TO M. L. S

Or all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whoin thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun-of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope-for life-ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth-in Virtue-in Humanity.
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most-whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship-oh, remember
The truest-the most fervently devoted,

And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.

THY Soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stoneNot one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude

Which is not loneliness-for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again

In death around thee-and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night-tho' clear-shall frown-
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given-

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burring and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banishNow are visions ne'er to vanish

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more-like dew-drops from the grass.

The breeze-the breath of God-is still-
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy--shadowy-yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token-

How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

TO HELEN.

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

ALONE.

FROM childhood's hour I have not been

As others were-I have not seen
As others saw-I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taker
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov'd, I lov'd alone.
Then-in my childhood-in the dawn
Of a most stormy life--was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still :
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that 'round me roll'd

In its autumn tint of gold-
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by-
From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.