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And Song made answer
-“ It is not in me, Though call'd immortal; though my gifts may be
All but divine. A place of lonely brightness I can give: A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst
This is not mine !"
Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil?
Each vain regret.
Wilt soon forget."
Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die,
But one—was given. “ Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine own
Seek it in heaven."
A PRIZE POEM.
“Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.
Amidst the peopled and the regal isle,
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame,
Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild, Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled, But hallow'd by that instinct which reveres Things fraught with characters of elder years. And such are these. Long centuries are flown, Bow'd many a crest, and shatter'd many a throne, Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, With what they hide—their shrined and treasured
dust. Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould; But still these nameless chronicles of death, Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear The same sepulchral mien, and almost share Th' eternity of nature, with the forms Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the
Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's
breath? Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest, Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desert's breast? Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been A sound of battle midst the silent scene Where now the flocks repose?—did the scythed car Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war? And rise these piles in memory of the slain, And the red combat of the mountain-plain?
It may be thus :—the vestiges of strife, Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell? How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride, The chieftain's power—they had no bard, and died.” But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, 4 Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains And pure bright dews have laved the crimson stains Left by dark rites of blood : for here, of yore, When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, And many a crested oak, which now lies low, Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoeHere, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade, On Druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play'd, And spells were breathed, that fill'd the deepening
gloom With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb.