I hear the shepherd's mountain flute- The echoes of my soul are mute: 1 TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.1 How is it that before mine eyes, What spell within thee hath been shrined, Even as a song of other times Can trouble memory's springs; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanish'd hours; Such power is thine!-they come, the dead, And smiling back the changed are led, And voices that are music flown Speak to me in the heart's full tone: 1 Painted by W. E. West, in 1827, and engraved in the first volume of this publication. TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress- A passion which I may not stay, But thou, the while-oh! almost strange, That on thy brow of peace no change Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in thy face. To see thee calm, while powers thus deep Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep O that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by! Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be, Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 167 NO MORE. No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, Breathe through those words-those murmurs of farewell No more! To dwell in peace, with home affections bound, No more! A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend Or join the household laughter by the blaze- Through woods that shadow'd our first years to rove, Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's-the woe Their passion breathes-the desolately deep! That sound in Heaven-oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones-to part, to weep No more! NO MORE. To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, To waste the untold riches of the heart 169 No more! Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn For human love'-and never quench that thirst, To pour the soul out, winning no return, O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed No more! On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, No more! Words of triumphant music-bear we on No more! "Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j'aime," was a mournful expression of Madame de Staël's. THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET. WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end? Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest- And some deceived, and some are with the dead. But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart! PASSING AWAY. "Passing away" is written on the world, and all the world contains. Ir is written on the rose, It is written on the skies "Passing away." Of the soft blue summer day; "Passing away." |