ECHO SONG

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus The dirge-note and the song of festival; But in one heart, one changeful human heartAy, and within one hour of that strange worldThou call'st their music forth, with all its tones, To startle and to pierce !—the dying swan's, And the glad skylark's-Triumph and Despair!"

ECHO SONG

IN thy cavern-hall,

Echo! art thou sleeping?
By the fountain's fall

Dreamy silence keeping?
Yet one soft note borne

From the shepherd's horn,

Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping.
-Strange, sweet Echo ! into music leaping.

Then the woods rejoice,

Then glad sounds are swelling

From each sister-voice

Round thy rocky dwelling;

And their sweetness fills

All the hollow hills,

With a thousand notes, of one life telling!

-Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.

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Echo in my heart

Thus deep thoughts are lying,
Silent and apart,

Buried, yet undying;

Till some gentle tone

Wakening haply one,

Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! -Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.

THE MUFFLED DRUM

THE muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep, rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier's burial-rite.

But it told them not how dear,
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour
By a mountain-stream of Spain.

The oaks of England waved

O'er the slumbers of his race,

But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above his last lone place;

When the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep, rolling sound,
Which called strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial-rite.

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE

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Brief was the sorrowing there,

By the stream from battle red,
And tossing on its wave the plumes
Of many a stately head:

But a mother-soon to die,

And a sister-long to weep,

Even then were breathing prayers for him,
In that home beyond the deep;

While the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep, rolling sound,
And the dark pines mourned around,
O'er the soldier's burial-rite.

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE

"That voice re-measures

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of nature utter; birds or trees,

Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze."-COLERIDGE.

I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones-though one full scul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they passed, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
At times the passion-kindled melody

Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,

Over the wild sea-wave ;-at times the strain
Flowed with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes with its melancholy swell
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre. Yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant-" Leave me not!" was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,

Its own still world amidst the o'erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.

"THEY crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;

I hear the pealing music of renown-
O Love! forsake me not!

Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee !

"They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;

From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes,

It gives to flower and skies

A bright, new birth!

"Thence gleams the path of morning

Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning With lustre not its own!

Thence every wood-recess

Is filled with loveliness,

Each bower, to ringdoves and dim violets known.

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE

"I see all beauty by the ray

That streameth from thy smile;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with the alloy

Of fear midst quivering joy.

Yet must I perish if the gift depart-
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

"The music from my lyre

With thy swift step would flee;

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The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul-a temple filled with thee !

Sealed would the fountains lie,

The waves of harmony,

Which thou alone canst free!

"Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled:
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scattered,
Such would my spirit be-

So mute, so void, so shattered,
Bereft of thee !

"Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,

If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers Come!