I hear the still small moan of time,
Through the ivy branches made,
Where the palace, in its glory's prime,
With the sunshine stands array'd.

The thunder of the seas I hear,

The shriek along the wave,

When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer Salute the parting brave.

With every breeze a spirit sends
To me some warning sign :-
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!

Oh! prophet heart! thy grief, thy power,
To all deep souls belong;

The shadow in the sunny hour,

The wail in the mirthful song.

Their sight is all too sadly clear-
For them a veil is riven:

Their piercing thoughts repose not here,

Their home is but in Heaven.

THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.

155

THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.

Thy path is not as mine;-where thou art blest,
My spirit would but wither; mine own grief

Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing,

Than all thy happiness.

HATH the summer's breath on the south-wind borne,
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn?
Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves,
To the river shores where the osier waves?

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell,
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell?
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread,
And the heath like a royal robe is spread?

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird!
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard,
With the dancing of waters through copse and dell,
And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell.

Thou hast done well:-Oh! the seas are lone,
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone;
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells,
Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells.

-The proud bird rose as the words were said—
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head,
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain,
Spoke him a child of the haughty main.

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast,
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest:
-Oh! who shall say, to a spirit free,

"There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?"

THE SLEEPER.

"For sleep is awful."

OH! lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep,
On the worn spirit shed,

BYRON.

And eyes that wake to weep.

A holy thing from Heaven,
A gracious dewy cloud,
A covering mantle given
The weary to enshroud.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
Revere the pale still brow,
The meekly-drooping head,
The long hair's willowy flow.

Ye know not what ye do,

That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you Unto life's dim faded track.

Her soul is far away,

In her childhood's land, perchance,

Where her young sisters play,

Where shines her mother's glance.

Some old sweet native sound

Her spirit haply weaves;

A harmony profound

Of woods with all their leaves;

O, DIM, forsaken mirror!

How many a stately throng

Hath o'er thee gleam'd, in vanish'd hours
Of the wine-cup and the song!

The song hath left no echo;

The bright wine hath been quaff'd; And hush'd is every silvery voice

That lightly here hath laugh'd.

Oh! mirror, lonely mirror,

Thou of the silent hall!

Thou hast been flush'd with beauty's bloom

Is this, too, vanish'd all?

It is, with the scatter'd garlands

Of triumphs long ago;

With the melodies of buried lyres;
With the faded rainbow's glow.

And for all the gorgeous pageants, For the glance of gem and plume, For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, And vase of rich perfume.

Now, dim, forsaken mirror,

Thou givest but faintly back
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon,
On her solitary track.

And thus with man's proud spirit

Thou tellest me 'twill be,

When the forms and hues of this world fade
From his memory, as from thee:

And his heart's long-troubled waters
At last in stillness lie,

Reflecting but the images

Of the solemn world on high.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON,
THE QUAKER POET.

HAPPY thou art, the child of one
Who in each lowly flower,
Each leaf that glances to the sun,
Or trembles with the shower;

In each soft shadow of the sky,
Or sparkle of the stream,
Will guide thy kindling spirit's eye
To trace the Love Supreme.