A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 201 Is not thy very soul Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, And would'st thou bear all this- Not thus, not thus-oh, no! Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care, But as the skylark springs To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, Vainly it shall not strive There on weak words to pour a stream of fire; Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, As light might wake a lyre. And oh its blessings there, Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear head, Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, A joy of sunlight shed. Let me, then-let me dream That love goes with us to the shore unknown; THE VOICE OF MUSIC. "Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” Childe Harold. WHENCE is the might of thy master-spell? How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh, What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee, Vain are those tears!-vain and fruitless all- Something of mystery there surely dwells, Therefore a current of sadness deep, Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky – Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high! THE ANGEL'S GREETING. 203 Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught THE ANGEL'S GREETING. "Hark! they whisper! - Angels say, Sister spirit, come away." COME to the land of peace! POPE. Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Come to the bright, and blest, And crown'd for ever! 'midst that shining band, Gather'd to Heaven's own wreath from every land, Thy spirit shall find rest! Thou hast been long alone: Come to thy mother!-on the Sabbath shore, In silence wert thou left: Come to thy sisters!-joyously again All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, Over thine orphan head The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough: In thy divine abode, Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory-death by love no place: Come, spirit, to thy God! A FAREWELL TO WALES. FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE ASH GROVE,” ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN. THE Sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear— Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain-air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand! From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead! I bless thee!-yet not for the beauty which dwells In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells, Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore; IMPROMPTU LINES. 205 And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled, -Green land, poet land of my home and my dead! I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes! May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead! IMPROMPTU LINES, ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS. YE tell me not of birds and bees, Glad tidings to my couch ye bring, In a friend's heart, the good and true. |