My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back-yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain-thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou giv'st them back-nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown-to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; Labours of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,— And Love, that midst grief began, grew with years, and faltered not in death. Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. Thine for a space are they— Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! Has All that of good and fair gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perished-no! Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat. All shall come back, each tie And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young. "UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD." UPON the mountain's distant head, With trackless snows for ever white, But far below those icy rocks, The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, 'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, But lingers with the cold and stern. THE EVENING WIND. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep: And they who stand about the sick man's bea, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; |