In crowded halls, where breathed for me Not one familiar tone; The shade where forest trees shut out When the dark winds pass'd by; My pulse was quicken'd with its awe, My lip has gasp'd for breath; But what were they to such as thisThe solitude of death! A single grave!—we half forget How sunder human ties, When round the silent place of rest A gather'd kindred lies. We stand beneath the haunted yew, And watch each quiet tomb; And in the ancient churchyard feel Solemnity, not gloom: The place is purified with hope, The hope that is of prayer; And human love, and heavenward thought, The wild flowers spring amid the grass; Wet with affection's tears. The golden chord which binds us all I do not know who sleeps beneath, Whether if, lonely in his life, He is in death the same: Whether he died unloved, unmourn'd, The last leaf on the bough; Perhaps this is too fanciful :- Those gentler charities which draw Man closer with his kind Those sweet humanities which make THE FEAST OF LIFE. BID thee to my mystic feast, But beauty from which bloom has fled; What, turnest thou with averted brow? Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine. FOLLOW ME! A summer morning, with its calm, glad light, I saw it scroll'd around the lofty crest Which, mouldering, deck'd the ruin'd banquet-room: A third time did I trace these characters- FOLLOW me! 'tis to the battle-field- THE FESTIVAL. Follow me!-'tis to the festal ring, Follow me!-'tis where the yew tree bends,. When the strength and the pride of the victor ends; Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom: Follow me on to the silent tomb! THE LEGACY OF THE LUTE. COME take the lute-the lute I loved, "Tis all I have to offer thee; And may it be less fatal gift Than it has ever been to me. My sigh yet lingers on the strings, The strings I have not heart to break: Wilt thou not, dearest! keep the lute For mine-for the departed's sake? But, pray thee, do not wake that lute; I would have crush'd its charmed chords, Thy breath but lives on others' lips- It is to waste on careless hearts The throbbing music of thine own; I sought to fling my laurel wreath In vain, 'twas like those poison'd crowns Predestined from my birth to feed On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart; To bear through life-to feel in deathA burning and a broken heart. Then hang it on the cypress bough, The minstrel-lute I leave to thee; And be it only for the wind To wake its mournful dirge for me. THE young and the lovely are gather'd: Who shall talk of our wearisome life, And dwell upon weeds and on weepingThe struggle, the sorrow, the strife? The hours of our being are colour'd, And many are colour'd with rose; Though on some be a sign and a shadow, I list not to speak now of those. Through the crimson blind flushes the splendour With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor, The harp to the flute is replying "Tis the song of a far-distant land; But never, in vineyard or valley, Assembled a lovelier band. Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets, While he of the lute and the laurel For thee has forgotten the throng, And builds on thy fairy like beauty A future of sigh and of song. The wild wind is bearing away, For the love-dream that haunts the young poet But never for lasting design'd. Was never meant long to retain. But another is passing before me— O pause! let me gaze on thy brow: I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely, But never so lovely as now. Thou art changed since those earlier numbers When thou wert a vision to me; And, copies from some fairest picture, My heroines were painted from thee. Farewell! I shall make thee no longer My sweet summer queen of romance; No more will my princes pay homage, My knights for thy smile break the lance, Confess they were exquisite lovers, The once gentle music now mute; Alike from my heart and my lute. "Tis midnight-but think not of slumber, There are dreams enow floating around; But, ah! our soft dreams while thus waking Are aye the most dangerous found. Like the note of a lute was that whisper Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes: How vain are the hopes it will raise ! Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight, There fling off the wreath and the sandal, A few eager hours' enjoyment A toil, a regret, and a dream! THE MIDDLE TEMPLE GARDENS. Away in the distance is heard the vast sound, From the streets of the city that compass it round, Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call; Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all. The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards-a world at its side: And dark the horizon, with mast and with sail Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale: While beyond the arch'd bridge the old abbey appears, Where England has garner'd the glories of years. There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the brave, Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave. Still and lone 'mid the tumult these gardens extend, The elm and the lime over flower-beds bend; And the sunshine rains in as the light leaves are stirr'd, When away from the nest he has built springs the bird. The boat, and the barge, and the wave, have grown red; And the sunset has crimson'd the boughs overhead; But the lamps are now shining, the colours are gone, And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone. There are lights in the casements: how weary the ray That asks from the night-time the toils of the day! I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page, age. The hour may be coming when fortune and fame May crown the endeavour, and honour the name: But the toil has been long that too early began; And the judge and the peer is a world-weary man. The robe and the ermine, by few they are won: How many sink down ere the race be haif run! What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been, Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green! What crowds are around us, what misery is there, Could the heart, like the face which conceals it, lay bare! THE fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, they cast know The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past. What the social world hides in the darkness below. I lean in the window, and hear the low tune moon. In the chamber within are the gay and the young; sung. I turn to their mirth, but it is in a mask- With smiles on the lip, and despair at the I know not that I have ever been more struck than is around. Lights appear in most of the windows; and with the beauty of the Middle Temple Gardens, as seen there comes upon the air the unceasing murmur of the city on a still summer evening. There is about it such a sin-around. Nothing is distinct, all varieties of noise blending gular mixture of action and repose. The trees cast an undisturbed shadow on the turf; the barges rest tranquilly on the dark river; only now and then the dim outline of a scarcely seen sail flits by; the very lamps in the distance seem as if shining in their sleep. But the presence of life into one deep sound. But the little fountain is heard |