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Minds are of celestial birth,
Closer, closer let us knit
Hearts and hands together,
In the wildest weather ;
Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
THE skies are blue; the moon reclines
The murmurs of the ocean.
The nightshade springs beside the walk ;
Expands its leaves unthwarted.
Of beings long departed.
No human dreams disturb the soul, Whose thoughts, like giant-billows, roll
'Mid darksome ages hoary ; When light upon the human mind Dawn'd faintly, and the world was blind
With superstitious story.
When fairies, with their silver bells,
All sheathed in emerald dresses ;
Combing their dewy tresses.
When wither'd hags their orgies kept, 'Mid darksome night; when Nature slept,
And tempests threaten'd danger ; Sheer, from the precipice to throw Down-down among the rocks below,
The lorn, benighted stranger.
When grim, before the vision stalk'd
The upper world ; and faces
Were seen in desert places.
Then, glittering to the morning sun,
And greaves, and cuirass glancing,
A thousand chargers prancing.
Dark deeds were done and blood was shed
To fury, and to madness;
round; And children's blood upon the ground;
And widows left in sadness.
Then, from her cloister wall, the nun
Descending o'er the ocean ;
To eventide devotion,
Then, from the tilt and tournay, came
His lady's rights defending ;
Redoubled ardour lending.
Or at the Louvre-while his steed
Mid courtly crowds assembled,
Their meeting glances trembled.
Now all have pass'd-their halls are bare-
And restless owls are hooping
Departed spirits trooping.
A giant ruin mgrimly frown
Its watch-towers dimly throwing
A doubled power bestowing.
With hound in leash, and hawk in hood,
From morn till eve was roaming 'Mid scenes majestically wildDark mountains huge, o'er mountains piled,
Begirt with torrents foaming.
And o'er the precipices bleak,
Beneath the tempest scowling,
And famish'd wolves were howling.
No voice is heard-'tis silence all-
The hawk and hound have perish'd ;
For gone are they who cherish’d.
STANZAS ON THE CLOSE OF A YEAR. And it hath gone into the grave of time The past-the mighty sepulchre of all !
That solemn sound-the midnight's mournful
chime, Was its deep dead-bell—but within the hall The old and young hold gladsome festival.What hath it left them thus to cause such joy ?Gray hairs to some—and hearts less green to all, And fewer steps to where their fathers lie Low in the church-yard cell-cold-dark-and
Strange time for mirth !-when round the leaf
less tree The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh, And while the twilight saddens o'er the lea, Mute every woodland's evening melody, Mute the wide landscape-save where, hurrying by, Roars the dark torrent on its headlong flight, Or, slowly sailing through the black’ning sky, Hoots unto solitude the bird of night, Seeking the domeless wall-the turret's hoary
And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve; She does not heed the woes of human kind; No: for the tempests howl, the waters heave Their hoary hills unto the raging wind, And the poor bark no resting-place can find; And friends on shore shall weep-and weep in
vain, For, to the ruthless elements consign'd, The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main, Ne'er to be seen by them, nor heard of e'er again !
Now o'er the skies the orbs of light are spread, And through yon shoreless sea they wander on;