Thou art the brightest-but the last! Be not less fair than true of heart My loves are o'er! The sun will shine Upon no grave so hush'd as this dark breast of mine. SPIRIT-WHISPERS. (Spirit-whisper in the poet's ear-MORNING.) WAKE! poet, wake!-the morn has burst And, wing'd by prayer since evening nursed, And now stoops low to you! Oh, poet of the loving eye, For you is dress'd this morning sky! (Second whisper-NOON.) Oh, poet of the pen enchanted! A lady sits beneath a tree! At last, the flood for which she panted- Have gush'd in song from thee! (Third whisper-MIDNIGHT.) King of the heart's deep mysteries! Your words have wings like lightning wove! This hour, o'er hills and distant seas, They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze, TO M, FROM ABROAD. "The desire of the moth for the star- From the sphere of our sorrow." SHELLEY. "L'alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura." METASTASIO. As, gazing on the Pleiades, We count each fair and starry one, Whose roses were all lovely too So, dearest, when I rove among The bright ones of this foreign sky, The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime, Let loose, to his far nest will flee, Though clouds across the sky have driven, I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine! SUNRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF A BALL. MORN in the East! How coldly fair How chides the pure and pearly sky! The stars melt in a brighter fire— The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowersThey, from their watch, in light retire, While we, in sadness, pass from ours. I turn from the rebuking morn,— The cold gray sky, and fading star,And listen to the harp and horn, And see the waltzers near and farThe lamps and flowers are bright as yet, And lips beneath more bright than they,How can a scene so fair beget The mournful thoughts we bear away! 'Tis something that thou art not here, But I have long a loiterer been In haunts where Joy is said to be, TO A FACE BELOVED THE music of the waken'd lyre Dies not upon the quivering strings, Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, The spells of the enchanter lie Not on his own lone heart-his own rapt ear and eye. I look upon a face as fair As ever made a lip of heaven Falter amid its music-prayer! The first-lit star of summer even Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, So seems of heaven the dearest light Men murmur, where that face is seen, My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien. Yet though we deem the stars are blest, And envy, in our grief, the flower That bears but sweetness in its breast, And love the minstrel for the spell He winds out of his lyre so well The stars are almoners of light, The fountain of its waters bright, |