Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/417

SULLIYAN DWIGHT HARRIS. Sullivan D. Harris is a native of Vermont, born at Middlebury in 1812. Living upon a farm he early cherished a love of rural seclusion, and while onlv a lad was ac- cepted as a contributor of verses for the village newspapers. He was married at twenty years of age, and removed to Ohio in 1836. where he was variously occupied as farmer, painter and teacher, in the counties of Ashtabula and Trumbull, until 1851, when he was engaged as associate editor of the Ohio Gultivator, of which publication he became proprietor in 1855, and has since devoted himself entirely to the duties of that office. With Mr. Harris, poetry was an early and cherished passion, but the writing of verse was only a casual amusement, which he reckons among his juvenile indiscretions, and has abandoned for the more pressing duties of practical literature, only to be indulged in at the solicitation of personal friends whom he is too good-na- tured to refuse. For this cause most of his riper productions, in this line, ai-e too strictly personal and occasional for general publication. THE HEART'S CHALLENGE. Thou dost not love me ! How hke an adder's fold about my heart, Icing its warm pulsations, as it beats The lonely marches of my hermit soul ! How like a coil of very misery It smothers down the scarcely issuing breath, When it would syllable that treasured name. I may not chide thee, For thy eagle spirit hath a loftier aim. Than to be fettered with the loves of earth — Poor loves, that cannot recompense the rich And holy treasures of a heart like thine. I may not chide thee, for thy minstrelsy Hath charmed a listening nation's ear : and why Shouldst heed the praise of one poor lip like mine ? As soon mightst cull the mallow at thy foot. While regal rose-ti'ees proffer peerless blooms. But say, proud Empress ! Canst thou e'er forget what time thine other self — Thy woman-soul, didst thrill in heart com- munings. Such as did savor less of earth than heaven ? I know thou wilt not forget the hours, Wherein, with low-voiced breath, we ranged at will. Amid the mazes of a world unseen, And felt the flittings of the angels' wings, As plucking from our lips the embryo thoughts, They bore them off like dewy olive-leaves. To garner with the fi-uits of Hope and Peace. (401) 26