Hast thou been answer'd? thou, that from the night And from the voices of the tempest's might,

And from the past,

Wert seeking still some oracle's reply,
To pour the secrets of man's destiny
Forth on the blast!

Hast thou been answer'd?-thou, that through the

gloom,

And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb,
A cry did'st send,

So passionate and deep? to pierce, to move,
To win back token of unburied love

From buried friend!

And hast thou found where living waters burst?
Thou that did'st pine amidst us, in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!

Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore
The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee?-We call, as thou,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call

On the departed! Art thou bless'd and free?
-Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee,
Wert silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise fann'd by quenchless faith, As a flame, foster'd by some warm wind's breath, In light upsprings:

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.

151

Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the sought;
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought,
On morning's wings.

And we will dream it is thy joy we hear,
When life's young music, ringing far and clear,
O'erflows the sky :-

No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours-
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers,
Never to die!

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.

"Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti !

Risvegliate in vano 'l cor che non puo liberarsi.”

WHEREFORE and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill ? It hath no crown of victory to inherit

Be still, triumphant harmony! be still!

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling
Into rich floods of joy:-it is but pain

To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling,
To sink so fast, so heavily again!

No sounds for earth?-Yes, to young chieftain dying On his own battle-field, at set of sun,

With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, Well might'st thou speak of fame's high guerdon

won.

No sounds for earth?-Yes, for the martyr leading
Unto victorious death serenely on,

For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding,
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain!
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting,
Thou wakest lone thirst-be hush'd, exulting strain!

Be hush'd, or breathe of grief!-of exile yearnings Under the willows of the stranger-shore!

Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings, For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.

Breathe of deep love-a lonely vigil keeping Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to pine;

Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heap

ing,

In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine.

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing

From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, the undying— Of joy no more-bewildering harmony!

SECOND SIGHT.

153

SECOND SIGHT.

"Ne'er err'd the prophet heart that grief inspired,
Though joy's illusions mock their votarist."

A MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!

A murmur of the soul which blends
With the flow of song and wine.

MATURIN.

An eye that through the triumph's hour
Beholds the coming woe,

And dwells upon the faded flower
'Midst the rich summer's glow.

Ye smile to view fair faces bloom
Where the father's board is spread;

I see the stillness and the gloom
Of a home whence all are fled.

I see the wither'd garlands lie
Forsaken on the earth,

While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly
Through the ringing hall of mirth.

I see the blood-red future stain

On the warrior's gorgeous crest; And the bier amidst the bridal train When they come with roses drest.

I hear the still small moan of time,
Through the ivy branches made,
Where the palace, in its glory's prime,
With the sunshine stands array'd.

The thunder of the seas I hear,

The shriek along the wave,

When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer Salute the parting brave.

With every breeze a spirit sends
To me some warning sign:-
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!

Oh! prophet heart! thy grief, thy power,
To all deep souls belong;

The shadow in the sunny hour,

The wail in the mirthful song.

Their sight is all too sadly clear-
For them a veil is riven:

Their piercing thoughts repose not here,
Their home is but in Heaven.