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Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone

Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,

The thrilling notes of birds,

Can never be so dear to me

As their remember'd words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.

I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.





Now the growing year is over,
And the shepherd's tinkling bell
Faintly from its winter cover
Rings a low farewell :-
Now the birds of Autumn shiver,
Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver,

O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,

Reddening in the rising sun;

Now the flowers around the fountains

Perish one by one:

Not a spire of grass is growing,
But the leaves that late were glowing,
Now its blighted green are strowing
With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing
Faintly down the furrow'd glade
Not as when in winter pealing,
Such a din is made,

That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,

As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.

Darkly blue the mist is hovering

Round the clifted rock's bare height— All the bordering mountains covering

With a dim, uncertain light :


Now, a fresher wind prevailing,
Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding
Through the still and hazy air,
Like a sheeted spectre gliding
In a torch's glare:-

Few the hours, her light is given-
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.



WHERE art thou? Thou! Source and Support of all That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,

Unfelt, unknown-alas! unknowable!

I look abroad among thy works: the sky,
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,
And speaking winds, and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air-
Though hail'd as gods of old, and only less-
Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not Thee!
I ask Thee from the past; if in the years,
Since first Intelligence could search its source,
Or in some former, unremember'd being

(If such, perchance, were mine), did they behold Thee?




And next interrogate Futurity

So fondly tenanted with better things

Than e'er experience own'd-but both are mute;
And past and future, vocal on all else,
So full of memories and phantasies,

Are deaf and speechless here? Fatigued, I turn
From all vain parley with the elements ;

And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward.
From each material thing its anxious guest,

If, in the stillness of the waiting soul,

He may vouchsafe himself, Spirit to spirit!
Oh Thou, at once most dreaded and desired,
Pavilion'd still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee?
What though the rash request be fraught with fate,
Nor human eye may look on thine and live?
Welcome the penalty! let that come now

Which soon or late must come.

Who would not dare to die?

For light like this

Peace, my proud aim,

And hush the wish that knows not what it asks.

Await his will, who hath appointed this

With every other trial. Be that will

Done now as ever. For thy curious search,
And unprepared solicitude to gaze

On Him-the Unreveal'd-learn hence, instead,
To temper highest hope with humbleness.
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts,
Till rent the veil, no longer separating
The holiest of all; as erst disclosing
A brighter dispensation; whose results
Ineffable, interminable, tend

E'en to the perfecting thyself, thy kind,
Till meet for that sublime beatitude,
By the firm promise of a voice from heaven
Pledged to the pure in heart!



Go forth into the fields,

Ye denizens of the pent city's mart!
Go forth and know the gladness nature yields
To the care-wearied heart.

Leave ye the feverish strife,

The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng;—
Ten thousand voices, waked anew to life,
Call you with sweetest song.

Hark! from each fresh-clad bough,

Or blissful soaring in the golden air,
Bright birds with joyous music bid you now
To spring's loved haunts repair.

The silvery gleaming rills

Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea,
Or gayly dancing down the sunny hills,
Call loudly in their glee!

And the young, wanton breeze,

With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase,
In voice low whispering 'mong th' embowering trees,
Woos you to her embrace.

Go-breathe the air of heaven,

Where violets meekly smile upon your way;
Or on some pine-crown'd summit, tempest-riven,
Your wandering footsteps stay.

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