thee,

ame

er fame

o'er thee

TO M. L. S.

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night—
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun-of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope-for life-ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth-in Virtue-in Humanity—
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be
light!"

At the soft-murmured words that were ful-
filled

In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—
Of all who owe thee most-whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship-oh, remember
The truest the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written
by him-

By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

SPIRIT OF THE DEAD.

THY Soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

18

Be silent in thy solitude

Which is not loneliness-for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee-and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still,

The night-tho' clear-shall frown-
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given-
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee forever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish-
Now are visions ne'er to vanish-

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more—like dew-drops from the grass.

The breeze-the breath of God-is still-
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy-shadowy-yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token-
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

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