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They hear the wind's low sigh,
And the river sweeping free,
And the woods—but they hear not thee!
Long have I striven
And darkly on must roll.
With a bridal white-rose wreath,-
Touch'd solemnly by death !
Fair art thou Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the dim wuods tuneful round
But soon it must be still !
Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie, Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow
hand for thee hath tried, But into dirge-notes wild and low,
Its ringing tones have died.
Young art thou, Morna!
A spirit hath been shed !
And the glance is thine which sees
Thro' nature's awful heart
But bright things go with the summer-breeze,
And thou too, must depart !
Yet shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast There swells a fount of
too deep, Too powerful for thy rest! And the bitterness I know,
And the chill of this world's breath
Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!
Young and crown'd bride of death!
Take hence to heaven
Thy holy thoughts and bright,
For the touch of mortal blight !
Might we follow in thy track,
This parting should not be !
And every flower but thee!
There was a burst of tears around the bard :
All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
And spring return'd,
THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.
From the “ Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poem.
If there be but one spot upon thy name,
Thou seest her pictured with her shining hair,
(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along