, whose frown a living Death.

C. J. W.