Oh, happy if to them the one dread hour,

Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!

If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power,

Came by a look so tranquilly divine!

Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!

But thou, fair slumberer!—was there less of woe, Or love, or terror, in the days of old,

That men poured out their gladdening spirits flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold?

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid

Far more than we, for loftier faith is ours; Their gems were lost in ashes—yet they made The grave a place of beauty and of flowers; With fragrant wreaths and summer-boughs arrayed And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed

On its dim precincts? Do we not entrust But for a time its chambers with our dead,

And strew immortal seed upon the dust?

Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,

When living light hath touched the brow of Death.

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.

UNFINISHED.

He pass'd from earth

Without his fame,-the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly

Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not; And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,

Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him ;-they were winged seed, Scattered afar, and, falling on the rock

Of the world's heart, had perished. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,

The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls

Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,

That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft in low and reverential tones,

Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,

Is murmured to their children, when his name

On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices, far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.

I come alone, and faint I come,

To nature's arms I flee;

The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to Thee?

The earliest odour of the flower,

The bird's first song is thine;

Father in Heaven! my day-spring's hour Poured its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene

Around me faded lies;

Therefore, remembering what hath been,

I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is, but Thou art gone,

Or if the trembling shade

Breathe yet of thee, with altered tone

Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismayed.