Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre ;

Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls-it dies

And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky

Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun!

Now thy living wreath is won.

Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not

Happy in that glorious lot?—

THE RUIN.

Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the bumblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

107

THE RUIN.

"Oh! 't is the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of its own."

WORDSWORTH.

"Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it."
Guesses at Truth.

No dower of storied song is thine,

O desolate abode !

Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow'd.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here
By courtly hands been dress'd,
For princes, from the chase of deer,

Under green leaves to rest:

Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty's lot,

House of quench'd light and silent board!

For me thou needest not.

It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link'd one kindred band.

Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
-A solemnizing breath,

A presence all around thee dwells,
Of human life and death.

I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,

To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!

Deserted now by all!

Voices at eve here met in mirth

Which eve may ne'er recall.

Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And childhood's laughing glee,

And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd

Upon the infant head,

As if in every fervent word

The living soul were shed;

Thou hast seen partings, such as bear

The bloom from life away

Alas! for love in changeful air,

Where nought beloved can stay!

THE RUIN.

Here, by the restless bed of pain
The vigil hath been kept,

Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept:

Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed

Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been mark'd and mourn'd,
And time hath fill'd the vacant place,
And gladness hath return'd;

Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp'd one by one!
And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause, then

-cause for thought,

Fix'd eye and lingering tread,

Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,

Even lowliest hearts have bled?

Where, in its ever-haunting thirst

For draughts of purer day,

Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way ?

Holy to human nature seems

The long-forsaken spot;

To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!

109

Therefore in silent reverence here,

Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have link'd one household band.

THE MINSTER.

"A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of immortality."

BYRON.

SPEAK low!—the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer;
Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:

Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell,

Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile!

-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb, Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,

Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry:Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.