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What was thy tale?-Oh! gentle mate

Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate,

What bard hath sung of thee?

He wooed a bright and burning star

Thine was the void, the gloom, The straining eye that follow'd far

His fast receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed

Sent echoes on the breeze, The pang-but when did Fame take heed

Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours

Through many a lonely day,
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,

With spirit far away ;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him

Who fought on Syrian plains,
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-

These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine !-long years

With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,

Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervor pour’d,

Alms to the pilgrim given-
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,

In that lone path to heaven!


And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling

Aside for ever ;-it may be a sound-
A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring-

A flower-a leaf--the ocean—which may wound-
Striking 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


The sudden images of vanish'd 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 oar-
A flower-scent floating past our parents' door ;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,

Yet back returning with a plaintive tone; A smile—a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown ; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,

Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,

Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread ; And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear,These are night's mysteries—who shall make them clear? And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still,

'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall ? Why shakes the spirit thus ?—'tis mystery all !

Darkly we move—we press upon the brink

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think,

Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd !

Humbly—for knowledge strives in vain to feel

Her way amidst these marvels of the mind; Yet undismayed-for do they not reveal

Th’immortal being with our dust entwin'd ?So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

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