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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,
With spirit far away ;
Who fought on Syrian plains,
These fill no minstrel strains.
A still, sad life was thine !-long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Alms to the pilgrim given-
In that lone path to heaven!
THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Aside for ever ;-it may be a sound-
A flower-a leaf--the ocean—which may wound-
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 ;
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by,
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.