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In crowded halls, where breathed for me Not one familiar tone;

The shade where forest trees shut out
All but the distant sky ;-
I've felt the loneliness of night

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,
And pious faith, are there.

The wild flowers spring amid the grass;
And many a stone appears,
Carved by affection's memory,

Wet with affection's tears.

The golden chord which binds us all
Is loosed, not rent in twain;
And love, and hope, and fear, unite
To bring the past again.
But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow-graves for sympathy-
"Tis utterly alone.

I do not know who sleeps beneath,
His history or name—

Whether if, lonely in his life,

He is in death the same:

Whether he died unloved, unmourn'd,

The last leaf on the bough;
Or, if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now.

Perhaps this is too fanciful :-
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God.
It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best:
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less represt.

Those gentler charities which draw Man closer with his kind

Those sweet humanities which make
The music which they find.
How many a bitter word 'twould hush-
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!

THE FEAST OF LIFE.

BID thee to my mystic feast,
Each one thou lovest is gather'd there;
Yet put thou on a morning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around,

But beauty from which bloom has fled;
And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirgelike sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
"Tis from their native element
The cup is fill'd-it is of tears.

What, turnest thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,

Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain-the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seem'd to thee,
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!

FOLLOW ME!

A summer morning, with its calm, glad light,
Was on the fallen castle: other days
Were here remember'd vividly; the past
Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more-
For that we do not pause to think upon.
First, o'er the arching gateway was a shield,
The sculptured arms defaced, but visible
Was the bold motto, "Follow me;" again

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-
On the worn pavement of an ancient grave
Was written "Follow me!"

FOLLOW me! 'tis to the battle-field-
No eye must turn, and no step must yield;
In the thick of the battle look ye to be:
On!-'tis my banner ye follow, and me.

THE FESTIVAL.

Follow me!-'tis to the festal ring,
Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing;
Hark! to our name is the bright wine pour'd:
Follow me on to the banquet-board!

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;
Leave it upon the
cypress tree;

I would have crush'd its charmed chords,
But they so. oft were strung to thee.
The minstrel-lute! O, touch it not,
Or weary destiny is thine!
Thy life a twilight's haunted dream-
Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine.

Thy breath but lives on others' lips-
Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave,—
Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak-
Thyself a bound and barter'd slave.
And yet a dangerous charm o'er all,
A bright but ignis-fatuus flame,
Luring thee with a show of power,
Dazzling thee with a blaze of fame.

It is to waste on careless hearts

The throbbing music of thine own;
To speak love's burning words, yet be
Alone-ay, utterly alone.

I sought to fling my laurel wreath
Away upon the autumn wind:

In vain, 'twas like those poison'd crowns
Thou may'st not from the brow unbind.

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
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
Has swell'd with her breath till their lustre,
If softer, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers-
Camellias like ivory wrought

With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought;

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,
Like rain which is lit by the sun-
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors-
Whose cheek and the rosebud are one.

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.
Ay, listen, but as unto music

The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.

For the love-dream that haunts the young poet
Is colour'd too much by his mind-
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,

But never for lasting design'd.
For he lives but in beauty-his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression

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 fictions that knelt at thy throne:
But the graceful, the gallant, the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own?
Farewell! and henceforth I enshrine thee
'Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas! it is sad to remember

The once gentle music now mute;
Ah! many a chord hath time stolen

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:
Love only could breathe such a murmur;
And what will love bring thee but sighs?
And thou, thou pale dreamer! whose forehead
Is flush'd with the circle's light praise,
O! let it not dwell on thy spirit—

How vain are the hopes it will raise !
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
O! take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame!

Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight,
When thy wrapt spirit eaglelike springs;
But, for the gay circle now passing,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading-
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!

There fling off the wreath and the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose,
What, weary and sadden'd! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem―

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,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of

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,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them But we know not each other-we seek not to

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
Of the fountain, now bright with the new risen

moon.

In the chamber within are the gay and the young;
The light laugh is laugh'd, and the sweet song is

sung.

I turn to their mirth, but it is in a mask-
The jest is an omen, the smile is a task.
A slave in a pageant, I walk through life's
part,

With smiles on the lip, and despair at the
heart.*

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
amid it all; the ear does not lose a note of its low sweet
music: it is the poetry of the place, or, rather, the voice
of the poetry with which it is filled.
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