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And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door: And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the
Shall be lifted-Nevermore!
O, DWELLERS in the valley land,
Who in deep twilight grope and cower,
Till the slow mountain's dial-hand
Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,—
sit idle, do ye think
The Lord's great work is idle too?
That light dare not o'erleap the brink
Of morn, because 'tis dark with you?
Though yet your valleys sleep in night,
In God's ripe fields the day is cried,
And reapers, with their sickles bright,
Troop, singing, down the mountain side;
Come up, and feel what health there is
In the frank dawn's delighted eyes
As, bending with a pitying kiss,
The night-shed tears of earth she dries!
The Lord wants reapers; O, mount up
Before night comes, and says
Stay not for taking scrip or cup,
The Master hungers while ye wait;
"Tis from these heights alone your eyes
The advancing spears of Day can see,
Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise,
To break your long captivity.
Lone watcher on the mountain height,
It is right precious to behold
The first long surf of glorious light
Flood all the thirsty east with gold!
But we who in the shadow sit,
Know also when the day is nigh,
Seeing thy shining forehead lit
With his inspiring prophecy.
Thou hast thine office; we have ours;
God lacks not early service here,
But what are thine eleventh hours?
He counts with us for morning cheer.
Our day for Him is long enough,
And when he giveth work to do
The bruised reed is amply tough
To pierce the shield of error through.
But not the less do thou aspire
Light's earlier messages to preach;
Keep back no syllable of fire,-
Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.
Yet God deems not thine aeried sight
More worthy than our twilight dim,
For meek obedience, too, is light,
And following that is following Him.
THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.
One of Mrs. HEMANS's truthful and natural poems. THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls; and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, That might beseem a mother's; on her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
These may be dreams; but how shall woman tell
Of woman's shame, and not with tears? She fell!
That mother left her child! went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply not without a sigh,-
Haply one moment o'er its breast serene
She hung; but no! it could not thus have been,-
For she went on! forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.
Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;
He reck'd no more of glory,-grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls
Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute: meantime the child,
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled—
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of wo
In a young blighted spirit; manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days;
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
On one so fair-for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,-
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought, and prayer, And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek—
Still that fond child's. And oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love
To gaze upon in silence! But she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers that call'd on Heaven To bless the young Isaure.
With alms before her castle gate she stood
Midst pleasant groups; when, breathless and o'erworn,
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke: the orphan maid
With her sweet voice and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers-a gaze that all her spirits shook,—
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears,
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd
The ground they trod, then burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-"Oh undefiled!
I am thy mother; spurn me not, my child!"
Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight: stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise
Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank 'twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke
Come down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone
Those long fair tresses--they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more—
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.
Her child bent o'er her-call'd her--'twas too late--
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard-
How did'st thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde!
The author is J. G. BRAINARD, a promising American youth who died early of consumption.
THERE'S beauty in the deep
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.
There's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep;
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore-.
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.
There's quiet in the deep:-
Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.