The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, And thus it seem'd, in that low, thrilling tone, Come, come, come ! Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd From the quenchless thoughts that burn On our dim and distant shore We have loved with earth's excess- We have wept, that weep not now- Come, come, come ! Weary heart that long hast bled, Languid spirit, drooping head, Restless memory, vain regret, Pining love whose light is set, And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay, She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away! THE MAGIC GLASS. "How lived, how loved, how died they ?"-BYRON, "THE dead! the glorious dead!—and shall they rise? [eyes? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, The deep grave knows it well! "Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass With triumph's long array? Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn, "Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song? Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, "Not these, O mighty master!-though their lays "But, if the narrow house may so be moved, "Away, fond youth !-an idle quest is thine: It is enough to know that here, Where thoughtfully I stand, Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, Have link'd one kindred band. Thou bindest me with mighty spells! A presence all around thee dwells Of human life and death. I need but pluck yon garden flower From where the wild weeds rise, To wake, with strange and sudden power, A thousand sympathies. Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth! Deserted now by all! Voices at eve here met in mirth Which eve may ne'er recall. And song and prayer, have all been known, Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd Upon the infant head, As if in every fervent word The living soul were shed; Here, by the restless bed of pain, The vigil hath been kept, Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, Burst forth on eyes that wept; Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, The breathless influence, shed Through the dim dwelling, from the room Wherein reposed the dead. The seat left void, the missing face, Have here been mark'd and mourn'd, And time hath fill'd the vacant place, And gladness hath return'd; Till from the narrowing household chain And homewards hither, o'er the main, Is there not cause, then-cause for thought, Fix'd eye and lingering tread, Where, in its ever-haunting thirst For draughts of purer day, Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst The clouds that wrapt its way? Holy to human nature seems The long-forsaken spot- Hearth of the dead! I stand, THE MINSTER. SPEAK low! The place is holy to the breath Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer: Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death Broods with a voiceless influence on the air, Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell, Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. Leave me to linger silently awhile! -Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom: Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry,Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd Their anguish forth, are with me and around; I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years. Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head; And thou, still battling with the tempest's forceThou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Even lowliest hearts have bled? Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair? Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest. I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erMake their tones heard at last. [borne, I bring them from the tomb: O'er the sad couch of late repentant love I come with all my train : Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread, The intensely bright, the beautiful, the deadPhantoms of heart and brain! Looks from departed eyes, These are my lightnings!-fill'd with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies. I, that with soft control, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, [pest birth I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms-the temOf memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth! I am the solemn Night! 2 [The howling of the wind at night had a very peculiar effect on her nerves-nothing in the least approaching to the sensation of fear, as few were more exempt from that class of alarms usually called nervous; but working upon her ima gination to a degree which was always succeeded by a reaction of fatigue and exhaustion. The solemn influences thus mysteriously exercised are alluded to in many of her poems, particularly "The Song of the Night," and "The Voice of the Wind."-Memoir, p. 84.] THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON. "Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal? Are ye like those that shake the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ?" CHILDE HAROLD. MIDNIGHT, and silence deep! -The air is fill'd with sleep, With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath; 2 Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, “inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships |