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TO

SHOULD my early life seem
(As well it might) a dream-
Yet I build no faith upon
The king Napoleon-
I look not up afar
For my destiny in a star.

In parting from you now
Thus much I will avow-
There are beings, and have been,
Whom my spirit has not seen;
Had I let them pass me by
With a dreaming eye-

If my peace hath fled away
In a night—or in a day-
In a vision or in none-
Is it therefore the less gone ?

I am standing 'mid the roar
Of a weather-beaten shore,
And I hold within my hand
Some particles of sand-
How few! and how they creep
Thro' my fingers to the deep !
My early hopes? no—they
Went gloriously away,
Like lightning from the sky
At once and so will I.

So young ? Ah ! no—not now-
Thou hast not seen my brow;
But they tell thee I am proud-
They lie—they lie aloud-
My bosom beats with shame
At the paltriness of name

With which they dare combine A feeling such as mine

Nor Stoic? I am not :

In the terror of

my

lot

I laugh to think how poor
That pleasure “to endure !"
What ! shade of Zeno !-I!
Endure !--no-no-defy.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone-
Not 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 burning 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 !

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