"Oh! beautiful is Heaven, and bright,

With long, long summer days;

I see its lilies gleam in light,

Where many a fountain plays.

“And there uncheck'd, methinks, I rove, And seek where young flowers lie,

In vale and golden-fruited grove

Flowers that are not to die!"

Thou Poet of the lonely thought,
Sad heir of gifts divine!

Say with what solemn glory fraught,
Is Heaven in dreams of thine?

"Oh! where the living waters flow

Along that radiant shore,

My soul, a wanderer here, shall know

The exile-thirst no more.

"The burden of the stranger's heart

Which here alone I bear,

Like the night-shadow shall depart,
With my first wakening there.

"And borne on eagle-wings afar,
Free thought shall claim its dower,
From every realm, from every star,
Of glory and of power."

O woman! with the soft sad eye,

Of spiritual gleam,

Tell me of those bright worlds on high, How doth thy fond heart dream?

By thy sweet mournful voice I know,

On thy pale brow I see,

That thou hast lov'd, in fear, and woe—

Say what is Heaven to thee?

"Oh! Heaven is where no secret dread

May haunt Love's meeting hour, Where from the past no gloom is shed O'er the heart's chosen bower:

"Where every sever'd wreath is bound—

Where none have heard the knell

That smites the heart with that deep soundFarewell,-belov'd, farewell!"

THE FUNERAL GENIUS,

AN ANTIQUE STATUE.

THOU shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer air ;

Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls,
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare;—

And thou-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps which will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow, for so the dead

Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like

these;

Sleep on, thine eye hath sunk, yet softly shed,

As from the wing of some faint southern breeze; And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.

They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought

Of the last hour had settled thus in thee;
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head upon the forest-tree,

As that of one, by music's dreamy close
On the wood-violets lulled to deep repose.

They feared not death! Yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much

Of tender beauty as thy features wear,

Thou Sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So still a night, a night of summer lies?

Had they seen ought like thee? Did some fair boy Thus with his graceful hair before them rest?

His graceful hair no more to wave in joy,

But drooping as with heavy dews opprest, And his eyes veiled so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?