Float round, and touch the woods with softer green,

And o'er the streams a charm, like moonlight, shed; Through the soul's depths in holy silence feltA spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt!

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES.

WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK.

"How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
No mood, which season takes away or brings;

I could have fancied that the mighty deep

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

But welcome fortitude and patient cheer,

And frequent sights of what is to be borne."

ANSWER, ye chiming waves!

WORDSWORTH.

That now in sunshine sweep;
Speak to me from thy hidden caves,
Voice of the solemn deep!

Hath man's lone spirit here
With storms in battle striven?
Where all is now so calmly clear,
Hath anguish cried to heaven?

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Then the sea's voice arose,

Like an earthquake's under-tone :
Mortal, the strife of human woes
Where hath not nature known?

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES.

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"Here to the quivering mast
Despair hath wildly clung,

The shriek upon the wind hath pass'd,
The midnight sky hath rung.

"And the youthful and the brave
With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
In darkness have gone down.

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They are vanish'd from their place-
Let their homes and hearths make moan!
But the rolling waters keep no trace
Of pang or conflict gone."

-Alas! thou haughty deep!
The strong, the sounding far!
My heart before thee dies,-I weep
To think on what we are!

To think that so we pass,

High hope, and thought, and mind,
Even as the breath-stain from the glass,
Leaving no sign behind!

Saw'st thou nought else, thou main?
Thou and the midnight sky?
Nought save the struggle, brief and vain,

The parting agony!

-And the sea's voice replied,

"Here nobler things have been ! Power with the valiant when they died, To sanctify the scene:

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Courage, in fragile form,

Faith trusting to the last,

Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro' the storm, But all alike have pass'd."

Sound on, thou haughty sea!

These have not pass'd in vain ;

My soul awakes, my hope springs free
On victor wings again.

Thou, from thine empire driven,
May'st vanish with thy powers;

But, by the hearts that here have striven,
A loftier doom is ours!

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

"I seem like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but me departed."

MOORE.

SEE'ST thou yon grey gleaming hall,
Where the deep elm-shadows fall?
Voices that have left the earth
Long ago,

Still are murmuring round its hearth,
Soft and low:

Ever there;-yet one alone

Hath the gift to hear their tone.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

Guests come thither, and depart,
Free of step, and light of heart;
Children, with sweet visions bless'd,
In the haunted chambers rest;
One alone unslumbering lies

When the night hath seal'd all eyes,
One quick heart and watchful ear,
Listening for those whispers clear.

See'st thou where the woodbine flowers
O'er yon low porch hang in showers?
Startling faces of the dead,
Pale, yet sweet,

One lone woman's entering tread
There still meet!

Some with young smooth foreheads fair,
Faintly shining through bright hair;
Some with reverend locks of snow-
All, all buried long ago!

All, from under deep sea-waves,

Or the flowers of foreign graves,

Or the old and banner'd aisle,

Where their high tombs gleam the while;

Rising, wandering, floating by,

Suddenly and silently,

Through their earthly home and place,

But amidst another race.

Wherefore, unto one alone,

Are those sounds and visions known?
Wherefore hath that spell of power
Dark and dread,

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On her soul, a baleful dower,
Thus been shed?

Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes,
No strange gift of mystery lies!
She is lone where once she moved,
Fair, and happy, and beloved!

Sunny smiles were glancing round her,
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her.
Now those silver chords are broken,
Those bright looks have left no token;
Not one trace on all the earth,
Save her memory of their mirth.
She is lone and lingering now,
Dreams have gather'd o'er her brow,
'Midst gay songs and children's play,
She is dwelling far away,

Seeing what none else may see-
Haunted still her place must be !

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS.

"God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause

A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!"

SINGING of the free blue sky,
And the wild-flower glens that lie
Far amidst the ancient hills,
Which the fountain music fills;
Singing of the snow-peaks bright
And the royal eagle's flight,

COLERIDGE.