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My spirit yearns to bring
The lost ones back-yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
In vain-thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart;
Thou giv'st them back-nor to the broken heart.
In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown-to thee
Labours of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,— Love, that midst grief began, grew with years,
and faltered not in death.
Full many a mighty name
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
Thine for a space are they—
Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!
All that of good and fair
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
The glory and the beauty of its prime.
They have not perished-no!
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat.
All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again ;
Alone shall Evil die,
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young.
"UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD."
UPON the mountain's distant head,
With trackless snows for ever white,
But far below those icy rocks,
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
But lingers with the cold and stern.
THE EVENING WIND.
SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their
Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep: And they who stand about the sick man's bea,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
Go-but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;