XI.
No:-the venom-dipped arrows of doom
Cannot pierce to thy heart through the tomb;
And, though bitter, 'tis balm to my breast
To know, thou'rt for ever at rest!
XII.
No:-the clouds that burst over me now
Cannot ruffle thy beautiful brow ;-
In its sorrows my soul may repine;-
They can wake no wild echoes in thine!
Let the storms of adversity lour!
So that thou hast escaped from their power, They may pour forth their wrath on my head!They can break not the sleep of the dead.
XIV.
And the poison of Envy and Malice,
May still further embitter Life's chalice;
But the cup, with a smile, shall be quaffed,
Since thou liv'st not to share in the draught!
Methinks it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world like this,
Where even the breezes and the common air
Contain the power and spirit of harmony.
HARP of the winds! What music may compare
With thy wild gush of melody!Or where,
'Mid this world's discords, may we hope to meet
Tones like to thine-so soothing and so sweet!
Harp of the winds! When Summer's Zephyr wings Its airy flight across thy tremulous strings,
As if enamoured of its breath, they move
With soft low murmurs,-like the voice of Love
Ere passion deepens it, or sorrow mars
Its harmony with sighs!-All earthborn jars
Confess thy soothing power, when strains like these, From thy bliss-breathing chords, are borne upon the breeze!
But when a more pervading force compels
Their sweetness into strength,—and swiftly swells
Each tenderer tone to fulness,-what a strange
And spirit-stirring sense that fitful change
Wakes in my heart-visions of days long past,-
Hope-joy-pride-pain-and passion-with the blast,
Come rushing on my soul,-till I believe
Some strong enchantment, purposed to deceive,
Hath fixed its spell upon me, and I grieve
I may not burst its bonds!--Anon, the gale
Softly subsides,—and whisperings wild prevail,
Of inarticulate melody, which seem
Not music, but its shadow;-what a dream
Is to reality;-or as the swell
(Those who have felt alone have power to tell)
Of the full heart, where love was late a guest,
Ere it recovers from its sweet unrest!
The charm is o'er !-Each warring thought flits by!-
Quelled by that more than mortal minstrelsy,
Each turbulent feeling owns its sweet controul,
And peace, once more, returns, and settles on my soul ↑
Harp of the winds! Thy ever tuneful chords,
In language far more eloquent than words
Of earth's best skilled philosophers, do teach
A deep and heavenly lesson! Could it reach,
With its impressive truths, the heart of man,
Then were he blessed indeed; and he might scan
His coming miseries with delight! The storm
Of keen adversity would then deform
No more the calm stream of his thoughts, nor bring
Its wonted' grisly train;' but, rather wring
Sweetness from out his grief,-till even the string
On which his sorrows hung, should make reply,
However rudely swept, in tones of melody!
TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM POWER WATTS.
Sweet flower! with flowers I strew thy narrow bed!
Sweets to the sweet!
Farewell!
A CLOUD is on my
The tears are in my eyes,―
And wishes fond,-all idle now,
Are stifled into sighs ;
ww
As musing on thine early doom,
Thou bud of beauty, snatched to bloom,
So soon, 'neath milder skies!
I turn-thy painful struggle past-
From what thou art, to what thou wast!
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