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Passing, and finding not on earth

Aim or repose.

Whence were they?-like the breath of flowers

Why thus to come and go ? A long, long journey must be ours

Ere this we know !

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

“ Was mir fehlt?-Mir fehlt ja alles,

Bin so ganz verlassen hier!"

Tyrolese Melody.

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is

quench'd and gone That into happy children's eyes once brightly laugh

ing shone; The place where mirth and music met is hush'd

through day and night. Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there

made light!

But scatter'd are those pleasant smiles afar by

mount and shore, Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to

meet no more. Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy

or mirth, Unbound is that sweet wreath of home-alas! the

lonely hearth!

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The voices that have mingled here now speak

other tongue, Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the

songs their mother sung Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound

each household tone: The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire

quench'd and gone!

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days

of glee? Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on

earth or sea ? Oh! some are hush'd, and some are changed, and

never shall one strain Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again.

And of the hearts that here were link'd by long

remember'd years, Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the

sister's tears! One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop

alone : For broken is the household chain, the bright fire

quench'd and gone!

Not so—'tis not a broken chain: thy memory binds

them still, Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now

and chill.

The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine

attesting stone, Have yet a living power to mark thy children for

thine own.

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though

call'd from earth away, With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet

shall sway;

And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet

are one, Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire

quench'd and gone!

THE DREAMER.

“ There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscription on the mind; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever.”

ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.

“ Thou hast been call’d, O sleep! the friend of woe,
But 'tis the happy who have call'd thee so."

SOUTHEY

PEACE to thy dreams! thou art slumbering now-
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow;
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast
Lies midst the hush of thy heart at rest-
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell,
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh'd fare-
Peace! The sad memories that through the day
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay,
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,
That bow'd thee as winds bow the willow's head,
The yearnings for faces and voices gone-
All are forgotten! Sleep on, sleep on!

well.

Are they forgotten? It is not so !
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe.
E’en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass,
Like lights and shades over wavy grass :
Tremblest thou, Dreamer ? O love and grief !
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf!

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill,
As on a lyre ere its chords are still ;
On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye,
There's a large tear gathering heavily-
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressid :
Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest!

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours-
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perish'd flowers.
-Oh, we bear within us mysterious things!
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom'd springs;
And Passion—those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still.

Well might we pause ere we gave

them

sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear-
They find no fount of oblivion here!

They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath-
How know we if under the wings of death?

THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.

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Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away

and be at rest."-PSALM lv.

Oh, for thy wings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;

That, borne like thee above,
I too might flee away, and be at rest!

Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird ?

In what rich leafy glooms,
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr'd ?

Over what blessed home,
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crown'd,

O fair as ocean's foam !
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?

Or seek'st thou some old shrine
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo'd,

Though still, as if divine,
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ?

Yet wherefore ask thy way?
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art!

Unto the greenwood spray,
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart !

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