And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling,
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry!
And lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
Death bursting on the halls of revelry!
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die,
The sword hath raged through joy's devoted
train,

Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,

Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane,

From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renowned-
Silent they lie, with the deserts round!
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath
rolled

All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."

Fallen is the golden city! in the dust,

Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state, She that hath made the Strength of Towers

her trust,

Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate!
She that beheld the nations at her gate,
Thronging in homage, shall be called no more!
Lady of kingdoms!-Who shall mourn her
fate?

Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er;-What widowed land shall now her widowhood deplore!

Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned On many waters! thou whose augurs read, The language of the planets, and disowned The mighty name it blazons!-Veil thy head, Daughter of Babylon! the sword is red From thy destroyers' harvest, and the yoke Is on thee, O most proud!-for thou hast said, "I am, and none beside !"-Th' Eternal spoke, Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke.

But go thou forth, O Israel! wake! rejoice! Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day!

Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice, The mirth of timbrels !-loose the chain, and say

God hath redeemed his people!-from decay The silent and the trampled shall arise; -Awake; put on thy beautiful array, Oh long-forsaken Zion! to the skies Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!

Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?

13

"We have found a change, we have found a pall, And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt,— And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, Nought looks the same, save the nest we built!" Oh! joyous birds, it hath still been so; Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

"A change we have found there—and many a change!

Faces and footsteps and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were, have a brow of care,
And the place is hushed where the children
played,-

Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have passed,―
So may we reach our bright home at last!

BREATHINGS OF SPRING.

Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs ;-bring

back

WHAT wak'st thou, Spring ?-sweet voices in the woods,

And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,

Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Ev'n as our hearts may be.

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!—the joyous leaves,

Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind hath pierced the whis

pery shade,

And happy murmurs, running through the grass Tell that thy footsteps pass.

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 ?-1 have many tones-
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,

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

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own,

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone.

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shivered hamlets lie,

And thou bringest hence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky;

A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,

All these are in thy music met, as when a leader

comes.

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought back

The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crushed affections, which, though long 'erborne,

Make their tones 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 eyesThese 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 armed-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!

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

of thy track;

The chime of low soft southern waves on some

green palmy shore,

The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered billows' roar.

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew,

Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true;

Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled,

Gray's Letters.

On! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine,

From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bearest a sound and sign,

1830.

through all Earth's harmonies.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother! oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows,

So are we roused on this chequered earth,
Each unto light hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all,
One-but to severed and distant dooms-

-"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"

-"Not there, not there, my child !"

"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?—
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"

-"Not there, not there, my child?"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams can not picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child !"'

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now! Some to the songs from the forest-bough, To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane, To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice-
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice!
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, And some to the din from the city borne, And some to the rolling of torrent-floods, Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

LET US DEPART.

IT is mentioned by Josephus, that a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence."

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone, High o'er the tents around.

The tents that rose by thousands

In the moonlight glimmering pale; Like white waves of a frozen sea, Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace, as if the Holy One

Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart !"

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved, Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare

Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night; The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet light

The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons

Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates

Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry.
"Let us depart !"

It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more 1-whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and