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 naught 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 undismayed!
Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismayed-for do they not reveal
The immortal being with our dust entwined !—
So let us deem ! and even the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree,
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend."-BARRY CORNWALL.
THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water; dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seemed but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steeped the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine.* Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours-
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon.-But ere long,
All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chained soul. 'Twas not the leaves I heard:
A Syrian wind the Lion-banner stirred,
*The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.
Through its proud floating folds. 'Twas not the brook Singing in secret through its grassy glen;
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high,
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadowed by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out,
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue:
And harps were there—I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.
The bright masque faded. Unto life's worn track,
What called me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood !-and they passed,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast.
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,
My heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone.
THE hills all glowed with a festive light,
For the royal city rejoiced by night:
There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire;
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.
I passed through the streets. There were throngs on
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne-
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn.
The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.
"Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain? Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain !
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell:
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,
And bowing the beauty of woman's head!
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan For the many brave to their slumbers gone?"
I saw not the face of a weeper there
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps' glare!
I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd-
The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it rolled on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car—
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by:
How could I listen for moan or sigh?
"Turn then away from life's pageants—turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal
So must thy spirit be taught to feel!"
"Roma, Roma, Roma!
Non e piu come era prima."
ROME, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou sat'st a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street;
Leaders and sceptred men
Bowed at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore
As gods were seen-
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
Rome! thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!
Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With coloured light.
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