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SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, like the night
Meet in her aspect and her eyes :
One shade the more, one ray the less,
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
A heart whose love is innocent!
THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallowed while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It softened men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not, fired not to the tone,
Till David's Lyre grew mightier than his throne!
It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.
IF THAT HIGH WORLD.
IF THAT HIGH WORLD, which lies beyond
Lost in thy light-Eternity!
It must be so: 'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulph,
Yet cling to Being's severing link.