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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.


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 spirits of the dead who stood

In life before thee are again
In death around thee-and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night—tho'clear-shall frown-
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given-
But their red orbs, without beam,
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.

The breeze—the breath of God-is still-
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy-shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token-
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries !


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,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in


brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand ! The agate lamp within thy hand,

Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land !


ROM childhood's hour I have not been

As others were I have not seen

As others saw-I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov’d, I lov'd alone.
Thenin my childhood-in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still :
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that 'round me rollid
In its autumn tint of gold-
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by-
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.


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