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A GUSH of waters!-faint, and sweet, and wild,
Like the far echo of the voice of years,--
The ancient nature, singing to her child
The self-same hymn that lull'd the infant spheres!
A spell of song not louder than a sigh,

Yet speaking like a trumpet to the heart,
And thoughts that lift themselves, triumphingly,
O'er time-where time has triumph'd over art,-
As wild-flowers climb its ruins,-haunt it still;
While, still, above the consecrated spot,
Lifts up its prophet voice the ancient rill,
And flings its oracles along the grot.
But, where is she, the lady of the stream,
And he whose worship was, and is-a dream?
Silent, yet full of voices!-desolate,

Yet fill'd with memories, like a broken heart! Oh! for a vision like to his who sate

With thee, and with the moon and stars, apart, By the cool fountain, many a livelong even,

That speaks, unheeded, to the desert, now, When vanish'd clouds had left the air all heaven, And all was silent, save the stream and thou, Egeria!-solemn thought upon his brows, For all his diadem; thy spirit-eyes

His only homage; and the flitting boughs

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And birds, alone, between him and the skies!
Each outward sense expanded to a soul,
And every feeling tuned into a truth;
And all the bosom's shatter'd strings made whole,
And all its worn-out powers retouch'd with youth,
Beneath thy spell, that chasten'd while it charm'd,
Thy words, that touch'd the spirit while they

Thy look, that utter'd wisdom while it warm'd,
And moulded fancy in the stamp of thought,
And breathed an atmosphere below, above,
Light to the soul, and to the senses love!
Beautiful dreams! that haunt the younger earth,
In poet's pencil or in minstrel's song,
Like sighs, or rainbows, dying in their birth,
Perceived a moment, and remember'd long!
But, no-bright visions !-fables of the heart!
Not to the past, alone, do ye belong;
Types for all ages,-wove when early art

To feeling gave a voice-to truth a tongue! Oh! what if gods have left the Grecian mount, And shrines are voiceless on the classic shore, And long Egeria by the gushing fount

Waits for her monarch-lover never more,

Who hath not his Egeria ?-some sweet thought,
Shrouded and shrined within his heart of hearts,
More closely cherish'd, and more fondly sought,
Still, as the daylight of the soul departs;
The vision'd lady of the spring, that wells
In the green valley of his brighter years,

Or gentle spirit that for ever dwells,

And sings of hope, beside the fount of tears.

In the heart's trance-the calenture of mind That haunts the soul-sick mariner of life, And paints the fields that he has left behind, Like green morganas, on the tempest's strife; In the dim hour when memory-whose song

Is still of buried hope-sings back the dead, And perish'd looks and forms-a phantom-throng,― With melancholy eyes and soundless tread, Like lost Eurydices, from graves, retrack

The long-deserted chambers of the brain, Until the yearning soul looks fondly back,

To clasp them, and they vanish, once again; At even,-when the fight of youth is done, And sorrow-like the "searchers of the slain,"Turns up the cold, dead faces, one by one,

Of prostrate joys and wishes,-but in vain! And finds that all is lost,-and walks around, Mid hopes that, each, has perish'd of its wound; Then, pale Egeria! to thy moon-lit cave The madden'd and the mourner may retire, To cool the spirit's fever in thy wave, And gather inspiration from thy lyre;

In solemn musings, when the world is still, To woo a love less fleeting to the breast,

Or lie and dream, beside the prophet-rill That resteth never, while it whispers rest; Like Numa, cast earth's cares and crowns aside, And commune with a spiritual bride!


THOU art not silent!-oracles are thine Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears, Lingering, mid ruin'd fane and broken shrine, O'er many a tale and trace of other years! Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears That wraps thy cradle-land-thine earthly love, Where hours of hope, mid centuries of fears, Have gleam'd, like lightnings through the gloom above, [Jove! Stands, roofless to the sky, thy home, Olympian

Thy column'd aisles with whispers of the past Are vocal,-and, along thine ivied walls, While Elian echoes murmur on the blast, And wild-flowers hang, like victor-coronals, In vain the turban'd tyrant rears his halls, And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters; Now, even now, the beam of promise falls Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters, And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters!

Thou art not silent! when the southern fair-Ionia's moon-looks down upon thy breast,

Smiling, as pity smiles above despair, Soft as young beauty soothing age to rest,— Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest, And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours Breathes-like some lone one, sighing to be blestHer lay, half hope, half sorrow, from the flowers, And hoots the prophet owl, amid his tangled bowers! And, round thine altar's mouldering stones are born Mysterious harpings,-wild as ever crept From him who waked Aurora, every morn, And sad as those he sung her, till she slept! A thousand and a thousand years have swept O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring, A wreck in youth! nor vainly hast thou kept Thy lyre: Olympia's soul is on the wing, And a new Iphitus has waked, beneath its string!


SLUMBER lie soft on thy beautiful eye! Spirits, whose smiles are-like thine-of the sky, Play thee to sleep, with their visionless strings, Brighter than thou, but because they have wings! Fair as a being of heavenly birth,

But loving and loved like a child of the earth! Why is that tear?-art thou gone, in thy dream, To the valley far-off, and the moon-lighted stream, Where the sighing of flowers and the nightingale's


Fling sweets on the wave, as it wanders along!-
Blest be the dream that restores them to thee,
But thou art the bird and the roses to me!
And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone,
And hear thy soft breathing, and know thee mine

And muse on the wishes that grew in that vale,
And the fancies we shaped from the river's low tale,
I blame not the fate which has taken the rest,
Since it left, to my bosom, its dearest and best!
Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye!
Love be a rainbow, to brighten thy sky!
Oh! not for sunshine and hope, would I part

With the shade time has flung over all-but thy


Still art thou all which thou wert, when a child Only more holy-and only less wild!


I LEAVE thee now, my spirit's love!

All bright in youth's unclouded light; With sunshine round, and hope above,

Thou scarce hast learnt to dream of night. Yet night will come !-thy bounding heart Must watch its idols melt away; And, oh! thy soul must learn to part

With much that made thy childhood gay! But should we meet in darker years,

When clouds have gather'd round thy brow, How far more precious in thy tears,

Than in thy glow of gladness, now !—

Then come to me,-thy wounded heart
Shall find it has a haven still,
One bosom-faithless as thou art,-

All-all thine own, mid good and ill!

Thou leavest me for the world! then go!
Thou art too young to feel it yet,
But time may teach thy heart to know
The worth of those who ne'er forget.

And, should that world look dark and cold, Then turn to him whose silent truth Will still love on, when worn and old,

The form it loved so well in youth!

Like that young bird that left its nest,

Lured, by the warm and sunny sky,
From flower to flower, but found no rest,
And sought its native vale to die ;-

Go! leave my soul to pine alone;
But, should the hopes that woo thee, wither,
Return, my own beloved one!

And let-oh, let us die together!


THE rose that deck'd thy cheek is dead,
The ruby from thy lip has fled,

Thy brow has lost its gladness;
And the pure smiles that used to play
So brightly there, have pass'd away

Before the touch of sadness!—
Yet sorrow's shadows o'er thy face
Have wander'd with a mellowing grace.

And grief has given to thine eye
A beauty, such as yonder sky
Receives, when daylight's splendour
Fades in the holy twilight hour,
Whose magic hangs on every flower

A bloom more pure and tender;
When angels walk the quiet even,
On messages of love from heaven!

Thy low sweet voice, in every word,
Breathes-like soft music far-off heard-
The soul of melancholy !
And oh! to listen to thy sigh!

The evening gale that wanders by

The rose is not so holy!

But none may know the thoughts that rest
In the deep silence of thy breast!

For oh! thou art, to mortal eyes,
Like some pure spirit of the skies,
Awhile to bless us given;
And sadly pining for the day,
To spread thy wings, and flee away,
Back to thy native heaven!
Thou wert beloved by all before,
But now, a thing that we adore!


AGAIN-again she comes!-methinks I hear
Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings;
My heart goes forth to meet her with a tear,
And welcome sends from all its broken strings.
It was not thus-not thus-we met of yore,
When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky
To greet her; and the joyous song she bore

Was scarce more tuneful than the glad reply:
The wings are fetter'd by the weight of years,
And grief has spoil'd the music with her tears.
She comes-I know her by her starry eyes,
I know her by the rainbow in her hair!
Her vesture of the light and summer skies-
But gone the girdle which she used to wear
Of summer roses, and the sandal flowers

That hung enamour'd round her fairy feet,
When, in her youth, she haunted earthly bowers,
And cull'd from all the beautiful and sweet.
No more she mocks me with her voice of mirth,
Nor offers now the garlands of the earth.

Come back, come back-thou hast been absent long,
Oh! welcome back the sybil of the soul,
Who came, and comes again, with pleading strong,
To offer to the heart her mystic scroll;
Though every year she wears a sadder look,

And sings a sadder song, and every year
Some further leaves are torn out from her book,
And fewer what she brings, and far more dear.
As once she came-oh, might she come again,
With all the perish'd volumes offer'd then.

But come-thy coming is a gladness yet—

Light from the present o'er the future cast, That makes the present bright-but oh-regret Is present sorrow while it mourns the past; And memory speaks, as speaks the curfew bell, To tell the daylight of the heart is gone. Come, like the seer of old, and with thy spell, Put back the shadow of that setting sun On my soul's dial; and with new-born light Hush the wild tolling of the voice of night. Bright spirit, come-the mystic roll is thine, That shows the hidden fountains of the breast, And turns, with point unerring, to divine

The places where its buried treasures rest
Its hoards of thought and feeling; at that spell,
Methinks I feel its long-lost wealth reveal'd,
And ancient springs within my bosom swell
That grief had check'd, and ruin had conceal'd,
And sweetly swelling where its waters stray,
The tints and freshness of its earlier day.

She comes-she comes-her voice is in mine ear,
Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings for ever,
Whose strains of song sweet thoughts awake to hear,
Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river;
(Flowers, like lovers, only speak in sighs, [hearts,)
Whose thoughts are hues, whose voices are their
Oh-thus the spirit yearns to pierce the skies,

Exulting throbs, though all save hope departs:
Thus the glad freshness of our sinless years
Is water'd ever by the heart's rich tears.

She comes-I know her by her radiant eyes, Before whose smile the long dim cloud departs; And if a darker shade be on her brow,

And if her tones be sadder than of yore, And if she sings more solemn music now, And bears another harp than erst she bore, And if around her form no longer glow

The earthly flowers that in her youth she woreThat look is loftier, and that song more sweet, And heaven's flowers-the stars-are at her feet.


How beautiful a world were ours,

But for the pale and shadowy One That treadeth on its pleasant flowers, And stalketh in its sun!

Glad childhood needs the lore of time

To show the phantom overhead; But where the breast, before its prime, That carrieth not its dead

The moon that looketh on whose home In all its circuit sees no tomb?

It was an ancient tyrant's thought,

To link the living with the dead; Some secret of his soul had taught

That lesson dark and dread; And, oh! we bear about us still

The dreary moral of his art-
Some form that lieth, pale and chill,
Upon each living heart,

Tied to the memory, till a wave
Shall lay them in one common grave!

To boyhood hope-to manhood fears!
Alas! alas! that each bright home
Should be a nursing-place of tears,
A cradle for the tomb!

If childhood seeth all things loved

Where home's unshadowy shadows wave,
The old man's treasure hath removed-
He looketh to the grave!-
For grave and home lie sadly blent,
Wherever spreads yon firmament.

A few short years-and then, the boy
Shall miss, beside the household hearth,
Some treasure from his store of joy,
To find it not on earth;

A shade within its sadden'd walls

Shall sit, in some beloved's room,
And one dear name, he vainly calls,
Be written on a tomb-
And he have learnt, from all beneath,
His first, dread, bitter taste of death!

And years glide on, till manhood's come;

And where the young, glad faces were, Perchance the once bright, happy home Hath many a vacant chair:

A darkness, from the churchyard shed,
Hath fall'n on each familiar room,

And much of all home's light hath fled
To smoulder in the tomb-
And household gifts that memory saves
But help to count the household graves.
Then, homes and graves the heart divide,
As they divide the outer world;
But drearier days must yet betide,

Ere sorrow's wings be furl'd;
When more within the churchyard lie
Than sit and sadly smile at home.
Till home, unto the old man's eye,

Itself appears a tomb;

And his tired spirit asks the grave
For all the home it longs to have!
It shall be so-it shall be so!

Go bravely trusting-trusting on;
Bear up a few short years—and, lo!
The grave and home are one!-
And then, the bright ones gone before
Within another, happier home,
And waiting, fonder than before,

Until the old man come

A home where but the life-trees wave;
Like childhood's-it hath not a grave!


FOR ever gone! the world is growing old!

Gone the bright visions of its untaught youth! The age of fancy was the age of gold,

And sorrow holds the lamp that lights to truth! And wisdom writes her records on a page

Whence many a pleasant tale is swept away— The wild, sweet fables of the dreaming age,

The gorgeous stories of the classic day. The world is roused from glad and glowing dreams, Though roused by light awaking still is pain, And oh could men renew their broken themes,

Then, would the world at times might sleep again. Oh for the plains-the bright and haunted plains— Where genius wander'd, when the earth was new, Led by the sound of more than mortal strains,

And gathering flowers of many a vanish'd hue! The deathless forms that on the lonely hill

Came sweetly gliding to the lonely breast, Or spoke, in spirit whispers, from the rill

That lull'd the watcher to his mystic rest! The shapes that met his steps by green and glade, Or glanced through mid-air, on their gleaming wings; [play'd; That hover'd where the young, wild fountains And hung in rainbows o'er the dancing springs, Or drew aside the curtains of the sky, And show'd their starry mansions to his eye! Oh! the bright tracks by truth from error won! The price we pay for knowledge, and in vain! For half the beauty of the world is gone,

Since science built o'er fancy's wild domain! A dream of beauty! such as came, of old, To him who came and watch'd the hosts of light, As one by one their fiery chariots roll'd,

In golden pomp along the vaults of night,

Till another, and another deep

Sent forth a spirit to the shining train, Their myriad motion rock'd his heart to sleep,

But left bright pictures in the haunted brain, Where forms grew up, and took the starry eyes That gleamed upon him from the crowded skies! A dream like his to whom the boon was given To read the story of the stars, at will, And, by the lights they held for him in heaven, Talk with their lady on the Latmos hill! A vision of the stars! the moon, to-nightHer antler'd coursers by the nymph-train driven, Rides in the chariot of her own sweet light,

To hunt the shadows through the fields of heaven! And oh the hunting-grounds of yonder sky, Whose streams are rainbows, and whose flowers are stars!

The shapes of light that, as they wander by,

Do spirit homage from their golden cars! The meteor troop that, as she passes, play

Their fiery gambols in their lady's sight; And planet-forms that, on her crowded way, Throw silver incense from their urns of light! Lo! Perseus, from his everlasting height,

Looks out to see the huntress and her train; And Love's own planet, in the pale, soft light, Looks young, as when she rose from out the main! And, plying all the night, his starry wings,

Up to her throne, the herald of the sky From many an earthly home and hill-top, brings The mortal offering of a young heart's sigh! And round her chariot sail immortal forms,

Or darkly hang about its shining rim; And, far away, the scared and hunted storms Leap from their presence, to their caverns dim! On-onward, at her own wild fancy led,

Along the cloud-land paths she holds her flight, Where rears the battle-star his crested head,

And bears his burning falchion through the night! Where, hand in hand, the brothers of the sky

Sit, like twin angels, or pure heavenward sleep; | While far below, with urns that never dry,

The mourning Hyads hang their heads and weep! Where brightly dwell in all their early smiles,

Ere one was lost-the sweet and sister seven, Like blessed spirits, pausing from their toils,

Or some fair family at rest, in heaven. Where, swifter than her steeds, that never tireSome comet-shape-those couriers of the skyIn breathless haste, upon his barb of fire,

On some immortal message, rushes by! O'er the dim heights where, encircled by his train, And wearing on his brow his sparkling crown, The planet-monarch holds his ancient reign;

And, from his palace of the clouds, looks down, With stately presence and a smiling eye On his bright people of the boundless sky! Mid northern lights, like fiery flags unfurl'd, And soft, sweet gales that never reach the world; Mid flaming signs, that perish in their birth, And ancient orb, that have no name on earth; Hail'd by the songs of everlasting choirs, And welcomed from a thousand burning lyres! Oh! for the ancient dreamer's prophet eye, To see the hunting grounds of yonder sky;


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MORN on the waters!-and, purple and bright, Bursts on the billows the flushing of light! O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, See the tall vessel goes gallantly on; Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, [gale! And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the The winds come around her, in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along! Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds, And the sailor sings gayly, aloft in the shrouds! Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, Over the waters-away, and away! Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, Passing away, like a dream of the heart!Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her, and sunshine on high,Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, Oh! there be hearts that are breaking, below! Night on the waves!-and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherish'd home on some desolate plain! Who-as she smiles in the silvery light, Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, Alone on the deep,-as the moon in the sky,A phantom of beauty!—could deem, with a sigh, That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within ! Who-as he watches her silently gliding,Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts that are parted and broken for ever! Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave! "Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song! Gayly we glide, in the glaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd; All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs!— Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on-just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and o'er !


I AM all alone! and the visions that play
Round life's young days, have pass'd away;
And the songs are hush'd that gladness sings;
And the hopes that I cherish'd have made them

And the light of my heart is dimm'd and gone,
And I sit in my sorrow,-and all alone!
And the forms which I fondly loved are flown,
And friends have departed-one by one;
And memory sits, whole lonely hours,
And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers,
And weeps o'er the chaplet, when no one is near
To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear!

And the home of my childhood is distant far,
And I walk in a land where strangers are; [hear
And the looks that I meet and the sounds that I
Are not light to my spirit, nor song to my ear;
And sunshine is round me, which I cannot see,
And eyes that beam kindness, but not for me!
And the song goes round, and the glowing smile,
But I am desolate all the while!


And faces are bright and bosoms glad,
And nothing, I think, but my heart, is said!
And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom,
While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom!
I wander about, like a shadow of pain,
With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my
And I list, with a start, to the gushing of gladness,-
Oh! how it grates on a bosom all sadness!-
So, I turn from a world where I never was known,
To sit in my sorrow, and all alone!


THE eye must be dark that so long has been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine;

But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,
In many a token and sign:

I need but look up with a vow to the sky,
And a light like thy beauty is there;
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
I am wrapp'd in the mantle of care,
Yet the grief of my bosom-oh, call it not gloom!-
Is not the dark grief of despair.
By sorrow reveal'd, as the stars are by night,
Far off a bright vision appears;

A hope-like the rainbow-a being of light,
Is born, like the rainbow, in tears.

I know thou art gone to the home of thy rest;
Then why should my soul be so sad?

I know thou art gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad ;-
Where love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stain it had gather'd in this,

And hope, the sweet singer that gladden'd the earth, Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss.

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