All the soul forth flowing
In that rich perfume,

All the proud life glowing

In that radiant bloom,

Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb?

Crown'st thou but the daughters

Of our tearful race?

-Heaven's own purest waters

Well might wear the trace

Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee

With immortal air?

Shall we not behold thee

Bright and deathless there?

In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more fair?

Yes! my fancy sees thee

In that light disclose,

And its dream thus frees thee

From the mist of woes,

Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal rose!

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;

To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified

From earth, ye seem allied;

O dedicated flowers!"

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined:
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
-So doth love's dreaming heart

Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose

The inmost thought which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,

Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

CALL back your odours, lovely flowers,

From the night-winds call them back; And fold your leaves till the laughing hours Come forth in the sunbeam's track!

The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest,
And the honey-bee is gone,

And all bright things are away to rest:
Why watch ye here alone?

Is not your world a mournful one,
When your sisters close their eyes,

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone
Of song in the starry skies?

Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth,
When it kindles the sparks of dew?

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth,
Shall they gladden all but you?

Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out
On the sunny turf to play,

And the woodland child with a fairy shout
Goes dancing on its way!

"Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom
When the stars give quiet light,
And let us offer our faint perfume
On the silent shrine of night.

"Call it not wasted, the scent we lend

To the breeze, when no step is nigh; Oh thus for ever the earth should send Her grateful breath on high!

"And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers, Of hopes unto sorrow given,

That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours, Looking alone to heaven!"

ECHO-SONG.

IN thy cavern-hall,

Echo! art thou sleeping?
By the fountain's fall
Dreamy silence keeping?

Yet one soft note borne

From the shepherd's horn,

Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping!
-Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping.

Then the woods rejoice,

Then glad sounds are swelling
From each sister-voice

Round thy rocky dwelling;

And their sweetness fills

All the hollow hills,

With a thousand notes, of one life telling!
-Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.

Echo! in my heart

Thus deep thoughts are lying,

Silent and apart,

Buried, yet undying.

Till some gentle tone

Wakening haply one,

Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying!

-Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.'

'This song is in the possession of Mr. Power.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.'

THE muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier's burial rite.

But it told them not how dear,
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior youth laid low that hour,
By a mountain-stream of Spain.

The oaks of England waved

O'er the slumbers of his race,

But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above his last lone place:

When the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound
Which call'd strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial rite.

Brief was the sorrowing there,

By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head:

1 Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq.