Thy thoughts, love, wandering where they list,
Štill seek that village on the Rhine,
Where thou art long'd for, loved, and miss'd,
With yearnings as intense as thine.
No wonder that thy young heart burns,
And with such aching sense of love,
To that dear sheltering ark returns
That sent thee forth, poor wandering dove.
The hour will come, though far it seems,
When school'd by pain, and taught by time,
Thou'lt lose no more in idle dreams,
The good hours of thy golden prime;
Each day, with its appointed care,
Shall bring its calm and comfort too ;
The power to act, the strength to bear,
What duty bids thee bear or do;
And when the eve's repose shall come,
Thy tranquil thoughts shall then be given,
Not back to that lost earthly home,
But forward-to thy home in heaven!
THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN
By N. P. WILLIS, the American poet.
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! oh mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away.
One look upon thy face ere thou 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-oh God! it seems so-1
-that must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a bright 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 foul 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 flung in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out for ever!
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 up to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dead 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. 'Tis 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
The 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 struck, must flow for ever,
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens the buds above her, we will come,
And, standing by the music-haunted grave.
Look on each other cheerfully and say,
A child that we have loved has gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away!
The following description of the romantic tradition of Milton meeting in Italy an Italian lady who fell in love with the beautiful young poet when asleep, is by Sir E. BULWER LYTTON, extracted from his poem, entitled Milton, in which the poet is depicted in the three stages of Youth, Manhood, and sightless Old Age.
Has this dull earth a being to compare
With those which genius kindles?
Show his young bard a living shape as fair
As those which haunt his sleep? Yea, there is one
Brighter than aught which fancy forms most dear,-
Brighter than love's wild dreams; and lo! behold her here!
She was a stranger from the southern sky,
And wandering from the friends with whom she roved
Along those classic gardens-chanced to stray
By the green beech-tree where the minstrel Ïay.
Silent-in wonder's speechless trance-she stood,
With lifted hand and lips apart-and eye
Gazing away the rich heart as she view'd;
Darker than night her locks fell clustering
O'er her smooth brow, and the sweet air just moved
Their vine-like beauty with his gentle wing;
The earliest bloom of youth's Italian rose
Blush'd through the Tuscan olive of her cheek—
(So through the lightest clouds does morning break)—
And there shone forth that hallowing soul which glows
Round Beauty, like the circling light on high,
Which decks and makes the glory of the sky.
Breathless and motionless she stood awhile,
And drank deep draughts of passion-then a smile
Play'd on her lip—and bending down, her hand
Traced on her tablet the wild thoughts which stole,
Like angel-strangers, o'er her raptured soul;
For she was of the Poet's golden land,
Where thought finds happiest voice, and glides along
Into the silver rivers of sweet song.
O'er him she leant enamour'd, and her sigh
Breathed near and nearer to his silent mouth,
Rich with the hoarded odours of the South.
So in her spiritual divinity,
Young Psyche, stood the sleeping Eros by ;-
What time she to the couch had, daring, trod ;—
And-by the glad light-saw her bridegroom God!
Did her locks touch his cheek? or did he feel
Her breath like music o'er his spirit steal?
I know not-but the spell of sleep was broke;
He started-faintly murmur'd, and awoke!
He woke as Moslems wake from death, to see
The Houris of their heaven; and reverently
He look'd the transport of his soul's amaze.
And their eyes met-one moment, and no more!
Nursed in bright dreams of old romantic lore,
Of Eastern fairies gliding on the beam,
Or Grecian goddess haunting minstrel's dream;
He rose-and though no faintest voice might stir
His lips-he knelt adoringly to her,
And gazed his worship; but the spell was past,
And the boy's gesture broke the breathless charm,
And maiden shame, and woman's swift alarm,
Burningly o'er the Italian's soul was rushing;
And her lip trembled, and her pulse beat fast,
And with a thousand new-born feelings blushing—
She turn'd away-and with a step of air,
She fled, and left him mute and spell-bound there.
By Mrs. SOUTHEY, better known to the world as CAROLINE BOWLES, herself the daughter of a poet, the Rev. W. LISLE BOWLES. TREAD Softly-bow the head
In reverent silence bow
No passing-bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.
Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed-
One by that paltry bed,
Greater than thou.
No mingling voices sound-
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppress'd—again
That short deep gasp and then
The parting groan.
Oh! change-Oh! wondrous change-
Burst are the prison bars-
This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!
Oh! change-stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod!
The sun eternal breaks-
The new Immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God.
From PHILIP J. BAILEY's Festus.
I HAVE turn'd to thee, moon, from the glance
That in triumphing coldness was given;
And rejoiced, as I view'd thee all lonely advance,
That something was lonely in heaven.
I have turn'd to thee, moon, as lay
In thy silent and saddening brightness;
And rejoiced, as high heaven went shining away,
That the heart had its desolate lightness.
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