The lip, all eloquent, is stilled
    And silent with its trust,—­
  The heart, with Woman’s greatness filled,
    Must crumble to the dust: 

  But from thy great heart we will take
    New courage for the strife;
  From petty ills our bondage break,
    And labor with new life.

  Wake up, in darkness though it be,
    To better truth and light;
  Patient in toil, as we saw thee,
    In searching for the light;

  And mindless of the scorn it brings,
    For ’t is in desert land
  That angels come with sheltering wings
    To lead us by the hand.

  Courageous one! thou art not lost,
    Though sleeping in the wave;
  Upon its chainless billows tost,
    For thee is fitting grave.

* * * * *

SLEEP SWEETLY, GENTLE CHILD.[A]

[The only child of the Marchioness Ossoli, well known as Margaret Fuller, is buried in the Valley Cemetery, at Manchester, N.H.  There is always a vase of flowers placed near the grave, and a marble slab, with a cross and lily sculptured upon it, bears this inscription:  “In Memory of Angelo Eugene Philip Ossoli, who was born at Rieti, in Italy, 5th September, 1848, and perished by shipwreck off Fire Island, with both his parents, Giovanni Angelo and Margaret Fuller Ossoli, on the 19th of July, 1850.”]

  Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though to this sleep
    The cold winds rocked thee, on the ocean’s breast,
  And strange, wild murmurs o’er the dark, blue deep
    Were the last sounds that lulled thee to thy rest,
  And while the moaning waves above thee rolled,
  The hearts that loved thee best grew still and cold.

  Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though the loved tone
    That twice twelve months had hushed thee to repose
  Could give no answer to the tearful moan
    That faintly from thy sea-moss pillow rose. 
  That night the arms that closely folded thee
  Were the wet weeds that floated in the sea.

  Sleep sweetly, gentle child! the cold, blue wave
    Hath pitied the sad sighs the wild winds bore,
  And from the wreck it held one treasure gave
    To the fond watchers weeping on the shore;—­
  Now the sweet vale shall guard its precious trust,
  While mourning hearts weep o’er thy silent dust.

  Sleep sweetly, gentle child! love’s tears are shed
    Upon the garlands of fair Northern flowers
  That fond hearts strew above thy lowly bed,
    Through all our summer’s glad and pleasant hours: 
  For thy sake, and for hers who sleeps beneath the wave,
  Kind hands bring flowers to fade upon thy grave.

  Sleep sweetly, gentle child! the warm wind sighs
    Amid the dark pines through this quiet dell,
  And waves the light flower-shade that lies
    Upon the white-leaved lily’s sculptured bell;—­
  The “Valley’s” flowers are fair, the turf is green;—­
  Sleep sweetly here, wept-for Eugene!