Where is the place of your abode, ye dead? That gathers moss above your bed of rest, How still-how soft-and yet how dread is all The scene around!-the silent earth and air! What glorious lamps are hung in Night's high hall! Her dome-so vast, magnificent, and fair! Oh! for an angel's wing to waft me there! How sweet, methinks, e'en for one little day, To leave this cold, dull sphere of cloud and care, And, midst the immortal bowers above, to stray In lands of light and love-unblighted by decay! Surely there is a language in the sky- As the toss'd bark, amidst the ocean's foam, wave; So from life's troubled sea, o'er which we roam, The stars, like beacon-lights beyond the grave, Shine through the deep, o'er which our barks we hope to save! Now gleams the moon on Arthur's mighty crest, That dweller of the air-abrupt and lone; Hush'd is the city in her nightly rest; But hark!-there comes a sweet and solemn tone, The lingering strains, that swell'd in ages gone, The music of the wake-oh! many an ear, Raised from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown, Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear, As recollections rise of many a vanish'd year. It speaks of former scenes-of days gone byOf early friendships-of the loved and lostAnd wakes such music in the heart, as sigh Of evening wooes from harp-strings gently crost; And thoughts and feelings crowd-a varied host, O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deep, Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost, Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep, And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep! BARRY CORNWALL. SONG. THOU shalt sing to me When the waves are sleeping, Thou shalt sing by night, When no birds are calling, And the stars are falling Brightly from their mansions bright. Of those thy song shall tell But we'll not profane Such a gentle hour, Nor our favourite bower, WOMAN. GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom, And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled, Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power, And the crowds that swore for her love to die, 'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE MARINER'S SONG. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, "O! for a soft and gentle wind,” But give to me the snoring breeze, There's tempest in yon horned moon, BOWRING. FROM THE SERVIAN. AGAINST White Buda's walls a vine And O! they must be sever'd now; And these their farewell words :-" We part! Some rose-branch blushing on the tree, So fades my sinking heart in thine." |