Thou hast look'd on Death, and smiled!
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form,
Thro' the waves of the fight, thro' the rush of the storm
On field, and flood, and wild!

No!-Thou art the victor, Death!

Thou comest, and where is that which spoke,
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ?
--Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest--and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves-yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art!
Silently there must kindred meet,
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet,
No bounding of heart to heart!

Boast not thy victory, Death!

It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power,
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower,
That slumber, the snow beneath.

It is but as a tyrant's reign

O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still:
But the fiery thought and the lofty will,

Are not for him to chain!

They shall soar his might above!

And thus with the root whence affection springs,
Though buried, it is not of mortal things-
Thou art the victor, Love!

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM AT ROSANNA.*

OH! lightly tread through these deep chestnut-bowers
Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved!
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and flowers,
Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath loved!
A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode,

Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops flow'd.

And bid its memory sanctify the scene!

And let th' ideal presence of the dead

Float round, and touch the woods with softer green,
And o'er the stream a charm, like moonlight, shed;

Through the soul's depths in holy silence felt

A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt.

A beautiful place in the county of Wicklow, formerly the abode

of the authoress of "Psyche."

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES.

319

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES

WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK.

"How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, No mood, which season takes away or brings,

I could have fancied that the mighty deep

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

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But welcome fortitude and patient cheer,

And frequent sights of what is to be borne."
Wordsworth.

ANSWER, ye chiming waves

That now in sunshine sweep;

Speak to me from thy hidden caves
Voice of the solemn deep!

Hath man's lone spirit here

With storms in battle striven? Where all is now so calmly clear, Hath anguish cried to heaven? -Then the sea's voice arose,

Like an earthquake's under-tone:
"Mortal, the strife of human woes
Where hath not nature known?
"Here to the quivering mast
Despair hath wildly clung,

The shriek upon the wind hath pass'd,
The midnight sky hath rung.
"And the youthful and the brave,
With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
In darkness have gone down.

They are vanish'd from their place

Let their homes and hearths make moar !

But the rolling waters keep no trace

Of pang or conflict gone."

-Alas! thou haughty deep!
The strong, the sounding far!

My heart before thee dies,-I weep
To think on what we are!

To think that so we pass,

High hope, and thought, and mind,
Even as the breath-stain from the glass,
Leaving no sign behind!

Saw'st thou nought else, thou main ?
Thou and the midnight sky?

Nought save the struggle, brief and vain,
The parting agony!

-And the sea's voice replied,

"Here nobler things have been! Power with the valiant when they died, To sanctify the scene:

"Courage, in fragile form,

Faith trusting to the last,

Prayer, breathing heavenward through the storm, But all alike have pass'd."

Sound on, thou haughty sea!

These have not pass'd in vain;

My soul awakes, my hope springs free
On victor wings again.

Thou, from thine empire driven,
May'st vanish with thy powers;
But, by the hearts that here have striven,
A loftier doom is ours.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

"I seem like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but me departed."-Moore

SEE'ST thou yon grey gleaming hall,
Where the deep elm-shadows fall?
Voices that have left the earth
Long ago,

Still are murmuring round its hearth,
Soft and low:

Ever there; yet one alone
Hath the gift to hear their tone.
Guests come thither, and depart,
Free of step and light of heart;
Children, with sweet visions bless'd,
In the haunted chambers rest;
One alone unslumbering lies
When the night hath seal'd all eyes,
One quick heart and watchful ear,
Listening for those whispers clear.

See'st thou where the woodbine flowers
O'er yon low porch hang in showers?
Startling faces of the dead,

Pale, yet sweet,

One lone woman's entering tread
There still meet!

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS

Some with young smooth foreheads fair,
Faintly shining through bright hair;
Some with reverend locks of snow-
All, all buried long ago!

All, from under deep sea-waves,
Or the flowers of foreign graves,
Or the old and banner'd aisle,

Where their high tombs gleam the while;
Rising, wandering, floating by,
Suddenly and silently,

Through their earthly home and place,
But amidst another race.

Wherefore, unto one alone,

Are those sounds and visions known?
Wherefore hath that spell of power
Dark and dread,

On her soul, a baleful dower,
Thus been shed?

Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes,
No strange gift of mystery lies!
She is lone where once she moved,
Fair, and happy, and beloved!

Sunny smiles were glancing round her,
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her.
Now those silver chords are broken,
Those bright looks have left no token;
Not one trace on all the earth,
Save her memory of their mirth.
She is lone and lingering now,
Dreams have gather'd o'er her brow,
'Midst gay songs and children's play,
She is dwelling far away

Seeing what none else may see-
Haunted still her place must be !

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS

"God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause

A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!"

SINGING of the free blue sky

And the wild-flower glens that lie

Far amidst the ancient hills,
Which the fountain music fills;
Singing of the snow-peaks bright,
And the royal eagle's flight,
And the courage and the grace
Foster'd by the chamois-chase;

Coleridge

324

In is fetters, day by day,
So the Shepherd-poet lay,
Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell
Did those notes of freedom swell,
Breathing sadness not their own,
Forth with every Alpine tone?
Wherefore!--can a tyrant's ear
Brook the mountain-winds to hear
When each blast goes pealing by
With a song of liberty?

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand
O'er the Shepherd-poet's land;
Sounding there the waters gush'd,
While the lip of man was hush'd;
There the falcon pierced the cloud,
While the fiery heart was bow'd:
But this might not long endure,
Where the mountain-homes were pure;
And a valiant voice arose,

Thrilling all the silent snows;
His-now singing far and lone,

Where the young breeze ne'er was known
Singing of the glad blue sky,

Wildly and how mournfully!

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer
To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire?
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past,
Now that their poet chain'd at last?
Think of the mountains, and deem not so!
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow!
Yes! though forbidden be every word
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd,
Yet even as a buried stream through earth
Rolls on to another and brighter birth,
So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die,
Burst forth with the anthem of liberty!

And another power is moving
In a bosom fondly loving:-
Oh! a sister's heart is deep,
And her spirit strong to keep
Each light link of early hours,

All sweet scents of childhood's flowers!
Thus each lay by Erni sung,
Rocks and crystal caves among,
Or beneath the linden-leaves,
Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves,
Rapid though as bird-notes gushing,
Transient as a wan-cheek's flushing,
Each in young Teresa's breast
Left its fiery words impress'd;