IN ANSWER TO STANZAS CONTAINING SEVERAL PASSAGES OF DISTINGUISHED BEAUTY, ADDRESSED TO ME BY——.

As by the wayside the worn traveller lies,
And finds no pillow for his aching brow,
Except the pack beneath whose weight he dies,—
If loving breezes from the far west blow,
Laden with perfume from those blissful bowers
Where gentle youth and hope once gilded all his hours,
As fans that loving breeze, tears spring again,
And cool the fever of his wearied brain.
Even so to me the soft romantic dream
Of one who still may sit at fancy's feet,
Where love and beauty yet are all the theme,
Where spheral concords find an echo meet.
To the ideal my vexed spirit turns,
But often for communion vainly burns.
Blest is that hour when breeze of poesy
From far the ancient fragrance wafts to me;
This time thrice blest, because it came unsought,
"Sweet suppliance," and dear, because unbought.