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I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!
I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me
When spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander'd far and free
In those bright hours, the violet's hours.
I go; but when you pause to hear
From distant hills the Sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear,
Think on me then I loved it well!
Forget me not around
hearth, When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze; For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.
And oh ! when music's voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd,
Think of me then! I go, I go !
“No more of talk where God or angel guest,
ARE ye for ever to your skies departed ?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more ? Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore! Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, And ye-our faded earth beholds
Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wander'd from his Paradise away ; Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day, And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.
From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, That saw your hosts ascending and descending
On those bright steps between the earth and sky: Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, And worshipp'd awe-struck, in that fearful place.
By Chebar's* brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure ; Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;
Ezekiel, chap. x.
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,
But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,
Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son ? - Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.
Yet one moretask was Yours! your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,
That He they sought had triumph'd, and was gone. Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.
But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,
With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over,
When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met; Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ?
Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,
up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill; One, One is near—a spirit holier still !
WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE
RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.
Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee
In ancient days the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant ! is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er, Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Around the victor's tent :
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Around the victor's grave.
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past ; Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast; Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair ; Thou, in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb ! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Save thy wild tapestry!
To wave where banners waved of yore, O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race-
Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
Uạchanged the mountain storm can brave ; Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave !
'Tis still the same! Where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see
Left to decay and thee !
August in beauty, grace, and strength ;
And all is thine at length !
*“ Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”