THE EXILE'S DIRGE. Long the Exile's woe hath lain 65 And thy spirit would not stay." So swell'd the chant; and the deep wind's moan Seem'd through the cedars to murmur "Brother! by the rolling Rhine, "Gone!" Stands the home that once was thine- Where the Indian arrow flies! God hath call'd thee to that band "The Fatherland!"—with that sweet word "Brother! were we there with thee, But our task is still to bear, And the requiem died in the forest's gloom;- THE DREAMING CHILD. Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? What should the cloud be made of?-blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild: And now thou tremblest!—wherefore?—in thy soul THE DREAMING CHILD. 67 From thee no love hath gone; thy mind's young eye A weary searcher for a viewless home: Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain, Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd, Awake! they sadden me—those early tears, Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream, Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes! Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, Where now thy thoughts dismay'd and darkling rove; Come to the kindly region all thine own, The home, still bright for thee with guardian love. Happy, fair child! that yet a mother's voice THE CHARMED PICTURE. Oh! that those lips had language!-Life hath pass'd COWPER. THINE eyes are charm'd-thine earnest eyesThou image of the dead! A spell within their sweetness lies, A virtue thence is shed. Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, And sometimes there my wayward mind And sometimes Pity-soft and deep, And oh my spirit needs that balm, And in the night-hour's haunted calm, Look on me thus, when hollow praise For one true tone of other days, One glance of love like thine! THE CHARMED PICTURE. Look on me thus, when sudden glee In vain, in vain!-too soon are felt Sweet face that o'er my childhood shone, Whence are they charm'd those earnest eyes? -I know the mystery well! In mine own trembling bosom lies The spirit of the spell! Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born Oh! change no longer, thou! For ever be the blessing worn On thy pure thoughtful brow! |