And we will dream it is thy joy we hear, No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours--- TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. "Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti ! Risvegliate in vane 'l cor che non può liberarsi." WHEREFORE and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, Be still, triumphant harmony! be still! Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling To mount so high yet find on high no dwelling, No sounds for earth ?—Yes, to young chieftain dying With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, Well might'st thou speak of fame's high guerdon won. No sounds for earth ?-Yes, for the martyr leading For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating Be hush'd, or breathe of grief!-of exile yearnings Breathe of deep love-a lonely vigil keeping Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to pine ; Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heaping, In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing SECOND SIGHT SECOND SIGHT. "Ne'er err'd the prophet heart that grief inspired, Though joy's illusions mock their votarist."—Maturin. A MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends! A murmur of the soul which blends An eye that through the triumph's hour And dwells upon the faded flower Ye smile to view fair faces bloom I see the wither'd garlands lie While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly I see the blood-red future stain On the warrior's gorgeous crest; The thunder of the seas I hear, When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer 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- Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 269 THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND. Thy path is not as mine ;--where thou art blest, HATH the summer's breath on the south-wind borne, Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves, Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird! -The proud bird rose as the words were said- He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, -Oh! who shall say, to a spirit free, * There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?" THE SLEEPER. "For sleep is awful."-Byron OH! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep, On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep. A holy thing from Heaven, THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 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, Of woods with all their leaves; A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams:— Long may her sojourn be In the music land of dreams! Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fairOh! lightly, lightly tread! THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 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-- It is, with the scatter'd garlands With the melodies of buried lyres; And for all the gorgeous pageants, Now, dim, forsaken mirror, The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, 971 And thus with man's proud spirit When the forms and hues of this world fade And his heart's long-troubled waters Reflecting but the images Of the solemn world on high, FROM the deep chambers of a mine. I had not seen it 'midst the glow And still, the farther from my sight Oh! what is like that heavenly spark? Where, brightest when the world grows dark, |