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.
IT wav'd not through an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;
It was not fann'd by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas,
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.
But fair the exil'd Palm-tree grew
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.
*This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of
Strange look'd it there!-the willow stream'd
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the Desert's Tree,
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.
There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers:
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colors flung,
And bright forms glanc'd-a fairy show-
Under the blossoms to and fro.
But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,
Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow, and long black hair-
A stranger, like the Palm-tree there.
And slowly, sadly, mov'd his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:
He pass'd the pale green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye;
But when to that sole Palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame !
To him, to him, its rustling spoke,
The silence of his soul it broke !
It whisper'd of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Ay, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave's moan!
His mother's cabin home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fring'd the bay;
The dashing of his brethren's oar,
The conch-note heard along the shore ;-
All through his wakening bosom swept :
He clasp'd his country's Tree and wept!
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