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On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!

Who calls me silent ?-1 have many tones-
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own,

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone.

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shivered hamlets lie,

And thou bringest hence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky;

A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of storry drums,

Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, All these are in thy music met, as when a leader

Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,

'comes.

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought back

Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery

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of thy track;

The chime of low soft southern waves on some

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Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, whercin our young days flew,

Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true;

Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled,

There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music of a spirit.

Gray's Letters.

Oa! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine,

From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bearest a sound and sign,

from the dead!

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind? these many notes in thee?

Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount must surely be;

Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there Thought watches, Memory lies,

* Originally published in the Winter's Wreath, for From whose deep urn the tones are poured,

1830.

through all Earth's harmonies.

VOL. II. 48

THE BETTER LAND.

"I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother! oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows,

So are we roused on this chequered earth,
Each unto light hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all.
One-but to severed and distant dooms-

And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs ?

boughs ?"

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LET US DEPART.

IT is mentioned by Josephus, that a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence."

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone, High o'er the tents around.

The tents that rose by thousands

In the moonlight glimmering pale, Like white waves of a frozen sca, Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace, as if the Holy One

Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"'

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved, Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare

Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night; The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet light

The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates

Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry.
"Let us depart !"

It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more ?-whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. delightful mould."-Conversations with an Ambitious

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And her dim, yet speaking eye, Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore, once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom,
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no Death can touch the rose!

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.*

Thou falcon-hearted dove!

Coleridge.

THE Moslem spears were gleaming

Round Damietta's towers,

Though a Christian banner from her wall, Waved free its Lily-flowers.

Ay, proudly did the banner wave,

As Queen of Earth and Air;

But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds,
In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon,
Their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field

Their knighthood's best array.

'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,

The wine-cup round to send,

For each that touch'd it silently,
Then miss'd a gallant friend!

And mournful was their vigil

On the beleaguer'd wall,

And dark their slumber, dark with dreams Of slow defeat and fall.

Yet a few hearts of Chivalry

Rose high to breast the storm,

And one-of all the loftiest there-
Thrill'd in a woman's form.

A woman, meekly bending

O'er the slumber of her child,

With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,

As the Virgin Mother's mild.
Oh! roughly cradled was thy Babe,

'Midst the clash of spear and lance,

And a strange, wild bower was thine, young Queen:

Fair Marguerite of France !

A dark and vaulted chamber, Like a scene for wizard-spell,

* Queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, during the captivity of the king, her husband, she there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to her that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last extremity.

Deep in the Saracenic gloom

Of the warrior citadel;

And there 'midst arms the couch was spread
And with banners curtain'd o'er,
For the daughter of the Minstrel-land.
The gay Provençal shore !

For the bright Queen of St. Louis,
The star of court and hall!—
But the deep strength of the gentle heart,
Wakes to the tempest's call!

Her Lord was in the Paynim's hold,
His soul with grief oppress'd,

Yet calmly lay the desolate,

With her young babe on her breast!

There were voices in the city,

Voices of wrath and fear

"The walls grow weak, the strife is vain, We will not perish here!

Yield! yield! and let the crescent gleam
O'er tower and bastion high!
Our distant homes are beautiful-
We stay not here to die!"

They bore those fearful tidings

To the sad Queen where she layThey told a tale of wavering hearts,

Of treason and dismay :

The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek, The sparkle to her eye

"Now call me hither those recreant knights, From the bands of Italy!''*

Then through the vaulted chambers
Stern iron footsteps rang;
And heavily the sounding floor
Gave back the sabre's clang.
They stood around her-steel-clad men,
Moulded for storm and fight,

But they quail'd before the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.

Yes-as before the falcon shrinks
The bird of meaner wing,

So shrank they from th' imperial glance
Of her that fragile thing!

And her flute-like voice rose clear and high,
Through the din of arms around,
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,
As a silver clarion's sound.

"The honour of the Lily

Is in your hands to keep, And the Banner of the Cross, for Him Who died on Calvary's steep; And the city which for Christian prayer Hath heard the holy bellAnd is it these your hearts would yield To the godless Infidel ?

"Then bring me here a breastplate,

And a helm, before ye fly,
And I will gird my woman's form,
And on the ramparts die !

The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian to the Knights of Pisa

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