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For at thy heart the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself, until the life-stream oozed
In gushes of such deep and thrilling song,
That angels poising on some silver cloud
Might linger mid the errands of the skies,
And listen, all unblamed.

How tenderly
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest!
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch, lest some step disturb thee, striving still
From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard.
Waits she thy waking, as the mother waits
For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen,
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven?
We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No.
For every mountain stream and shadowy dell
Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back
The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak’st alike
The simple language of the freckled flower,
And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee.
And from thy living intercourse with man
Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth
Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame.
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir,
Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learned so well
From this sublunar terrace, and so long



Therefore, we will not say
Farewell to thee; for every unborn age
Shall mix thee with its household charities,
The sage shall greet thee with his benison,
And Woman shrine thee as a vestal flame
In all the temples of her sanctity,
And the young child shall take thee by the hand
And travel with a surer step to Heaven.




"They that seek me early shall find me.”,

COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest,
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze,
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways;
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer-buds unfolding,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,
Come,—and secure interminable rest !

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;

Will to the embraces of the worm have gone;
Those who now love thee, will have passed for ever :
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee;
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be!



Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing, die ;
Ere the gay spell which Earth is round thee throwing,
Fades, like the crimson from a sunset sky;
Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
Oh, touch the sceptre !-win a hope in heaven;
Come !—turn thy spirit from the world away!

Then will the crosses of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;-
And shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal:
Home of the weary !where in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing;
Who would not, early, choose a lot like this?

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UPON the far-off mountain's brow
The angry storm has ceased to beat;
And broken clouds are gathering now
In sullen reverence round his feet;
I saw their dark and crowded bands
In thunder on his breast descending;
But there once more redeemed he stands,
And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending.

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