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One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere,
From eyes that open on earth no more—
One warning word from a voice once dear-
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er !

Far off from those hills that shine with day,
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales,
The Land of Dreams goes stretching away

To dimmer mountains and darker vales.

There lie the chambers of guilty delight,
There walk the spectres of guilty fear,
And soft low voices, that float through the night,
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower,
Scarce wean'd from the love of childish play!
The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower
That freshens the early blooms of May!

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow

Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams,
And I know, by thy moving lips, that now
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet!
Oh, keep where that beam of Paradise falls,
And only wander where thou mayst meet
The blessed ones from its shining walls.

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams,
With love and peace to this world of strife;
And the light that over that border streams
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life.

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THE BURIAL OF LOVE

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
Sat where a river rolled away,

With calm sad brows and raven hair,
And one was pale, and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown,
Bring forest blooms of name unknown;
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,
To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,

His eyes, that death may seem like sleep,
And fold his hands in sign of rest,
His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And blue-birds in the misty spring

Of cloudless skies and summer sing.

Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosen'd bow,
The silken fillet that around

His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss
His ready smile, his ready kiss,

The patter of his little feet,

Sweet frowns and stammer'd phrases sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high,
A light of heaven in that young eye,
All these shall haunt us till the heart

Shall ache and ache-and tears will start.

The bow, the band shall fall to dust,
The shining arrows waste with rust,
And all of Love that earth can claim
Be but a memory and a name.

IO

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Not thus his nobler part shall dwell,
A prisoner in this narrow cell ;

But he whom now we hide from men
In the dark ground, shall live again;

Shall break these clods, a form of light.
With nobler mien and purer sight,
And in the eternal glory stand,

Highest and nearest God's right hand.

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'THE MAY-SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT'

THE May-sun sheds an amber light

On new-leaved woods and lawns between ; But she who, with a smile more bright, Welcomed and watched the springing green, Is in her grave,

Low in her grave.

The fair white blossoms of the wood
In groups beside the pathway stand;
But one, the gentle and the good,
Who cropp'd them with a fairer hand,
Is in her grave,

Low in her grave.

Upon the woodland's morning airs

The small birds' mingled notes are flung; But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, Once bade me listen, while they sung,

Is in her grave,

Low in her grave.

That music of the early year

Brings tears of anguish to my eyes;

My heart aches when the flowers appear;
For then I think of her who lies

Within her grave,

Low in her grave.

ΤΟ

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THE VOICE OF AUTUMN

THERE comes, from yonder height,
A soft repining sound,

Where forest-leaves are bright,

And fall, like flakes of light,

To the ground.

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Mourn'st thou thy homeless state?
Oh soft, repining wind!
That early seek'st and late

The rest it is thy fate

Not to find.

Not on the mountain's breast,

Not on the ocean's shore,
In all the East and West:-
The wind that stops to rest
Is no more.

By valleys, woods, and springs,
No wonder thou shouldst grieve
For all the glorious things

Thou touchest with thy wings,

And must leave.

THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE

WITHIN this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies,—
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,

To the great world unknown,

Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet, and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mould and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart;
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind,

Of gentle womankind,

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;

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ΙΟ

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