If there be one, that, o'er the dead,
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed-
Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend-
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given —
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.

A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!
The bridal day the festival- the tomb-

Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of love and grief,

Dreams filled with tokens of mortality,

Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.

Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first, In the clear light of Eden's golden day!

There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,

Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay.

Rose! for the banquet gathered, and the bier;
Rose! colored now by human hope or pain:
Surely, where death is not nor change, nor fear,
Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own flower, again!

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

THOU’RT bearing hence thy roses,
Glad Summer,-fare thee well!
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.

But in the golden sunset

Of thy latest lingering day,

Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth,
How hast thou pass'd away.

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly

Thine hours are floated by,

To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs,
The rangers of the sky.

And brightly in the forests

To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly 'midst the garden flowers To the happy murmuring bee.

But how to human bosoms,

With all their hopes and fears,

And thoughts that make them eagle wings
To pierce the unborn years?

Sweet Summer! to the captive

Thou hast flown in burning dreams

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves,

And the blue rejoicing streams:—

To the wasted and the weary,

On the bed of sick ess bound,

In sweet delicious fantasies,

That changed with every sound:

To the sailor on the billows,

In longings wild and vain,

From the gushing founts and breezy hills And the homes of earth again!

And unto me, glad Summer!

How hast thou flown to me?

My chainless footsteps nought hath kept From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,
In memories of the dead-

In shadows from a troubled heart,
O'er thy sunny pathway shed:

In brief and sudden strivings,
To fling a weight aside —
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased,
And all thy roses died.

But oh! thou gentle Summer,

If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again thy buoyancy, Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine,
With song and spirit free;
Or in a purer air than this

May that next meeting be.

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts: - for every flower, sweet dew, In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew

The glory of its birth.

*Not

one which glimmering lies

Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves,

But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star

Making thy streams, that, on their noonday track,
Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace; I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath

Its

eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things:

Who calls me silent?

I have many tones

The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
Borne on my sweeping wings.

4*

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,

Or buried streams, ushered amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done;-

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past :

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crushed affections, which, tho' long o'erborne,
Make their tone heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb:

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train:

Who calls me lonely? - Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead

Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes,

These are my lightnings!

filled with anguish vain,

Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,

They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,

I am the avenging one!- the arm'd, the strong,

The searcher of the soul.

I, that shower dewy light

Through slumbering leaves,bring storms, the tempest-birth Of memory, thought, remorse: Be holy, Earth!

I am the solemn Night!