The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes !—a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
-Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight
sky;

And thus it seem'd, in that low, thrilling tone,
Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own.

Come, come, come !

Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd
For the step that ne'er return'd;
Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life.
Now the heavy day is done:
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come !

From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the seal'd heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain;
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!

On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!

We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness !

We have wept, that weep not now-
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose

Come, come, come !

Weary heart that long hast bled,

Languid spirit, drooping head,

Restless memory, vain regret,

Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'tis hush'd, 'tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever-thirst is still'd,
All the air with peace is fill'd,-
Come, come, come !

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
Thou ask'st a fearful spell!

Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?

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,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.

"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!

Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream."

"Not these, O mighty master!-though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow'd for evermore !
And not the buried conquerors-let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore !

"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd
With peace, if human love hath ever still'd
The yearning human breast."

"Away, fond youth !-an idle quest is thine:
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and
Have pass'd, and left no trace [low,

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 solemnising breath,

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.
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And childhood's laughing glee,

And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd Upon the infant head,

As if in every fervent word

The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away-
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where naught beloved can stay!

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
The links dropp'd one by one!

And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.

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-
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!
Therefore in silent reverence here,

Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have link'd one household band.

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

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
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

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,
I am the avenging one!—the arm'd, the strong—
The searcher of the soul!

[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