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Here have I dwelt in glee,
But soon I pass, like thee,
And I return no more.
THE POWER OF THE DEAD.
Say not their power is o'er,
With might, unknown before,
Who stands beside the bed,
Nor feels a secret dread,
The lowliest son of earth,
Hath to a realm gone forth,
An awful mystery, sealed
To them hath been reveal'd,
They are the constant sign
Confirm his word divine,
They are the seed from whence
When his omnipotence
Say not their power is o'er
For them our spirits pour
Where is the place of graves
In every wind that waves
Where'er some lonely mound
At once that spot of ground Our hearts with unseen holiness invest.
Say not they have no power! Perhaps they were our enemies in life,
But now hath come an hour, When endeth all the tumult and the strife.
Another, mightier hand Hath still'd the opposer—anger now may cease;
Who can the truth withstand, That with the dead our hearts should be at peace?
And for the loved and lost,
When wildly tempest-tost,
And many a gentle word
By memory may be stirr'd,
And when the wayward heart Doubts how it shall some dark temptation shun;
They may decide its part— "So will we do, for so would they have done."
Say not they are no more, Those who the heart with reverence thus can fill;
Say not their power is o'er When thus its traces are around us still!
TELL ME NO MORE.
Tell me no more amid these silent mountains,
Lull'd by the whisper of these upland fountains,
Leave me alone one day, with Nature's beauty—
The needful rest will nerve my soul to duty,
If it be true that love is born to sorrow,
That hope deceives, and friendship fades away—
Let the sad wisdom slumber till to-morrow,
If I am free to dive in truth's deep ocean,
To watch the billows in their wild commotion,
Pearls for the diver battling with the billows!
Pearls for his mournful pomp and lonely pride !Por me, this day, a harp upon the willows,
And flowers fresh gather'd by the water's side.
TO FANNY ANN.
By Ebenezeb Elliott.
As the flower bloweth,
Daughter of beauty,
What, then, is duty?
Time says, "Death knoweth!"
Death says, "Time showeth!"
THE LOVE OF ORION AND DIANA.
A fine passage in H. Horne's dramatic poem Orion.
Above the isle of Chios, night by night,
Translated from the German of Schiller, by Sir E. B. Bulwer
And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born,
And nature seem'd to woo me;
Yet the short spring gave only tears unto me! Life but one blooming holiday can keep—
For me the bloom is fled;
Weep, for the light is dead!
O dread Eternity!
The seal's unbroken—see!
Conceals, my murmur came;
Requiter is thy name.
Terrors, they say, thou dost for vice prepare,
And joys the good shall know;
And keep account with woe.
There ends the thorny strife.
And check'd the reins of life.
Give thou to me thy youth;
Gave my young joys to Truth.
"Give me thy Laura—give me her whom love
To thy heart's core endears;
And gave—albeit with tears!
Poor fool" (the scoffer cries); "Gull'd by the despot's hireling lie, with lore That gives for truth a shadow;—life is o'er