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 tem Of 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 imagination 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