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I bring them from the past:

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,

From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tone heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb;

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love,
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train :

Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
Th' intensely bright, the beautiful, the dread—
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes,

These are my lightnings !—filled with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am th' Avenging One !--the armed, the strong,

The searcher of the soul !

I, that shower dewy light

Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest birth Of memory, thought, remorse :-be holy, Earth!

I am the solemn Night!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her firstborn, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed
Unto the temple service. By the hand

She led him; and her silent soul, the while,

Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was her's,

So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest :
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheeks' repose,
As at a red flower's heart; and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There, too, she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the fane was reached,

The earth's one sanctuary; and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to her's,-and, half in fear,

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung, even as ivy clings, the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song." Alas!" she cried,

"Alas! my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart,-

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How shall I hence depart?

How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, even as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

Under the palm-trees thou no more shall meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake!

"And thou, wilt slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child?—will He not hear thee
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

Therefore, farewell!-I go! my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my firstborn! droop not, nor bewail me,-
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shall dwell,

The Rock of Strength,-farewell!"

THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT.

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound!

And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower,
And a Christian host, in its pride and power,
Through the pass beneath him wound.

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!

"I knew 'twas a trumpet's note! And I see my brethren's lances gleam,

And their pennons wave, by the mountain stream, And their plumes to the glad wind float! Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!

"I am here, with my heavy chain! And I look on a torrent, sweeping by, And an eagle, rushing to the sky,

And a host, to its battle plain!

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!

"Must I pine in my fetters here?

With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight,

And the trumpet in mine ear?

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!

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They are gone! they have all pass'd by!
They in whose wars I had borne my part,
They that I loved with a brother's heart,
They have left me here to die!

Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past!"

THE TRUMPET.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land,

Light up the beacon-pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,

A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast;
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past!

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth!

The mother on her firstborn son
Looks with a boding eye ;-

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crowned,

The lover quits his bride!

And all this haste, and change, and fear,

By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

THE RETURN TO POETRY.

ONCE more the eternal melodies from far,
Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning
Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,
Above the poet's world serenely burning,-
Thither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turning,
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,
For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's unrest.
Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide
Through the bright land! that no brief gladness, found
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound,
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside :
Their true, high quest-to seek, if ne'er to gain,

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