"THOU 'RT gone!-thou 'rt slumbering low, But a haunting dream to love thee! The white spray up in showers. I'here's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and round thy home; Come to me from the ocean's Jead !-thou 'rt surely of them-come!" 'T was Ulla's voice-alone she stood For gazing o'er a glassy flood, "I know thou hast thy bed Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee: The storm sweeps o'er thy head, But the depths are hushed around thee. What wind shall point the way To the chambers where thou 'rt lying? Come to me thence, and say If thou thought'st on me in dying? I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou 'rt surely of them-speak!” She listened-'t was the wind's low moan, 'T was the ripple of the wave, 'T was the wakening ospray's cry alone, As it started from its cave. "I know each fearful spell Of the ancient Runic lay, By magic sign or song, By love, the deep, the strong! By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her sighs, Come to me from the ocean's dead-by the vows Again she gazed with an eager glance, She saw but the sparkling waters dance By the slow and struggling death Of despair on youth's high heart; By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, appear!" Was it her yearning spirit's dream, Or did a pale form rise, And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam A still, sad life was thine!-long years WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom By the stained window shed; Have faded from the stone, A banner, from its flashing spear On for the holy shrine; A haughty heart and a kingly glanceChief! were not these things thine: A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council-board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was poured Woman! whose sculptured form at rest THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. And slight, withal, may be the things which bring A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may woundStriking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. Childe Harold. THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery?-Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way? The sudden images of vanished things, That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by, A rippling wave-the dashing of an oarA flower scent floating past our narents' door A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance, Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Th' immortal being with our dust entwined? So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. THE PALM-TREE.* Ir waved not through an Eastern sky, It was not fanned by southern breeze But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew Strange looked it there!-the willow streamed This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem "Les Jardins" And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours- But one, a lone one, midst the throng, And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 1 And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters-they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers! But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring! There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, I passed through the streets; there were throngs on throngs Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs. moan, For the many brave to their slumbers gone? I saw not the face of a weeper there- Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd art, What wak'st thou in the heart? Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep ceil, Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone! Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feetSpring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these? Vain longings for the dead!-why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there! THE ILLUMINATED CITY. THE hills are glowed with a festive light For the royal city rejoiced by night: The music of victory was all too loud! Turn then away from life's pageants, turn, The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true THE SPELLS OF HOME. There blend the ties that strengthen Bernard Barton. By the soft green light in the woody glade, They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now ? Thou hast thy skies! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Thou hast the sunset's glow, And all sweet sounds are thine, While night, o'er tomb and shrine Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell, Thou hast the South's rich gift A charmed fountain, swift, Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien : Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. Roma, Roma, Roma! Non è piu come era prima. ROME, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou hadst thy triumphs then Leaders and sceptred men THE DISTANT SHIP. THE sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast Of all the main and skv |