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CXV.

"I'm weak and faint. O, let me stay!" "Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee!" The horse and man are on their way;

He bears him to the sea.

Hark! how the spectre breathes through this still night:

See, from his nostrils streams a deathly light!

CXVI.

He's on the beach; but stops not there; He's on the sea!-that dreadful horse! LEE flings and writhes in wild despair!In vain! The spirit-corse

Holds him by fearful spell;-he cannot leap. Within that horrid light he rides the deep.

CXVII.

It lights the sea around their track

The curling comb, and dark steel wave; There, yet, sits LEE the spectre's backGone! gone! and none to save!

They're seen no more; the night has shut them in. May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin!

CXVIII.

The earth has wash'd away its stain;
The scaled-up sky is breaking forth,
Mustering its glorious hosts again,

From the far south and north;

The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. -O, whither on its waters rideth LEE?

THE OCEAN.*

Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade, To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, Then back into themselves in rivers run, Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide.

Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains
And flings to break his strong and viewless chains;
Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors,
Hark! hear him! how he beats and tugs and roars,
As if he would break forth again and sweep
Each living thing within his lowest deep.
Type of the Infinite! I look away
Over thy billows, and I cannot stay
My thought upon a resting-place, or make
A shore beyond my vision, where they break;
But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain

To think; then rests, and then puts forth again.
Thou hold'st me by a spell; and on thy beach
I feel all soul; and thoughts unmeasured reach
Far back beyond all date. And, O! how old
Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast

roll'd.

Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn,
Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn;
Waiting, thou mighty minister of death,
Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath.

*From "Factitious Life."

At last thou didst it well! The dread command
Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land;
And then once more, unto the silent heaven
Thy lone and melancholy voice was given.

And though the land is throng'd again, O Sea! Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call, Share thy own spirit: it is sadness all!

How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down
Yonder tall cliff-he with the iron crown.
And see! those sable pines along the steep,
Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep!
Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge
Over the dead, with thy low beating surge.

DAYBREAK.

"The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising: the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang."-The Pilgrim's Progress.

Now, brighter than the host that all night long,, In fiery armour, far up in the sky

Stood watch, thou comest to wait the morning's

song,

Thou comest to tell me day again is nigh, Star of the dawning! Cheerful is thine eye; And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim; Thou bid'st me turn to GoD, and seck my rest in Him.

Canst thou grow sad, thou say'st, as earth grows bright?

And sigh, when little birds begin discourse
In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light
Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh
source?

With creatures innocent thou must perforce
A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.
And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,
Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,
And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to
endure.

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue,
Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort
shed.

Still save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and

wrong.

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife, With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth With discord strange, and all that man calls life. With thousand scatter'd beauties nature's rife;

And airs and woods and streams breathe harmonies:
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties :-
He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies.
It is because man useth so amiss

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she in such fresh hour as this
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,
From her fair face?-It is that man is mad!
Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine
When nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.
Thou look'st toward earth; but yet the heavens
are thine;

While I to earth am bound:-When will the heavens be mine?

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense

Of simpler things; could nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bow'd,
Remembering humbly why it is, and whence:
But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad-I'm lonely in the crowd.
But not for this alone, the silent tear
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this sole mn hour: fresh life is near ;-
But all my joys!--they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm--my spirit's

torn;

Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high!— Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh.

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be

That I--whom nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea-
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters--feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit;--who, as my own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur
A beauty see-that I this mother mild
Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce
and wild!

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth! In crown of living fire
Up comes the day! As if they conscious quaff'd--
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire
Laugh in the wakening light.-Go, vain desire!
The dusky lights are gone; go thou thy way!
And pining discontent, like them, expire!

Be call'd my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day; And let me with the dawn, like PILGRIM, sing and pray.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.* O, LISTEN, man!

A voice within us speaks the startling word, "Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices

From the "Husband's and Wife's Grave."

Hymn it around our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality!
Thick, clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

-O, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in
From all the air! "Tis in the gentle moonlight;
"Tis floating in day's setting glories; night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears;
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast, mystic instrument, are touch'd
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee :

-The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD.

I.

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice? And with that boding cry

O'er the waves dost thou fly? O! rather, bird, with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

II.

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea;

Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us: Thy wailWhat does it bring to me?

III.

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,
Restless and sad: as if, in strange accord
With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,
One spirit did ye urge-

The Mystery-the Word.

IV.

Of thousands, thou both sepulchre and pall,
Old ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead,
From out thy gloomy cells
A tale of mourning tells-
Tells of man's wo and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

V.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light
Where birds of summer sing.

THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE

POET.

THOUGH I am humble, slight me not,

But love me for the Poet's sake; Forget me not till he's forgot;

I, care or slight, with him would take. For oft he pass'd the blossoms by,

And gazed on me with kindly look; Left flaunting flowers and open sky,

And woo'd me by the shady brook. And like the brook his voice was low: So soft, so sad the words he spoke, That with the stream they seem'd to flow: They told me that his heart was broke ;They said, the world he fain would shun,

And seek the still and twilight woodHis spirit, weary of the sun,

In humblest things found chiefest good;That I was of a lowly frame,

And far more constant than the flower,
Which, vain with many a boastful name,
But flutter'd out its idle hour;
That I was kind to old decay,

And wrapt it softly round in green,
On naked root and trunk of gray
Spread out a garniture and screen :-
They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me;
That on his manhood fell a blast,

And left him bare, like yonder tree; That spring would clothe his boughs no more, Nor ring his boughs with song of birdSounds like the melancholy shore

Alone were through his branches heard. Methought, as then, he stood to trace

The wither'd stems, there stole a tearThat I could read in his sad face,

Brother, our sorrows make us near.
And then he stretch'd him all along,

And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song,-
How glad was I to tend his rest!
Then happier grew his soothed soul.
He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play
Upon my face, as in it stole,

Whispering, Above is brighter day!
He praised my varied hues-the green,
The silver hoar, the golden, brown;
Said, Lovelier hues were never seen:
Then gently press'd my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,

He call'd them trees, in fond conceit: Like silly lovers in their suits

He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,

Could I but chase away his care, And clothe me in a thousand hues,

To bring him joys tha I might share.

He answer'd, earth no blessing had
To cure his lone and aching heart-
That I was one, when he was sad,

Oft stole him from his pain, in part.
But e'en from thee, he said, I go,

To meet the world, its care and strife, No more to watch this quiet flow,

Or spend with thee a gentle life. And yet the brook is gliding on,

And I, without a care, at rest, While back to toiling life he's gone, Where finds his head no faithful breast. Deal gently with him, world, I pray ; Ye cares, like soften'd shadows come; His spirit, wellnigh worn away,

Asks with ye but awhile a home. Oh, may I live, and when he dies

Be at his feet an humble sod; Oh, may I lay me where he lies, To die when he awakes in God!

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

I LOOK through tears on Beauty now; And Beauty's self, less radiant, looks on me, Serene, yet touch'd with sadness is the brow

(Once bright with joy) I see.
Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad?

Tell where the radiance of the smile is gone
At which my heart and earth and skies were glad-
That link'd us all in one.

It is not on the mountain's breast;
It comes not to me with the dawning day;
Nor looks it from the glories of the west,

As slow they pass away.

Nor on those gliding roundlets bright
That steal their play among the woody shades,
Nor on thine own dear children doth it light-
The flowers along the glades.

And alter'd to the living mind

(The great high-priestess with her thought-born race Who round thine altar aye have stood and shined) The comforts of thy face.

Why shadow'd thus thy forehead fair? Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom? And spreads away upon the genial air,

Like vapours from the tomb?

Why should ye shine, you lights above?
Why, little flowers, open to the heat?
No more within the heart ye filled with love
The living pulses beat.

Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand! The fine beholding eye whose constant look Was turn'd on thee is dark-and cold the hand That gave all vision took.

Nay, heart, be still!-Of heavenly birth Is Beauty sprung.-Look up! behold the place! There he who reverent traced her steps on earth Now sees her face to face.