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"She sleeps! how long she sleeps! the sun hath sunk
beneath the west, And risen twice, yet still she keeps that deep and placid
rest. Why do they pass before me thus, her slumbering form to
view? Come hither, brother, thou and I will gaze upon her too; But stay! we will not look there yet, but let us wait until The midnight stars are beaming bright, and all around is
still, Save when the moaning winds sweep by in whispers low and
deep, And then together we will go and view her in her sleep."
"Stster! tread softly! hark! that sound! 'twas but the
midnight hour Tolling so harsh and heavily from yonder distant tower; Come, sister, tremble not, 'tis true the time is lone and
drear, And dimly burns the taper dark that sits beside the bier; But thou didst breathe a prayer to me, a whisper'd prayer
but now, To come at midnight hour and gaze upon thy mother's
brow. This is the hour, and we have pass'd along the silent hall, And thus, as by the dead we stand, I take away the pall— And here the coffin's lid I move—and here 1 raise the veil— Turn, gentle sister, turn and look upon her features pale; Stoop down and kiss her pallid cheek—though cold and
damp it be, It is the same which in thy mirth so oft was press'd by
thee. And clasp in thine the lifeless hand that lies upon her
breast, Where pillow'd in thine infant years thou oft hast sunk to
"My eyes grow dim !—sweet brother, haste! and come with
me away! Is this the form which once I loyed! this ghastly thing of
They told me that she only slept—and that she still was fair,
As when upon her brow I used to part her raven hair.
Is this my mother ?—No, oh! no,—not this on which I've
gazed, Her eyes were bright like angel's eyes, but these are fix'd
and glazed, Her lips were smiling like the sky that never knew a cloud; But these are silent, closed and pale—pale as the winding
shroud. My eyes grow dim, sweet brother, haste and come with me
away— No, this is not the form I loved—this ghastly thing of clay."
Another of the marvellously luxurious descriptions by Kkats J a wealth of words without rival in English poetry.
He was a poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow,
A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infants' eyes,
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
The poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels,
And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half-closed lattices to cure
The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,
And sooth'd them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burn'd with thirsting,
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they met the wondering sight *
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men and maidens at each other gazed,
With hands held back, and motionless, amazed
To see the brightness in each other's eyes;
And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loosed in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses
That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses:
Was there a poet born ?—But now no more—
My wandering spirit must no farther soar.
MUSIC IN A CHURCH.
This fine passage is from a poem by James Russell Lowell, entitled ".4 Legend of Brittany."
Then swell'd the organ: up through choir and nave
Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave
The hush'd air shiver'd with the throb it gave,
And sank and rose again, to burst in spray
Like to a mighty heart the music seem'd,
Until, in grand despair of what it dream'd,
Yet triumphs breaking; on it rush'd and stream'd
Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls
And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls.
Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air,
Like thunder when it rouses in its lair,
And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung sky:
It grew up like a darkness everywhere,
From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke
Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke.
Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant,
Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant,
Their varieolour'd tones, and left no want
In the warm music cloud, while, far below,
The organ heaved its surges to and fro.
Wheit from the sacred garden driven,
She led him through the trackless wild,
He rends the oak—and bids it ride,
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring beauty's lap to fill:
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.
In fields of air he writes his name,