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WEARINESS.

O little hearts ! that throb and beat

With such impatient, feverish heat, O LITTLE feet ! that such long years Such limitless and strong desires ; Must wander on through hopes and fears, Mine that so long has glowed an Must ache and bleed beneath your burned, load;

With passions into ashes turned I, nearer to the wayside inn

Now covers and conceals its fires. Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Ain weary, thinking of your road !

O little souls ! as pure and white O little hands ! that, weak or strong, And crystalline as rays of light Have still to serve or rule so long,

Direct from heaven, their source di Have still so long to give or ask ; I, who so much with book and pen Refracted through the mist of years, Have toiled among my fellow-men, How red my setting sun appears,

Am weary, thinking of your task. How lurid looks this soul of mine !

vine;

FLIGHT THE THIRD.

FATA MORGANA.

On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

There are whispers along the walls !

And mine at times is haunted

By phantoms of the Past,
As motionless as shadows

By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,

That is not seen by day,
For as soon as the dawn approaches

It vanishes away.

O SWEET illusions of Song,

That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng

Of the crowded thoroughfare !
I approach, and ye vanish away,

I grasp you, and ye are gone ; But ever by night and by day,

The melody soundeth on.
As the weary traveller sees

In desert or prairie vast,
Blue lakes, overhung with trees,

That a pleasant shadow cast ;
Fair towns with turrets high,

And shining roofs of gold, That vanish as he draws nigh,

Like mists together rolled, So I wander and wander along,

And forever before me gleams The shining city of song,

In the beautiful land of dreams.
But when I would enter the gate

Of that golden atmosphere,
It is gone, and I wander and wait

For the vision to reappear.

It sits there in the moonlight,

Itself as pale and still,
And points with its airy finger

Across the window-sill.

Withont, before the window,

There stands a gloomy pine,
Whose boughs wave upward and down-

ward
As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches

Is the grave of a little child,
Who died upon life's threshold,

And never wept nor smiled.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. Each heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent moonlight falls !

What are ye, O pallid phantoms !

That haunt my troubled brain ?
That vanish when day approaches,

And at night return again?

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“O LITTLE FEET ! THAT SUCH LONG YEARS MUST WANDER ON.” – Page 228.

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