Yet perchance a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering while the stern, sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell ;
"From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love's wane -a death in life
But to watch-a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, away-
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Comfort 'midst our tears for thee!"
"A long war disturb'd your mind-
Here your perfect peace is sign'd;
"Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day,
End your moan, and come away!"
WEBSTER ·Duchess of Malfy.
THERE were faint sounds of weeping;-fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan's old halls :-rich odours there
Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch:-there emeralds gleam'd,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine.-Many a carcanet.
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly;-for there one lay,
Passing from all earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures: they had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands,
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press'd them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now—
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow.
Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seem'd removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! her handmaids watch'd around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway'd lamps, made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky;
And thus it seem'd, in that low thrilling tone, Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own.
Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd
For the step that ne'er return'd;
Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life-
Now the heavy day is done,
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the seal'd heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain;
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness!
We have wept, that weep not now-
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'t is hush'd, 't is well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever thirst is still'd,
All the air with peace is fill'd,—
Come, come, come!
And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay,
She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away!
"How lived, how loved, how died they?"
"THE dead! the glorious dead! And shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes? Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array?
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?-
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream."
"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their lays Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, Hallow'd for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,
Back from their couch of rest! That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd With peace, if human love hath ever still'd The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth!-An idle quest is thine; These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! 'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low, Have pass'd, and left no trace.
Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf may bloom; But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowers
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hail'd their tomb."
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