The

poesy that dwells

Deep in the green woods and dells,

Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.

Yet not for this, O Death!

Not for the vernal breath

Of winds that shake forth music from the trees;
Not for the splendor given

To night's dark regal heaven,

Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.

But for the happy love

Whose light, where'er I rove, Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, Shedding on branch and flower

A rainbow-tinted shower

Of richer life-spare, spare me yet awhile.

Too soon, too fast thou'rt come!

Too beautiful is home,

A home of gentle voices and kind eyes!
And I the loved of all,

On whom fond blessings fall

From every lip-oh! wilt thou rend such ties?

Sweet sisters! weave a chain

My spirit to detain;

Hold me to earth with strong affection back:

Bind me with mighty love

Unto the stream, the grove,

Our daily paths-our life's familiar track.

Stay with me! gird me round!
Your voices bear a sound

Of hope-a light comes with you and departs;
Hush, my soul's hoding swell,

That murmurs of farewell;

How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts?

Death! grave!-and are there those
That woo your dark repose

'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth.

Surely about them lies

No world of loving eyes

Leave me, oh! leave me unto home and hearth!

THE WELCOME TO DEATH.

THOU art welcome, O thou warning voice!
My soul hath pined for thee;

Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore
To wanderer on the sea.

THE VICTOR.

I hear thee in the rustling woods,
In the sighing vernal airs;

Thou call'st me from the lonely earth,
With a deeper tone than theirs.

The lonely earth! Since kindred steps
From its green paths are fled,

A dimness and a hush have lain
O'er all its beauty spread.

The silence of the unanswering soul
Is on me and around;

My heart hath echoes but for thee,
Thou still, small, warning sound!

Voice after voice hath died away,
Once in my dwelling heard ;

Sweet household-name by name hath changed
To grief's forbidden word!
From dreams of night on each I call,

Each of the far removed;
And waken to my own wild cry-

Where are ye, my beloved!"

Ye left me! and earth's flowers were dim
With records of the past:

And stars pour'd down another light
Than o'er my youth they cast:

Birds will not sing as once they sung,
When ye were at my side,

And mournful tones are in the wind,
Which I heard not till ye died!

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner!
Why should the last remain ?

What eye can reach my heart of hearts,
Bearing in light again?

E'en could this be, too much of fear

O'er love would now be thrown

Away, away! from time, from change,

Once more to meet my own!

317

THE VICTOR.

De tout ce qui t'aimoit n'est-il plus rein qui t'aime ?"—Lamartine MIGHTY Ones, Love and Death!

Ye are the strong in this world of ours,

Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the flowers,
-Which hath the conqueror's wreath?

Thou art the victor, Love!

Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free,
The strength of the battle is given to thee,
The spirit from ab ve!

Thou hast look'd on Death, and smiled!
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form,
Thro' the waves of the fight, thro' the rush of the storm
On field, and flood, and wild!

No!-Thou art the victor, Death!

Thou comest, and where is that which spoke,
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ?
--Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest--and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art!
Silently there must kindred meet,
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet,
No bounding of heart to heart!

Boast not thy victory, Death!

power,

It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower,
That slumber, the snow beneath.

It is but as a tyrant's reign

O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still:
But the fiery thought and the lofty will,

Are not for him to chain !

They shall soar his might above!

And thus with the root whence affection springs,
Though buried, it is not of mortal things-
Thou art the victor, Love!

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM AT ROSANNA.*

OH! lightly tread through these deep chestnut-bowers
Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved!
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and flowers,
Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath loved!
A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode,

Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops flow'd.

And bid its memory sanctify the scene!

And let th' ideal presence of the dead

Float round, and touch the woods with softer green,
And o'er the stream a charm, like moonlight, shed;
Through the soul's depths in holy silence felt-

A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt.

* A beautiful place in the county of Wicklow, formerly the abode of the authoress of "Psyche."

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES.

319

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES

WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK.

"How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, No mood, which season takes away or brings,

I could have fancied that the mighty deep

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

*

*

*

*

But welcome fortitude and patient cheer,

And frequent sights of what is to be borne."

ANSWER, ye chiming waves

That now in sunshine sweep;

Speak to me from thy hidden caves

Voice of the solemn deep!

Hath man's lone spirit here

With storms in battle striven?
Where all is now so calmly clear,
Hath anguish cried to heaven?
-Then the sea's voice arose,

Like an earthquake's under-tone:
Mortal, the strife of human woes
Where hath not nature known?

"Here to the quivering mast
Despair hath wildly clung,

The shriek upon the wind hath pass'd,
The midnight sky hath rung.
"And the youthful and the brave,
With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
In darkness have gone down.

"They are vanish'd from their place

Wordsworth.

Let their homes and hearths make moar !

But the rolling waters keep no trace

Of pang or conflict gone."

-Alas! thou haughty deep!
The strong, the sounding far!
My heart before thee dies,-I weep
To think on what we are!

To think that so we pass,

High hope, and thought, and mind,

Even as the breath-stain from the glass,

Leaving no sign behind!

Saw'st thou nought else, thou main?
Thou and the midnight sky?

Nought save the struggle, brief and vain,
The parting agony!

-And the sea's voice replied,

"Here nobler things have been!

Power with the valiant when they died,

To sanctify the scene:

Courage, in fragile form,

Faith trusting to the last,

Prayer, breathing heavenward through the storm, But all alike have pass'd."

Sound on, thou haughty sea!

These have not pass'd in vain;

My soul awakes, my hope springs free
On victor wings again.

Thou, from thine empire driven,
May'st vanish with thy powers;

But, by the hearts that here have striven,
A loftier doom is ours.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

"I seem like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but ine departed."-Moore

SEE'ST thou yon grey gleaming hall,
Where the deep elm-shadows fall?
Voices that have left the earth
Long ago,

Still are murmuring round its hearth,
Soft and low:

Ever there; yet one alone
Hath the gift to hear their tone.
Guests come thither, and depart,
Free of step and light of heart;
Children, with sweet visions bless'd,
In the haunted chambers rest;
One alone unslumbering lies
When the night hath seal'd all eyes,
One quick heart and watchful ear,
Listening for those whispers clear.

See'st thou where the woodbine flowers
O'er yon low porch hang in showers?
Startling faces of the dead,

Pale, yet sweet.

One lone women's entering tread

There still meet!