Every moment of the night — With the breath from their pale faces. One more filmy than the rest They have found to be the best) Comes down-still down- and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain's eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be O'er the strange woods- - o'er the sea — Over spirits on the wing Over every drowsy thing - And then, how deep!-oh, deep Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more Which I think extravagant: BIS IN spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, Thenah, then I would awake Nor Love although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave, And its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake. SONG. SAW thee on the bridal day, When a burning blush came o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee: And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame As such it well may pass · Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o'er thee, TO M. L. S F all who hail thy presence as the morningOf all to whom thine absence is the night The blotting utterly from out high heaven The sacred sun of all who, weeping, bless thee Hourly for hope for life — ah! above all, For the resurrection of deep-buried faith In Truth in Virtue in Humanity Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!" His spirit is communing with an angel's. SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. HY soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secresy. Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness-for then The night-tho' clear-shall frown- To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee forever. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— Now are visions ne'er to vanish From thy spirit shall they pass No more-like dew-drops from the grass. |