Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair;
Who, in their dark imaginings, again
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath,
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death !

And there was mirth, too!-strange and savage

mirth,

More fearful far than all the woes of earth!

The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring
From minds for which there is no sacred thing ;
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee-
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree!

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show,
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe.

Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness of the captive's doom,
Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark
power

To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour,
The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd,
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid;

Came he not thither, in his burning force,
The lord, the tamer of dark souls-Remorse?

Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day

In light and sound are hurrying on their way:
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart,

The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill

With accents heard not, save when all is still!

The voice, inaudible when havoc's train Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain; Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, And the broad light of conflagration sprung From the south's marble cities; hush'd midst cries That told the heavens of mortal agonies; But gathering silent strength, to wake at last In concentrated thunders of the past!

And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd mind,
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen,

Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men;
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent
The earthquake power of each wild element,
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high
One impulse more of desperate energy;
Might-when the billow's awful rush was o'er
Which toss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore,
Won from its wand'rings past, by suffering tried,
Search'd by remorse, by anguish purified-

Have fix'd, at length, its troubled hopes and fears
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears;
And, in that hour of triumph or despair,
Whose secrets all must learn-but none declare,
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense

Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence,
Have turn'd to Him whose bow is in the cloud,
Around life's limits gathering, as a shroud—
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose!

Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell
Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell,
And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld

The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell'd-
The agony of prayer-the bursting tears-
The dark remembrances of guilty years,
Crowding upon the spirit in their might?

He, through the storm who look'd, and there was light!

That scene is closed!—that wild, tumultuous breast, With all its pangs and passions, is at rest! He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife, Who woke those passions to delirious life; And days, prepared a brighter course to run, Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun!

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams!

But Peace hath nobler changes! O'er the mind, The warm and living spirit of mankind,

Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, To life and hope from desolation start!

She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again; Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears Of the dim past but winning purer light,

To make the present more serenely bright.

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime,

In silence gliding with the stream of time,
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas.
And as Heaven's breath call'd forth, with genial
power,

From the dry wand the almond's living flower,
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love;
While round its pathway nature softly glows,
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.

Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice!
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice!

And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's song
E'er lightly sped the summer hours along,
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; hope's bright eye
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy!

Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,
And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close Of labour's day, the herald of repose,

Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth; While peasant songs are on the joyous gales,

And merry England's voice floats up from all her vales.

Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth

Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth,
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode,
And the air trembled with the breath of God;
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky'

Borne from the lips of stainless infancy,

When holy strains, from life's pure fount which sprung,

Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue.

And such shall be thy music, when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) Resound to pity's voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence,