And his heart's long troubled waters
At last in stillness lie,

Reflecting but the images

Of the solemn world on high.

THE WELCOME TO DEATH.

THOU art welcome, O thou warning voice,
My soul hath pined for thee;

Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore
To wanderer on the sea.

I hear thee in the rustling woods,

In the sighing vernal airs;

Thou call'st me from the lonely earth,

With a deeper tone than theirs.

The lonely earth! since kindred steps
From its green paths have fled,
A dimness and a hush have fall'n
O'er all its beauty spread.

The silence of the unanswering soul,
Is on me and around;

My heart hath echoes but for thee,

Thou still small warning sound!

Voice after voice hath died away,
Once in my dwelling heard,

Sweet household name by name hath changed

To grief's forbidden word!

From dreams of night on each I call,

Each of the far removed;

And waken to my own wild cry,

Where are you, my beloved?

Ye left me! and earth's flowers grew fill'd
With records of the past,

And stars pour'd down another light
Than o'er my youth they cast:
The skylark sings not as he sang
When ye were by my side,

And mournful tones are in the wind,
Unheard before ye died!

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner!
Why should the last remain ?

What eye can reach my heart of hearts,
Bearing in light again?

Even could this be - too much of fear
O'er love would now be thrown
Away, away! from time, from change,
To dwell amidst mine own!

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

"Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are closely bound." Child Harold.

WHENCE is the might of thy master spell ?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death?

How call'st thou back, with a note or sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by -
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?

Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!

What is the power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring;
Even 'midst the spells of the festal glee
Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee!

Vain are those tears!-vain and fruitless all-
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns.

Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells;
Something that finds not its answer here —
A chain to be clasped in another sphere.

Therefore a current of sadness deep,

Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky – Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high!

Yet, speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought; -
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth!

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Il est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a l'idee meme qu'on redoute.-Corinne.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath

And stars to set — but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care,

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer -
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee - but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set — but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the goldengrain, But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? -
They have one season — - all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set - but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

KINDRED HEARTS.

Он! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below!

Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountain flow;

Few and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of Spring,
Borne amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring —
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times
A sorrowful delight;

The melody of distant climes

The sound of waves by night;

The wind, that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill-

-

These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew-
The faithful to thy tears!