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They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say, Oh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee
And find mine ark !-yet whither?-I must bear · A yearning heart within me to the grave. I am of those o’er whom a breath of airJust darkening in its course the lake's bright wave, And sigbing through the feathery canes 1-hath
power To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave!
So must it be !—These skies above me spread, Are they my own soft skies?-_Ye rest not here, my
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, Your
graves all smiling in the sunshine clear, Save one !-a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping High o'er one gentle head-ye rest not here ! 'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing Through my own chesnut groves, which fill mine
ear ; But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean
Peace !-I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze, A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, we--thy
gifts are these.
A blighted name!-I hear the winds of morn-
What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is
Is it not much that I may worship Him,
Now hath redeem'd her birth-right of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd
And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
me rise ! Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?
Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy?
As mine hath done ; nor bear what I have borne, Casting in falsehood's mould th’ indignant brow of
This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!
I see an oak before me,3 it hath been
throwing, Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, Hath shrunk and died, those serpent-folds among.
Alas! alas !-what is it that I see? An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with thee!