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By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief
Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise,
Was it her yearning spirit's dream,
Or did a pale form rise,
With bright, still, mournful eyes?
“ Have the depths heard ?—they have!
My voice prevails--thou’rt there,
Dim from thy watery grave,
Oh! thou that wert so fair!
Yet take me to thy rest !
There dwells no fear with love ;
Let me slumber on thy breast,
While the billows roll above!
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright
ones have their home, We will sleep among the ocean's dead-stay for me,
stay! I come !"
There was a sullen plunge below,
A flashing on the main,
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's wo,
Shut--and grew still again.
Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices ;--by the source
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, There from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the rais’d eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around ; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.
True bard, and holy !-thou art ev'n as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie: Unseen awhile they sleep—till, touch'd by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wan
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.
The Emperor Albert of Hapsburgh, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and only supported in his last moments by a few male peasant, who happened to be passing.
A MONARCH on his death-bed lay-
Did censers waft perfume,
Thro' his proud chamber's gloom?
Beneath a darkening sky-
A swift stream rolling by.