The Minnesota Pioneer

POETRY.

From the New York Tribune.

The Dream of Wealth.

This hour is sadness. -On the palsied heart
How fearful is that solemn word. farewell!
I will not shrink. yet in the crowded mart
Of the affections strange emotions-swell;
Thoughts undefinables ring like a knell
Upon each wayward fancy. I would fain
Fathom the voiceless Future to itself,
And learn how much of darkness, dread and pain,
Lie hidden far from view, on life's tempestuous
main.

'Twas but an hour ago-Contentment smiled-
When that strange tale of boundless wealth
was told;
The quick pulse throbbed, the hot blood bounded
wild
Through the tense arteries of this sentient mould,
As touched by fire of weird enchantments old.
Why pall those aspirations? Why have fled
Those magic dreams of greatness, and of gold?
Chill on the heart a sudden blight hath spread,
And Hope's unspringing flowers lie withered, cold
and dead!

Thou too, perchance, hast dwelt in Fancy's beams,
And thou hast felt thine eager hopes expand;
Through the dim vista of thy waking dreams
Thine eye hath caught, afar, some promised
land,
Where Wealth shall crown the labors of thy
hand;
And thou hast toiled-not for thyself alone,
But for thy household shrines--the little band
That oft hath cheered thee with its siren tone,
Whose hopes and anxious fears thou madest all
thine own.

And thou hast felt, like me, the bitter pang
That crowned the severing of heart from heart;
Dull on thy spirit's chords the sentence rang,
Like the beleaguering voice of Death-we part!
Didst thou repress the tear that fain would start?
Didst thou innerve thyself with stoic might,
To shield thy spirit from the poisoned dart
Of subtle agony, that still would smite
Like a devouring pestilence, to blast and blight?

The anguish hath been great, the struggle long,
But it is past--the parting pang is o'er ;
My heart shall be retaught-I will be strong,
And drink anew from Hope's exhaustless store,
Hark to the voice of Ocean's ceaseless roar!
The swelling canvass sweeps the dusky main,
The sullen waters lash yon distant shore,
Where rock, and tree, and tower, like shadows,
wane:
I will be strong!-but say-shall we e'er meet
again?

At Sea, Feb. 20, 1849.