Phenix Gazette

[From the New England Magazine for Sept.]

ON A BROKEN VASE.

Chink!-Chink!-so there thou art
Broken upon the sidewalk, crystal Vase!
In brilliant fragments. 'Tis a pity, sure,
That aught so beautiful, were slightly held
Thus at the open casement,--and I fain
With woman's prying augury, would divine
Thy history.

Wert thou a lover's gift!
Or parting present to some fair, young bride,
Who 'mid her wedding-costume, nicely packed
Thee in soft cotton 'gainst the jarring wheel?
And when exalted in her new abode
On parlor mantel gemmed with breathing flowers,
Fixed not her eye in reverie on thy form,
While thought roved fondly to her father's house,
And her young, fair-haired sisters?

But what hand
Of careless servant or of petted child,
Or luckless friend, such mournful ruin wrought?
Methinks I see their brow with sadness pale
As measuring thy value with their purse,
They shrink from restitution.

'Tis in vain!
Ye may not join these fragments, or cement
Their rugged chasms.

But yet there's many a crush
Of costlier things, for which the hand of earth
Can boast no medication. He, who hangs
His all of happiness on Beauty's smile,
And in that strong illusion treads o'er thorns
Unconsciously, and climbs the rocky steep
Impervious to fatigue, hath sometimes seen
The dying dolphin's brightness at his feet,
And found it was the bubble of his hope,
Disparting like the rainbow..

He, who runs
Ambition's race, and on his compeers treads
With fevered eagerness to grasp the goal,
May find the gilded prize, like waxen toy,
Melt in the passion-struggle.

He, who toils
Each lonely midnight o'er his waning lamp,
And on the anvil beats the gold of thought,
Till his brains dazzle, and his eyes turn dim,
Then spreads it with a flush of proud delight
To the cold-bosomed public,--oft perceives
Each to his farm and merchandise speed on,
Regardless of his wisdom,--or doth hear
The giant hammer of harsh criticism
Grinding his ore to powder,--finer far
Than the strewn sand of Congo's yellow stream.

-Yea,--'mid time's passing pilgrims, many
one
Of some long-sought possession newly proud,
Doth like the Patriarch vainly joy to find
His seven years toil for Rachael blest at last,-
But when the hour of keen inquiry comes
"Behold.--'t is Leah."

So.--farewell, poor Vase!
I thank thee for this lesson from thy dust,
So meekly warning the fond heart to seek
Some bliss that may not break,--some treasure
—hoard,
Above the wrecking ministry of earth. L. H. S.