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We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love the lay
pass with softer steps the place they filled our band among !
But I depart, like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go !-the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell, When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong; And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply,
Yes! I will speak! within my breast whate'er hath seemed
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed for thee!
Brightly it would have gushed, but thou-my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been
THE TEARLESS EYE.
His soul was overcharged with grief,
Might soothe his throbbing heart to sleep.
As once they could when he was sad, Or shed-'twas ecstacy of woe→
Those tears which make the mourner glad.
Then grief could weep itself away,
And sorrow sob itself to rest;
But not one tear will now allay
The aching of that weary breast.
And calm that beating pulse of thine!
To vent the sorrow pent within!
ON SEEING THE DEAD BODY OF A YOUNG
If I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou could'st mortal be:
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,
I still might press thy silent heart,
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
His father's sword he has girded on,
'Land of song,' said the warrior bard,
Though all the world forsake thee,
One sword at least thy rights shall guard,
The minstrel fell-but the foeman's chain
And said No chain shall sully thee,
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They never shall sound in slavery!'
TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER RETURN FROM A SEA VOYAGE.
They who have marked the blooming rose
From some loved features daily fade,
And spite of tenderness disclose,
Each morning, but a fainter shade,