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A voice in every whisper
Of the wave, the bough, the air, Comes asking for the beautiful,
And moaning—"Where, oh! where ?"
Tell of the brightness parted,
Thou Bee, thou Lamb at play! Thou Lark, in thy victorious mirth!
- Are ye, too, pass'd away?
Mournfully, sing mournfully;
The royal Rose is gone :
In one deep farewell tone !
-Not so l-swell forth triumphantly
The full, rich, fervent strain! Hence with young Love and Life I go,
In the Summer's joyous train.
With sunshine, with sweet odour,
With every precious thing,
My soul its flight shall wing.
Alone I shall not linger
When the days of hope are past, To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,
To wait the rushing blast.
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me, perchance, in other lands
The glorious rose may blow.
The sky's transparent azure,
And the greensward's violet breath, And the dance of light leaves in the wind,
May these know nought of Death.
my heart !
No more, no more sing mournfully!
Swell high, then break,
With Summer I depart !
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the river with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a strange emotion : Nothing in the world is single ;
All things, by a law divine, In one another's being mingle,
Why not I with thine ?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another !
If it disdain'd its brother.
And the moonbeams kiss the sea :--
If thou kiss not me?
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
A Pilgrim of the Harp was he, With half a heart for chivalry; The lone, the marvellous, the wild, Had charm'd his spirit, man and child ; Graduate in Nature's eldest school, Of forms all grand and beautiful ; Her manuscript, divinely wrought, God's own miraculous Polyglot, Speaking in one all languagesHe studied-rocks, and stars, and seas ; But chief the deep his worship won, The illimitable ocean-nursed thereon ; With all its workings-maniac hoar, Even for that madness loved the more ; Kin elements, his moody mind, A portion of the wave and wind; And oft the boy would try to weave His wonder into shapes of song ; And feeling still would only grieve To find be did his feelings wrong. He loved, as minstrel elf must prove, For song itself was born of love; So the young glow, and melting shower Of April, animate the flower,-Perfume, and suppliance of an hour, Too exquisitely loved to last, Such curse upon the lyre is cast.
Brief must they feel, who feel the spell
ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM,
L. E. LANDON.
His was a harp just fit to pour
Its music to the wind and wave; He had a right to tell their fame
Who stood himself amid the brave.
The first time that I read his strain
There was a tempest in the sky,
Were like dark ships and battle cry.
I had forgot my woman's fears,
In thinking on my country's fame, Till almost I could dream I saw
Her colours float o'er blood and flame.
Died the high song as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind; And died the tempest too, and left
A gentle twilight hour behind.
Then paused I o'er some sad wild notes,
Sweet as the spring bird's lay withal, Telling of hopes and feelings past,
Like stars that darken'd in their fall.
Hopes perishing from too much light,
“ Exhausted by their own excess ;' Affections trusted, till they turn'd,
Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.
And is this, then, the curse that clings
To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling ? Is this the cloud that destiny
Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing ?
It is-it is! tread on thy way,
Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold ; Look not up from the sullen path
That leads to this world's idol-gold.
And close thy hand, and close thy heart,
And be thy very spul of clay,