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 può 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!

chieftain dying

No sounds for earth?—Yes, to young
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.

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.

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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 heaping,

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.

"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 SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.

The thunder of the seas I hear,

The shriek along the wave, When the bark sweeps forth, and Salute the parting brave.

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song and cheer

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.

THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.

Thy path is not as mine ;-where thou art blest,
My spirit would but wither; mine own grief
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing,
Than all thy happiness.

HATH the summer's breath on the south-wind borne,
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn?
Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves,
To the river shores where the osier waves?

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell,

Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell? Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread, And the heath like a royal robe is spread?

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird! There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, With the dancing of waters through copse and dell, And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell.

Thou hast done well:-Oh! the seas are lone,
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone;
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells,
Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells.

-The proud bird rose as the words were said—
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head,
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain,
Spoke him a child of the haughty main.

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast,
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest
-Oh! who shall say, to a spirit free,
"There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?"

THE SLEEPER.

"For sleep is awful."

BYRON.

OH! lightly, lightly tread!

A holy thing is sleep,