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THE RUIN.

Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,

She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

THE RUIN.

"Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life
Making a truth and beauty of its own."

Wordsworth.

"Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it."

No dower of storied song is thine,

O desolate abode !

Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow'd.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.

Guesses at Truth.

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here
By courtly hands been dress'd,
For princes, from the chase of deer,
Under green leaves to rest;
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,

Tells where the spirit of delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty's lot,

House of quench'd light and silent board!

For me thou needest not.

It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link'd one kindred band.

Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
-A solemnizing breath,

A presence all around thee dwells,
Of human life and death.

I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,

To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!
Deserted now by all!

Voices at eve here met in mirth

Which eve may ne'er recall.

Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,

And childhood's laughing glee,

--་ ་མན་ — -- ---- ་

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And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd
Upon the infant head,

As if in every fervent word

The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away-
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where nought beloved can stay!
Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept,

Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept ;
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been mark'd and mourn'd,
And time hath fill'd the vacant place,
And gladness hath return'd;

Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp'd one by one!
And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause, then-cause for thought,
Fix'd eye and lingering tread,

Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled ?

Where, in its ever-haunting thirst

For draughts of purer day,

Man's soul, with fiful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?

Holy to human nature seems
The long-forsaken spot;

To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!

Therefore in silent reverence here,

Hearth of the dead! I stand,

Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,

Have link'd one household band,

THE MINSTER.

"A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of immortality."—Byron.

SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer;

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death

Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:
Stern, yet serene !-a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile!

-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous glcom:
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high;
Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry :-
Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord

Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd
Their anguish forth, are with me and around
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!

That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head
And thou, still battling with the tempest's force-
Thou, whose bright spirit through all time hast bled-
Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace!
-Doth not this hush give answer to my quest
Surely the dread religion of the place

By every grief hath made its might confest!
-Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

THE SONG OF NIGHT.*

"O night,

And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!"

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew

The glory of its birth.

Byron

* Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented un der the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms.

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པ་ཆ 1 =སྐར་ག*་ས་“་ ཐ་་་་

Not one which glimmering lies

Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star;

Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace:—I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones-
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings,

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb :
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train;

Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead-
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes

These are my lightnings-fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control,

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!-the arm'd, the strong-
The searcher of the soul!

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.

I, that shower dewy light

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Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest-birth
Of memory, thought, remorse :-Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night!

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.*

"Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal?
Are ye like those that shake the human breast?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?"
Childe Harold.

MIDNIGHT, and silence deep!
-The air is fill'd with sleep,

With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath;
The fix'd and solemn stars ·

Gleam through my dungeon bars

Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!
Ye watch-fires of the skies!
The stillness of your eyes

Looks too intensely through my troubled soul;
I feel this weight of rest

An earth-load on my breast

Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!
I am your own, your child,
O ye, the fierce, and wild,

And kingly tempests!-will ye not arise?
Hear the bold spirit's voice,

That knows not to rejoice

But in the peal of your strong harmonies.

By sounding ocean-waves,
And dim Calabrian caves,

And flashing torrents, I have been your mate;
And with the rocking pines

Of the olden Apennines,

In your dark path stood fearless and elate:

Your lightnings were as rods,

That smote the deep abodes

Of thought and vision-and the stream gush'd free;
Come, that my

soul again

May swell to burst its chain

Bring me the music of the sweeping sea!

*Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness-fired by lightning-now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprison. ment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.-See LANZI'S History of Painting, translated by Roscoe.

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