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Had mounted to the cherubim,

Or to the pillars thinly clung; And boyish chorister replaced

The missal that was read no more, And closed, with half-irreverent haste, Confessional and chancel-door; And as, through aisle and oriel pane,

The sun wore round his slanting beam, The dying martyr stirr'd again,

And warriors battled in its gleam;
And costly tomb and sculptured knight
Show'd warm and wondrous in the light.
I have not said that MELANIE
Was radiantly fair-

This earth again may never see
A loveliness so rare!
She glided up St. Mona's aisle

That morning as a bride,

And, full as was my heart the while,
I bless'd her in my pride!

The fountain may not fail the less
Whose sands are golden ore,
And a sister for her loveliness
May not be loved the more;
But

as,

the fount's full heart beneath,
Those golden sparkles shine,
My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe
Its brightness over mine!

St. Mona has a chapel dim

Within the altar's fretted pale,

Where faintly comes the swelling hymn,
And dies, half-lost, the anthem's wail.
And here, in twilight meet for prayer,
A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine,
And RAPHAEL'S MARY, soft and fair,

Looks down with sweetness half-divine,
And here St. Mona's nuns alway
Through latticed bars are seen to pray.
Ave and sacrament were o'er,

And ANGELO and MELANIE
Still knelt the holy shrine before;

But prayer, that morn, was not for me!
My heart was lock'd! The lip might stir,
The frame might agonize-and yet,
O GOD! I could not pray for her!
A seal upon my soul was set-
My brow was hot--my brain opprest--

And fiends seem'd muttering round, "Your bridal is unblest!"

With forehead to the lattice laid,

And thin, white fingers straining through,
A nun the while had softly pray'd.

(), e'en in prayer that voice I knew!
Each faltering word, each mournful tone,
Each pleading cadence, half-suppress'd-
Such music had its like alone

On lips that stole it at her breast!
And ere the orison was done

I loved the mother as the son!

And now, the marriage-vow to hear,
The nun unveil'd her brow;
When, sudden, to my startled ear,
There crept a whisper, hoarse, like fear,
"DE BREVERN! is it thou!"

The priest let fall the golden ring,

The bridegroom stood aghast;
While, like some wierd and frantic thing,
The nun was muttering fast;

And as, in dread, I nearer drew,
She thrust her arms the lattice through,
And held me to her straining view;

But suddenly begun

To steal upon her brain a light,
That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight,
And, with a mouth all ashy white,

She shriek'd, "It is his son!

The bridegroom is thy blood-thy brother! RODOLPH DE BREVERN wrong'd his mother!" And, as that doom of love was heard,

My sister sunk, and died, without a sign or word!

I shed no tear for her. She died With her last sunshine in her eyes. Earth held for her no joy beside

The hope just shatter'd, and she lies
In a green nook of yonder dell;
And near her, in a newer bed,

Her lover-brother-sleeps as well!
Peace to the broken-hearted dead!

THE CONFESSIONAL.

I THOUGHT of thee-I thought of thee
On ocean many a weary night,
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,

We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,

We flew beneath the straining sail,But thou wert lost for years to me, And day and night I thought of thee! I thought of thee-I thought of thee In France, amid the gay saloon, Where eyes as dark as eyes may be Are many as the leaves in June: Where life is love, and e'en the air

Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, And song, and dance, and music are

With one warm meaning only fraught, My half-snared heart broke lightly free, And, with a blush, I thought of thee!

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Florence, where the fiery hearts
Of Italy are breathed away

In wonders of the deathless arts;
Where strays the Contadina, down
Val d'Arno, with song of old;
Where clime and women seldom frown,
And life runs over sands of gold;

I stray'd to lonely Fiesole,

On many an eve, and thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Rome, when, on the Palatine,
Night left the Cesar's palace free
To Time's forgetful foot and mine.

Or, on the Coliseum's wall,

When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone, Reclining, with a thought of all

That o'er this scene hath come and gone, The shades of Rome would start and flee Unconsciously-I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,

By life's rude changes humbler made.
Here MILTON framed his Paradise;

I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,

I thought the cowl would fit me well;
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me,
Of heart's-ease-but I thought of thee.
I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Venice, on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,
Like dust of silver, slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,

And, as the black barks glided by,
The water, to my leaning ear,

Bore back the lover's passing sigh; It was no place alone to be,

I thought of thee-I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In the Ionian isles, when straying
With wise ULYSSES by the sea,

Old HOMER's songs around me playing; Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,

That o'er the star-lit waters flew, I listen'd to the helmsman Greek,

Who sung the song that SAPPHо knew:
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd as I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Greece, when rose the Parthenon
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,

And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where LAIS and LEONTIUM stray'd
Discussing PLATO's mystic theme,

I lay at noontide in the shade-
The Egean wind, the whispering tree
Had voices-and I thought of thee.
I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Asia, on the Dardanelles,
Where, swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank

Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless HELEN drank,
And VENUS laved her locks of gold,)
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,

All palace-lined from sea to sea:

And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious east are seen,
Printing the brink with slipper'd feet,

And, O, the snowy folds between,

What eyes of heaven your glances meet! Peris of light no fairer be,

Yet, in Stamboul, I thought of thee.

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee, Through change that teaches to forget; Thy face looks up from every sea,

In every star thine eyes are set. Though roving beneath orient skies, Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, I envy every bird that flies

Into the far and clouded west;

I think of thee-I think of thee!
O, dearest! hast thou thought of me!

LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE.
BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast,
Fling out your field of azure blue;
Let star and stripe be westward cast,

And point as Freedom's eagle flew!
Strain home! O lithe and quivering spars!
Point home, my country's flag of stars!

The wind blows fair, the vessel feels

The pressure of the rising breeze, And, swiftest of a thousand keels,

She leaps to the careering seas! O, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail,

In whose white breast I seem to lie, How oft, when blew this eastern gale,

I've seen your semblance in the sky,
And long'd, with breaking heart, to flee
On such white pinions o'er the sea!
Adieu, O lands of fame and eld!

I turn to watch our foamy track,
And thoughts with which I first beheld
Yon clouded line, come hurrying back;
My lips are dry with vague desire,

My cheek once more is hot with joy;
My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire!

O, what has changed that traveller-boy! As leaves the ship this dying foam, [home! His visions fade behind-his weary heart speeds

Adieu, O soft and southern shore,

Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven; Those forms of beauty, seen no more,

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given!

O, still the enamour'd sun delays,

And pries through fount and crumbling fane, To win to his adoring gaze

Those children of the sky again!
Irradiate beauty, such as never

That light on other earth hath shone,
Hath made this land her home forever;
And, could I live for this alone,
Were not my birthright brighter far

Than such voluptuous slave's can be;
Held not the west one glorious star,

New-born and blazing for the free, Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet, Rome, with her helot sons, should teach me to forget!

Adieu, O, fatherland! I see

Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim,
And, though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
As knows the dove the task you give her,
When loosed upon a foreign shore;
As spreads the rain-drop in the river

In which it may have flow'd before-
To England, over vale and mountain,

My fancy flew from climes more fair, My blood, that knew its parent fountain, Ran warm and fast in England's air.

My mother! in thy prayer to-night

There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the light,

Comes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner,

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The ear of Heaven bends low to her!

He comes to shore who sails with me!
The wind-toss'd spider needs no token

How stands the tree when lightnings blaze:
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken,
I know my mother lives and prays!

Dear mother! when our lips can speak,
When first our tears will let us see,
When I can gaze upon thy cheek,

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me—

'T will be a pastime little sad

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers

Upon each other's forms have had;

For all may flee, so feeling lingers! But there's a change, beloved mother, To stir far deeper thoughts of thine;

I come-but with me comes another,

To share the heart once only mine!
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely,
One star arose in memory's heaven;
Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only,
Water'd one flower with tears at even:
Room in thy heart! The hearth she left
Is darken'd to make light to ours!
There are bright flowers of care bereft,

And hearts that languish more than flowers;
She was their light, their very air-
[prayer!
Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy

SPRING.

THE Spring is here, the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours;
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods;
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

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I KNOW not if the sunshine waste,
The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, O! so leaden-paced!

The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair;
A weight is in the summer air,

And sadness in the sight of flowers;
And if I go where others smile,

Their love but makes me think of ours,
And Heaven gets my heart the while.
Like one upon a desert isle,

I languish of the dreary hours;

I never thought a life could be

So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee!

I sit and watch the summer sky:

There comes a cloud through heaven alone; A thousand stars are shining nigh, It feels no light, but darkles on! Yet now it nears the lovelier moon, And, flashing through its fringe of snow, There steals a rosier dye, and soon

Its bosom is one fiery glow! The queen of life within it lies,

Yet mark how lovers meet to part: The cloud already onward flies,

And shadows sink into its heart; And (dost thou see them where thou art?) Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes! Its light, like mine, is seen no more, And, like my own, its heart seems darker than

before.

Where press, this hour, those fairy feet?
Where look, this hour, those eyes of blue?
What music in thine ear is sweet?

What odour breathes thy lattice through?
What word is on thy lip? What tone,
What look, replying to thine own?
Thy steps along the Danube stray,

Alas, it seeks an orient sea!
Thou wouldst not seem so far away,
Flow'd but its waters back to me!
I bless the slowly-coming moon,
Because its eye look'd late in thine;

I envy the west wind of June,

Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine. The flower I press upon my brow

Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now!

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty. Earth received again
Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,
And every thing that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad
To the dejected HAGAR. The moist earth
Was pouring odours from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were singing, as if life
Were a new thing to them; but, O! it came
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.

She stood at ABRAHAM's tent Her lips were press'd
Till the blood started; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out,
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long lashes, as it had been flame.
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor,
Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up
Into his mother's face, until he caught

The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form
Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swell'd,
Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man.
Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and on his high brow,
So written with the converse of his GoD,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigour is not there; and, though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.
O, man may bear with suffering: his heart
Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp
Of pain, that wrings mortality; but tear
One chord affection clings to, part one tie
That binds him to a woman's delicate love,
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand
In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should HAGAR weep? May slighted woman turn,
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her leaning trust again?
O, no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness,-yet give

One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.

But, O! estrange her once--it boots not how-
By wrong or silence, any thing that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness-
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.

She went her way with a strong step and slow Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm`d, As it had been a diamond, and her form

Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through
Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd
His hand till it was pain'd: for he had caught,
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest; but HAGAR found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy
Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,-
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why Gon denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grew
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd:
"Gon stay thee in thine agony, my boy!

I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle-joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this when thou wert straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers;

Or wearing rosy hours,

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"O, no! and when I watch'd by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,
How pray'd I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And, O! my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there
Upon his clustering hair!"

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She stood beside the well her Gon had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laugh'd
In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd

His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

THOUGHTS

WHILE MAKING A GRAVE FOR A FIRST CHILD, BORN DEAD.

Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven!
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But, lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep, O, mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away.

One look upon her face ere she depart!
My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!

My daughter! with thy birth has gush'd a spring
I knew not of: filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee!
A love-O, God, it seems so-which must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain,
Drawing me after thee! And so farewell!
'Tis a harsh world in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost

But the lone grave! Thou, who so late was sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving,
But it was sent thee with some tender thought-
How can I leave thee here! Alas, for man!
The herb in its humility may fall,
And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we, by hands that minister'd in life
Nothing but love to us, are thrust away,
The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead us to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone;
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters;
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers;
And, far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort, and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies
Robb'd of her child, and lonely. "T is the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone!
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
its images from all the silent rooms,

And every sight and sound familiar to her
Undo its sweetest link; and so, at last,
The fountain that, once loosed, must flow forever,
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens its buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say,

A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away!

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.
"T is a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,"
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,-
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smoothe his breast,
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen!
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar,
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smoothe thy feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;

I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)
And, while the world throngs on beneath,
Smoothe down my cares and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirr'd, to knell or chimne,
And, lapp'd in quiet, bide my time.

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