And the old minster-forest-like itself-
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not

One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes.-Join, join, my soul!

In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,

Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from human kind

Thanks and implorings-be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody

Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,

Winging the words of prayer,

With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, thy spirit brood

Over the multitude

[Guest!

Be thou amidst them through that heavenly

So shall their cry have power

To win from thee a shower

Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs that make no sign
That ask no aid but thine.

Father of Mercies! here before thee swell,
As to the open sky,

All their dark waters lie

To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell.

The sorrow for the dead
Mantling its lonely head

From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching love

Thy minister, to move

All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.

And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony

In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,

Beside the secret source

Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before thy throne
Many-yet each alone-

To thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear

Are startling many an ear,

As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.

How dreadful is this place!

The glory of thy face

Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:

Where shall the guilty flee?

Over what far-off sea?

What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?

Not to the cedar shade

Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield

The hope the stay-the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lift him up to Thee!

Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh! let thy soul pervade

The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone

Be cleft-the seed be sown

The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore

Thine own first image-Holiest and most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd

With hues of Heaven, instill'd
Down to the depths of its calm purity.

And if, amidst the throng
Link'd by the ascending song,

[soar;

There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture Thanks, Father! that the power

Of joy, man's early dower,

'T'hus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,

Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,

And let the tombs reply!

For seed, that waits the harvest-time is there

EDITH;

A TALE OF THE WOODS.

THE Woods-oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great Western World, when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, More deep the rustling of the ancient pines; When dimness gathers on the stilly air,

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, Awful it is for human heart to bear

The might and burden of the solitude! Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, there sate

One young and fair; and oh! how desolate !
But undismay'd; while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken'd with the night.
Alone she sate: though many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe,

Far as death severs Life. O'er that wild spot Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low,

And left them, with the history of their lot, Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene

For her whose home of other days had been 'Midst the fair halls of England! but the love

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear; And by its might upborne all else above, [near. She shrank not-mark'd not that the dead were

Of him alone she thought, whose languid head
Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell;1
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled
While heavily she felt his life-blood well
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound,
Yet hoped, still hoped!-Oh! from such hope
how long

Affection woos the whispers that deceive, Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe

The blow indeed can fall! So bow'd she there, Over the dying, while unconscious prayer

Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight

down,

Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,

And fireflies, kindling up the leafy place,
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face,
Whereby she caught its changes: to her eye
The eye that faded look'd through gathering
haze,

Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,
Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze,

When voice was not; that fond sad meaning pass'd

She knew the fulness of her woe at last!
One shriek the forests heard, and mute she lay
And cold; yet clasping still the precious clay
To her scarce-heaving breast. Oh, Love and
Death,

Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth,