THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND. 155 THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND. Thy path is not as mine;-where thou art blest, Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing, Than all thy happiness. HATH the summer's breath on the south-wind borne, Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird! Thou hast done well:-Oh! the seas are lone, -The proud bird rose as the words were said— He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, "There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?" THE SLEEPER. "For sleep is awful." BYRON. OH! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep, On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep. A holy thing from Heaven, Oh! lightly, lightly tread! The long hair's willowy flow. Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you Unto life's dim faded track. Her soul is far away, In her childhood's land, perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother's glance. Some old sweet native sound Her spirit haply weaves; A harmony profound Of woods with all their leaves; THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 157 A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams:- In the music land of dreams! Each voice of love is there, THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. O, DIM, forsaken mirror! How many a stately throng Hath o'er thee gleam'd, in vanish'd hours The song hath left no echo; The bright wine hath been quaff’d; And hush'd is every silvery voice That lightly here hath laugh'd. Oh! mirror, lonely mirror, Thou of the silent hall! Thou hast been flush'd with beauty's bloom Is this, too, vanish'd all? It is, with the scatter'd garlands With the melodies of buried lyres; And for all the gorgeous pageants, For the glance of gem and plume, For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, And vase of rich perfume. Now, dim, forsaken mirror, Thou givest but faintly back The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, And thus with man's proud spirit Thou tellest me 'twill be, When the forms and hues of this world fade And his heart's long-troubled waters At last in stillness lie, Reflecting but the images Of the solemn world on high. TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON, THE QUAKER POET. HAPPY thou art, the child of one In each soft shadow of the sky, 4 THE STAR OF THE MINE. So shall deep quiet fill thy breast, 159 THE STAR OF THE MINE. FROM the deep chambers of a mine, I had not seen it 'midst the glow And still, the farther from my sight Oh! what is like that heavenly spark? Where, brightest when the world grows dark, |