It is Thought at work amidst buried hours,
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers.
Oh! we bear within us mysterious things;
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs;
And Passion those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still.

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear,
They find no fount of oblivion here!
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath
How know we if under the wings of death?

THE WINGS OF A DOVE.

"Oh! that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and be at rest."-Psalm lv.

OH! for thy wings, thou dove!

Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That, borne like thee above,

I too might flee away, and be at rest!

Where wilt thou fold those plumes,

Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird?
In what rich leafy glooms,

By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred?

Over what blessed home,

What roof with dark, deep Summer foliage crowned,
O fair as ocean's foam !

Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?

Or seek'st thou some old shrine

Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed,
Though still, as if divine,

Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude?

Yet wherefore ask thy way?

Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art!
Unto the greenwood spray,

Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!

No echoes that will blend

A sadness with the whispers of the grove;
No memory of a friend

Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove!

Oh! to some cool recess

Take, take me with thee on the summer wind,
Leaving the weariness

And all the fever of this life behind:

The aching and the void

Within the heart, whereunto none reply,

The young bright hopes destroyed-
Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky.

Wild wish, and longing vain,

And brief upspringing to be glad and free!
Go to thy woodland reign:

My soul is bound and held-I may not flee.

For even by all the fears

And thoughts that haunt my dreams - untold, unknown And burning woman's tears,

Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone;

Had I thy wings, thou dove!

High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,
Soon the strong chords of love

Would draw me earthwards-homewards-yet once more,

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

I Go, sweet friends! yet think of me

When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wandered far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go; but when you pause to hear,
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
On summer-winds float silvery clear,

Think on me then-I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,

When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh when music's voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirred,
Think of me then!-I go, I go!

TO A CHILD ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

THOU wakest from rosy sleep to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day

Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye;
Long be it thus-life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet, ere the cares of life le dim

On thy young spirit's wings,
Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs

So, in the onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,

When strength hath bowed to evil years,
He will remember thee!

SOUND OF THE SEA.

THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea,
For ever and the same!

The ancient rocks yet ring to thee,
Those thunders nought can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hushed is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore
Along the wave, is still;

The harp of Judah peals no more

On Zion's awful hill.

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord
That breathed the mystic tone,

And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured,
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang

O'er stream and mountain free,

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang,

Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime,

'Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;

And the still midnight hears the sound,
E'en as when first it rolled.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where spectred cities rose!

Thou speak'st of one who doth not change-
-So may our hearts repose.

DEATH OF THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

"THOU 'RT passing from the lake's green side,
And the hunter's hearth away;

From the time of flowers, for the summer's pride,
Daughter! thou canst not stay.

"Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear;
The corn month's golden hours will come,
But they shall not find thee here.

"And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;

Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

"A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill,
Telling of winter gone,

Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still
A farewell in its tone.