V. O PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint When the still night's unclouded saint Through my lattice leaf embower'd, I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. VI. O GIVE me music-for my soul doth faint; Hark how it falls! and now it steals along, Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, When all is still; and now it grows more strong, As when the choral train their dirges weave, Mellow and many-voiced; where every close, O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. Oh! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs,— VII. AH! who can say, however fair his view, Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye The illusive past and dark futurity; Soon will they know→ VIII. AND must thou go, and must we part? Thy sex is fickle,—when away, Some happier youth may win thy— IX. SONNET. WHEN I sit musing on the checker'd past, I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, [breast When that was all my wealth.-'Tis true my Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her-yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy.-Then I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible The native pride of my much injured heart. * * X. WHEN high romance o'er every wood and stream To their light morrice by the restless surge. Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, Too much The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. XI. HUSH'D is the lyre-the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes it is still-the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke [woke Hath pass'd away, and that weak hand that Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. Yet I would press you to my lips once more, Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy; Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, As in the wood-paths of my native XII. ONCE more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay; I heard the waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away, Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years; I saw thee rise,-I saw the scroll complete, The universe gave way. 31 |