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'And art thou lying here!

Beautiful as thou wast, when side by side,


Our wayward feet ranged all the woodlands wide, In childhood's thoughtless glee!

Yes! my beloved, though gone hath many a year, I well remember thee!

'Here is the same white brow

That won my simple heart, when life's green path Was all a paradise; methinks it hath

Its same calm beauty yet,

That cheek! though death hath somewhat changed it now

I never might forget!

"Thou wearest the red rose

gave thee, on that gentle summer's eve, When thou, all bloom and manliness, didst leave Me, blushing at the door

Alas! I little dreamed at that day's mellow close, My love would come no more.

'After the rapid flight

Of fifty years, 't is pleasant, in old age
To see thee, ere I end my pilgrimage.
And now we part! Thy cell,

The awful tomb! must shut thee from my sight,
I join thee soon. Farewell!'





FARE thee well! the ship is ready,
And the breeze is fresh and steady.
Hands are fast the anchor weighing;
High in air the streamer's playing.
Spread the sails-the waves are swelling
Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling.
Fare thee well! and when at sea,
Think of those, who sigh for thee.

When from land and home receding,
And from hearts, that ache to bleeding,
Think of those behind, who love thee,
While the sun is bright above thee!
Then, as down to ocean glancing,
With the waves his rays are dancing,
Think how long the night will be
To the eyes, that weep for thee.

When the lonely night-watch keeping,
All below thee still and sleeping-
As the needle points the quarter
O'er the wide and trackless water,
Let thy vigils ever find thee

Mindful of the friends behind thee!
Let thy bosom's magnet be

Turned to those, who wake for thee!


When, with slow and gentle motion,
Heaves the bosom of the ocean-
While in peace thy bark is riding,
And the silver moon is gliding
O'er the sky with tranquil splendor,
Where the shining hosts attend her;
Let the brightest visions be
Country, home and friends, to thee!

When the tempest hovers o'er thee,
Danger, wreck, and death before thee,
While the sword of fire is gleaming,
Wild the winds, the torrent streaming,
Then, a pious suppliant bending,
Let thy thoughts to heaven ascending
Reach the mercy seat, to be
Met by prayers that rise for thee!




THE song that o'er me hovered

In summer's hour, in summer's hour,

To day with joy has covered

My winter bower, my winter bower.

Blest be the lips that breathe it,

As mine have been, as mine have been,


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When pressed, in dreams, beneath it,
To hers unseen, to hers unseen.
And may her heart, wherever

Its hope may be, its hope may be,
Beat happily, though never

To beat for me, to beat for me.

Is she a Spirit, given

One hour to earth, one hour to earth, To bring me dreams from heaven,

Her place of birth, her place of birth? Or minstrel maiden, hidden

Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun, A bud, a flower, forbidden

To air and sun, to air and sun?

For had I power to summon

With harp divine, with harp divine,

The Angel, or the Woman,

The last were mine, the last were mine.

If earth-born Beauty's fingers

Awaked the lay, awaked the lay,

Whose echoed music lingers

Around my way, around my way;

Where smiles the hearth she blesses
With voice and eye, with voice and eye?
Where binds the Night her tresses,

When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh? Is fashion's bleak cold mountain

Her bosqm's throne, her bosom's throne?


Or love's green vale and fountain,
With One alone, with One alone?

Why ask? why seek a treasure,

Like her I sing, like her I sing? Her name nor pain nor pleasure

To me should bring, to me should bring. Love must not grieve or gladden


My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, Nor woman soothe or sadden

My path below, my path below.

Before a worldlier altar

I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long, And if my footsteps falter,

'Tis but in song, 't is but in song.

Nor would I break the vision

Young fancies frame, young fancies frame,

That lights with stars elysian,


A poet's name, a poet's name;

For she, whose gentle spirit

Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime,

Gives hues they do not merit

To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme.

But place the proudest near her,

Whate'er his pen, whate'er his pen,

She'll say, (be mute who hear her,)
'Mere mortal men, mere mortal men!'

Yet though unseen, unseeing,

We meet and part, we meet and part,

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