Volume 2 — From The St. James Magazine. PROPERZIA ROSSI.

Too late—oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain To lull the fever'd agonies of pain. I am no more the artist idly proud, But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud. No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay O'er taste and feeling held unrivalled sway; But a weak woman, desolate and worn, Her pulses throbbing, and her heart-strings torn, Looking above—sad, humbled, and alone— Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne— Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light From the meek Man of sorrows and of might, Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save, Died on the cross, and triumphed o'er the grave! What though the light of genius fired mine eye, That radiant meteor leaves us when we die, And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven Were of misused. I thirst to be forgiven. Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff'd. And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught! Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace, I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face; Implore for pardon with intense distress, And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness! Oh, what avails it that aerial forms. And colors vivid as the bow of storms. Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell? Say, have I used these varied talents well? Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould Beautiful models from the marble cold? Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again?— Recall'd a virtuous feeling to the heart, And by religion consecrated art? Have the fair features and bright hues I wove' In one dark breast illumed the spark of love? Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys To pure devotion's memorable joys? Oh, have the gifts of music and of song Soothed one sad being of the human throng?— Angelic thoughts—submissive, hopeful, kind— Breathed o'er a mournful or a shattered mind? And has my genius, with a potent sway, Gilded the road to heaven—that straight and narrow way?

God has been very bounteous; he has given Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven. The threefold cords [Footnote 37] of talismanic power Were meant to yield employment for the hour— Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain— Brief as the April drops of sunny rain; And yet by mercy recompensed above, If well improved in hope, and faith, and love. But conscience whispers, and in these dark days That voice grows louder as my strength decays,— Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime, And of a judgment awfully sublime! Of duties unfulfill'd, of gifts misspent. Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!

I muse no longer on the present—no— My life is with the future or the past, And both are mingling in a magic flow, Like turbid waters in a fountain cast. The past—-oh, whether fair, or dark, or both, Is but a picture mirror'd on the wave. The moral sicknesses—guile, anger, sloth— Arise as spectres from a yawning grave; What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek. That penury and pain obscured my way? Sorrow is voiceless; 'tis remorse that speaks In awful tones of merited decay, And of the worm that dieth not—the vale Of never-ending, still-beginning death. Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail, The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath. Guilt unatoned for—thoughts and words of sin— How do they rise up, burning as on glass! The evil pent the wishful heart within Asking for vengeance! O the hideous mass Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long conceal'd! But now as by a lightning flash reveal'd. Woe! woe! the Eternal Judge's fiery dart Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within, Where underneath the pulses of my heart Dwells the mysterious form of crouching sin. Thoughts, baneful wishes,—ay, as well as deeds, Against me in strong phalanx are array'd. In vain these tears—in vain this bosom bleeds: I look upon myself, and am dismay'd, Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,— And hear the words, "Lost sinner, thou must die!" Clouds roll around me, and from an abyss, Drear, dark, profound, behold a hideous form! Closer and closer serpents coiling hiss, And thunders boom along a sky of storm.

There is no deed to offer thee of good, Thou mocking fiend! laugh on without restraint! I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood, Too meteorically wild to paint. The couch heaves under me, my sight is gone,— I am with the accuser, and alone! Alone! alone! O tell me not 'tis so. That I must grapple powerless with the foe. Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise! arise! Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies. It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood, For guilty mortals, not for angels' good. Listen! attend! a sinner asks for aid,— For me that blood was spilt, for me thou wast betrayed. As when a night of storms has sped away. And robed in florid hues appears the day, Stealingly, gently lighting up the skies With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes, Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm, O'er my deep wounds is poured a healing balm. Methinks the mild Redeemer stands above, And pleads his righteousness, his cross, his love; While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven Proclaim, "Thy Savior calls! thou art forgiven!"