Volume 26 — TERESA DI FAENZA.

I. If he should wed a woman like a flower, Fresh as the dew and royal as a rose, Veined with spring-fire, mesmeric in repose, His world-vext brain to lull with mystic power, Great-souled to track his flight through heavens starred, Upborne by wings of trust and love, yet meek As one who has no self-set goal to seek, His inspiration and his best reward, At once his Art's deep secret and clear crown, His every-day made dream, his dream fulfilled,— If such a wife he wooed to be his own, God knows 'twere well. Even I no less had willed. Yet, O my heart! wouldst thou for his dear sake Frankly rejoice, or with self-pity break? II. What could I bring in dower? A restless heart, As eager, ardent, hungry, as his own, Face burned pale olive by our Southern sun, A mind long used to musings grave apart. Gold, noble name or fame I ne'er regret, Albeit all are lacking; but the glow Of spring-like beauty, but the overflow Of simple, youthful joy. And yet—and yet— A proud voice whispers: Vain may be his quest, What fruit soe'er he pluck, what laurels green, Through all the world, for just this prize unseen I in my deep heart harbor quite unguessed: I alone know what full hands I should bring Were I to lay my wealth before my king. Emma Lazarus.