THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. O dim, forsaken mirror! How many a stately throng Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours, Of the wine cup and the song! The song hath left no echo, The bright wine hath been quaff'd, And hushed is every silver voice That lightly here hath laugh'd. O mirror, lonely mirror, Thou of the silent hall! Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom - It is, with the scattered garlands With the melodies of buried lyres, And for all the gorgeous pageants, For the glance of gem and plume, For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, And vase of rich perfume; Now, dim forsaken mirror, Thou giv'st but faintly back The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, On her solitary track. And thus with man's proud spirit, Thou tellest me 'twill be, When the forms and hues of this world fade, And his heart's long troubled waters At last in stillness lie, Reflecting but the images Of the solemn world on high. 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. 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 The silence of the unanswering soul, My heart hath echoes but for thee, Thou still small warning sound! Voice after voice hath died away, 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 you, my beloved? Ye left me! and earth's flowers grew fill'd And stars pour'd down another light And mournful tones are in the wind, Thou art welcome, O thou summoner! What eye can reach my heart of hearts, Even could this be- too much of fear O'er love would now be thrownAway, away! from time, from change, To dwell amidst mine own! THE VOICE OF MUSIC. "Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are closely bound." WHENCE is the might of thy master spell? How call'st thou back, with a note or sigh, Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell! Child Harold. - What is the power, from the soul's deep spring Vain are those tears!-vain and fruitless all- Something of mystery there surely dwells, Therefore a current of sadness deep, Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Yet, speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught THE HOUR OF DEATH. Il est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a l'idee meme qu'on redoute.-Corinne. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears - but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the goldengrain, But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? - all are ours to die! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set - but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. |