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I come with every star:
Making thy streams, that on their noonday track
I come with peace; I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay
The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent?-I have many tones:
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake
I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make the 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-
I come with all my train:
Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
Looks from departed eyes,
These are thy lightnings !-filled with anguish vain,
They smite with agonies.
I, that with soft control
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
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,
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
So passed they on,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
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 hers,-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,
And silver cords again to earth have won me,
"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,
"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,
"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, dovelike murmurs greet me,
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
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
"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,
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,—
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,
Through the pass beneath him wound.
Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!