Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight,
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing,
Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship
spring,

Immortality endow'd for liberty and light.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FORGET them not :-though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,

Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.

Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,

And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!

Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,
A charm not elsewhere found;
Sad-yet it sanctifies the air,

The stream-the ground

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something goa
A tinge may wear ;

Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,

A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread, Still tend their garden-hower,

Still commune with the holy dead

In each lone hour!

The holy dead!-oh! bless'd we are,

That we may call them so,

And to their image look afar,

Through all our woe!

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth, As relics we may hold,

That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth By springs untold!

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power Thus o'er our souls is given,

If but to bird, or song, or flower,

Yet all for Heaven!

MOZART'S REQUIEM

A REQUIEM!—and for whom?
For beauty in its bloom?

For valor fallen-a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored

Not so, it is not so !

That warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; A solemn funeral air

It call'd me to prepare,

And my heart answer'd secretly—my own!

One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain

Mighty the troubled spirit to enthral!
And let me breathe my dower

Of passion and of power

Ful. into that deep lay-the last of all!

The last!-and I must go

From this bright world below,

This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! Must leave its festal skies,

With all their melodies,

That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long;

Too restless and too strong

[flame;

Within this clay hath been the o'ermastering Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o'er me sent,

Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,

Which none may stay or bind,

The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
I strive with yearnings vain,
The spirit to detain

Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore disturbing dreams Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest,

Shall I then fear the tone

That breathes from worlds unknown?

Surely these feverish aspirations there

Shall grasp their full desire,

And this unsettled fire,

Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

Once more then, one more strain,
To earthly joy and pain

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!
I pour each fervent thought

With fear, hope, trembling fraught,

Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell

THE FUNERAL GENIUS; AN ANCIENT STATUE.

THOU shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls—
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!

And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Were crown'd of old, with pale spring flowers like these:

Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed, As from the wing of some faint southern breeze: And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom Which of the grove seems breathing-not the tomb.

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath and pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.

They fear'd not death!-yet who shall say his touch

Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?