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I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,

Or buried streams, ushered amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done;-

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crushed affections, which, tho' 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,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead
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 the avenging one!— the arm'd, 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 DESERTED HOUSE.

GLOOM is upon thy lonely hearth,
O silent house! once fill'd with mirth;
Sorrow is in the breezy sound
Of thy tall poplars, whispering round.

The shadow of departed hours
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers;
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood
Something more deep than solitude.

Fair art thou, fair to stranger's gaze,
Mine own sweet home of other days!
My children's birth-place! yet for me,
It is too much to look on thee!

Too much! for all about thee spread
I feel the memory of the dead,
And almost linger for the feet
That never more my steps shall meet.

--

The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;
The echoes of kind household words
Are with me midst thy singing birds.

Till my heart dies, it dies away

In yearnings for what might not stay; For love, which ne'er deceiv'd my trust, For all which went with "dust to dust!"

What now is left me but to raise,
From thee, lorn spot! my spirit's gaze, —

To lift, through tears, my straining eye
Up to my Father's house on high?
Oh, many are the mansions there ;
But not in one hath grief a share!
No haunting shades from things gone by
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky.

And they are there, whose long-loved mien
In earthly home no more is seen;

Whose places, where they smiling sate,
Are left unto us desolate.

We miss them when the board is spread;
We miss them when the prayer is said;
Upon our dreams their dying eyes
In still and mournful fondness rise.

But they are where these longings vain
Trouble no more the heart and brain;
The sadness of this aching love
Dims not our Father's house above.

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,*
Ye dwellers of the immortal spheres!
Under the poplar boughs I stand,

And mourn the broken household band.

But by your life of lowly faith,

And by your joyful hope in death,
Guide me, till on some brighter shore

The sever'd wreath is bound once more.

Holy ye were, and good and true!

No change can cloud my thoughts of you:
Guide me like you to live and die,

And reach my Father's house on high!

* From an ancient Hebrew dirge, "Mourn for the mourner, and

not for the dead; for he is at rest, and we in tears."

THE VOICE OF GOD.

AMIDST the thrilling leaves Thy voice
At evening's fall drew near;
Father! and did not man rejoice
That blessed sound to hear?

Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch'd by the solemn tone?
Not so! for, never to return,

Its purity was gone.

Therefore, midst holy stream and bower,

His spirit shook with dread,
And call'd the cedars, in that hour
To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain's flow,
Each whisper of the shade,

Grant me, my God! thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid.

FRAGMENT.

Oh, what is Nature's strength ?—the vacant eye,

By mind deserted, hath a dread reply;

The wild delirious laugte of despair,

The mirth of frenzy-seek an answer there,

Weep not, sad moralist, o'er desert plains,

Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur, mould'ring fanes,
Arches of triumphs long with weeds o'ergrown,

And regal cities-now the serpent's own ;-
Earth has more dreadful ruins-one lost mind,
Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome,
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.

MAN AND WOMAN.

"Women act their parts

When they do make their order'd houses know them.
Men must be busy out of doors, must stir
The city; yea, make the great world aware
That they are in it; for the mastery
Of which they race and wrestle.”—Knowles.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed,-
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet through a cloud of years I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine,

A haughty heart and kingly glance –
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place, where leaders sate,
Around the council board;

In festive halls a chair of state,

When the blood-red wine was pour'd;

A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;

-Surely these things were all thine own
So hadst thou thy reward!

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