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Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
TO M. L. S
F all who hail thy presence as the morning
Of 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!” At the soft-inurmured words that were fulfilled In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes — Of all who owe thee most - whose gratitude Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember The truest -- the most fervently devoted, And think that these weak lines are written by him By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think 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-
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness—for then
In life before thee are again
The night—tho'clear-shall frown-
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish-
The breeze—the breath of God-is still-
ELEN, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
To the glory that was Greece
brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand ! The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which
ROM childhood's hour I have not been
As others were I have not seen
As others saw-I could not bring