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The wings of Silence, overfolding space,
Droop with dusk grandeur from the heavenly

steep, And through the stillness gleams thy starry face,

Serenest Angel, Sleep! Come! woo me here, amid these flowery charms;

Breathe on my eyelids; press thy odorous lips Close to inine own; enwreathe me in thine arms,

And cloud my spirit with thy sweet eclipse; No dreams! no dreams! keep back the motley

throng,— For such are girded round with ghastly might, And sing low burdens of despondent song,

Decked in the mockery of a lost delight; I ask oblivion's balsam! the mute peace

Toned to still breathings, and the gentlest sighs ;

Not music woven of rarest harmonies Could yield me such elysium of release: The tones of earth are weariness,—not only

'Mid the loud mart, and in the walks of trade, But where the mountain Genius broodeth lonely,

In the cool pulsing of the sylvan shade;
Then bear me far into thy noiseless land ;
Surround me with thy silence, deep on deep,

Until serene I stand
Close by a duskier country, and more grand

Mysterious solitude, than thine, O Sleep!

As he whose veins a feverous frenzy burns,

Whose life-blood withers in the fiery drouth, Feebly and with a languid longing turns

To the spring breezes gathering from the south, So, feebly and with languid longing, I

Turn to tlıy wished nepenthe, and implore

The golden dimness, the purpureal gloom
Which haunt thy poppied realm, and make the

shore
Of thy dominion balmy with all bloom.
In the clear gulfs of thy serene profound,
Worn passions sink to quiet, sorrows pause,

Suddenly fainting to still-breathèd rest:
Thou own'st a magical atmosphere, which awes

The memories seething in the turbulent breast;
Which, muffling up the sharpness of all sound
Of mortal lamentation, solely bears

The silvery minor toning of our woe,

All mellowed to harmonious underflow,
Soft as the sad farewells of dying years,—
Lulling as sunset showers that veil the west,

And sweet as Love's last tears When over-welling hearts do mutely weep: ( griefs ! 0 wailings ! your tempestuous mad

ness, Merged in a regal quietude of sadness, Wins a strange glory by the streams of sleep!

Then woo me here, amid these flowery charms;

Breathe on my eyelids, press thy odorous lips
Close to mine own; enfold me in thine arms,

And cloud my spirit with thy sweet eclipse;
And while from waning depth to depth I fall,
Down lapsing to the utmost depths of all,
Till wan forgetfulness obscurely stealing

Creeps like an incantation on the soul,
And o'er the slow ebb of my conscious life

Dies the thin flush of the last conscious feeling,

And like abortive thunder, the dull roll
Of sullen passions ebbs far, far away,–
O Angel ! loose the chords which cling to strife,
Sever the gossamer bondage of my breath,

And let me pass, gently as winds in May,
From the dim realm which owns thy shadowy

sway,
To thy diviner sleep, O sacred Death!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

THE FALLEN.
(IN MEMORIAM, May 30.)

I.

Toll the slow bell,
Toll the low bell,
Toll, toll,
Make dole
For them that wrought so well.
Come, come,
With muffled drum
And wailing lorn
Of dolorous horn ;
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow;
Put out all glories that adorn
The sweet, unheeding morn.
Come, come;
To the muffled drum
And the sad horns
Bring flowers for them that took the thorns.

Knell, knell ;
Let the slow bell

Be struck and the troubled drum;
Come, come,
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow;
Rebuke this bright, unpitying light.
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow
For them our beauty and our might
Gone on the unreturning way,
For them that took the night
That we might have the day.

II.

Hark! voices, joyous voices break
From the green martyr-mounds : “Wake, wake!
The Lord our God, once more He saith,
This hand made allit made not death.
Let the blithe bells ring
And the May air sing ;
Strike the quick drum,
Smite sorrow dumb;
Blow the glad horn,
This glad May morn;
Lift the valiant measures high
Of the proud earth and sky
For them that tent
Beyond the firmament,
And on the field of light
Still gather to the fight.
“ Blow the glad horn,
This glad May morn;
Stanch, undaunted measures blow,
Gathering courage as they go,—
Valiant measures high

Carolled of earth and sky;
Set the bright, triumphal stave
For them that fought so well,
That faltered not nor fell;
For them and all whereso yon colors wave,
Unto the four winds given
And the proud earth and heaven.
There believe and battle they
Whose face is toward the day,
The ever-living light,
Where is no night,
Where is no death nor shadow of the grave.”

JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

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