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"For what, though the mountains and skies be fair,
Steeped in soft hues of the summer-air,—
'Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams,
That lights up all nature with living gleams.

Where it hath suffered and nobly striven,
Where it hath poured forth its vows to Heaven;
Where to repose it hath brightly past,
O'er this green earth there is glory cast.

And by that soul, amidst groves and rills,
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills,
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod,
We, only we, may be linked to God!

KINDRED HEARTS.

OH! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet--

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring-
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times-
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,—
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,

Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,

With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,

Never to mortals given,-
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.

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Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through

their lowly guise;

We may find it where a hedge-row showers its

blossoms o'er our way,

Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

We may find it where a spring shines clear, be- | Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease? neath an aged tree, With the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy downwards by the bee; hours of peace; Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birch- And feel that by the lights and clouds through en stems is thrown, which our pathway lies,

As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies! green and lone.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross

the cold, blue sky,

While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled shadows lie,

When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound,

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;

Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, crystals to the ground.

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But are we free to do e'en thus-to wander as we will

Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?

No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,

And his arms folded in majestic gloom,
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound,
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.
For a pale cross above its greensward rose,

Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hushed-and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,

And he too paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said—

"I listened for the words, which, years ago, Passed o'er these waters: though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

While from their narrow round we see the golden" day fleet past.

Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since thenAnd from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the Many, but bringing nought like him again!

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back,

shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time," hope, and mirth,

Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;

And weigh our burdened spirits down with the Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be?-Too much, too soon, despond ingly we yield!

A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the

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Laying their cedars like the corn-stalks low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our soul's as with the morning's wings.
"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,
I and my brethren that from earth are gone,
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of one, the grave's dark bands who broke,
And our hearts burned within us as he spoke.

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be !-for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither;-but away
The Happy called him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade,-athirst, perchance,
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time,— Therefore we hoped:-but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes,-and finds not him!

"We gathered round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swelled and shook the wilderness ete long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung,

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough!-he sank upon my breastOur friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

"We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We reared this Cross in token where he lay,

For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

"But I am sad!-I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:"Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works; yet where the seed hath been There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

"Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing

Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,

After cold silent months, the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains;

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,
But as a lovely song to leave no trace,
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose."

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life's after-day,
Memories to visit one, the forest's child,

By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon one, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster's bell, Tolling with a sudden swell; By the colours half-mast high, O'er the sea hung mournfully;

Know, a prince hath died!

By the drum's dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets' tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone

In his manhood's pride.

By the chanted psalm that fills Reverently the ancient hills,* Learn, that from his harvests done, Peasants bear a brother on

To his last repose.

By the pall of snowy white
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright;
By the garland on the bier,
Weep! a maiden claims thy tear-
Broken is the rose!

Which is the tenderest rite of all?
Buried virgin's coronal,

Requiem o'er the monarch's head,
Farewell gun for warrior dead,

Herdsman's funeral hymn?

Tells not each of human wo?
Each of hope and strength brougat low?
Number each with holy things,
If one chastening thought it brings,
Ere life's day grow dim!

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

The inviolate Island of the sage and free.-Byron.

ROCKS of my country! let the cloud

Your crested heights array, And rise ye like a fortress proud, Above the surge and spray!

A custom still retained at rural funerals, in some parts of England and Wales.

My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam:
Oh! thus for ever guard the land,

The severed Land of Home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,
And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers,
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain,
The purple Heavens of Rome,-
Yes, all are glorious;-yet again,
I bless thee, Land of Home!

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead, the noble band,

That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whispered round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide

Of thine exulting sea:

Oh! be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!

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Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring;
And to thee the leaves' light play,
Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return?-
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O'er the image of the sky,

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again,
To the freedom of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!
But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own pure air,
There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there?
Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee,
And, by thy smile restored,
Joy round the hearth shall be.
Still hath thy mother's eye,
Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,

Tender and gravely sweet.
Still, when the prayer is said,

For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shedOh! when wilt thou return?

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some far out on the deep mid-sea,

To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice-
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice!
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 't is gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the din from the city borne,
And some to the rolling of torrent-floods,
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequered earth,
Each unto light hath a daily birth,

Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all,
One-but to severed and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs?

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Pouring itself away,

As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns,
Into a fleeting lay;

That swells, and floats, and dies,
Leaving no echo to the summer woods
Of the rich breathings and impassioned sighs,
Which thrilled their solitudes.

Yet, yet remember me!

Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.

Under the dark rich blue

Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea,
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue,
Sweet friends! remember me!

And in the marble halls,

Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear,
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls,
Let me be with you there!

Fain would I bind for you
My memory with all glorious things to dwell;
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew—
Sweet friends, bright land, farewell!

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