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And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread; And wakening buried love, or joy, or fearThese are night's mysteries— who shall make them
And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall ? Why shakes the spirit thus ?--'tis mystery all!
Darkly we move - we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think
Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on, but undismay'd !
Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind; Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal
Th' immortal being with our dust entwined ? So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.
“Thou shalt lie down
AND shrink ye from the way
To the spirit's distant shore ? Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array,
Are thither gone before.
The warrior kings, whose banner
Flew far as eagles fly,
From the feast of victory.
And the seers who sat of yore
By orient palm or wave,
Can ye still fear the grave?
We fear! we fear! the sunshine
Is joyous to behold,
Nor the awful seers of old.
Ye shrink !- the bards whose lays
Have made your deep hearts burnThey have left the sun, and the voice of praise,
For the land whence none return.
And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die, They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.
Would ye not join that throng
Of the earth's departed flowers, And the masters of the mighty song
In their far and fadeless bowers?
Those songs are high and holy,
But they vanquish not our fear;
We fain would linger here!
Linger then yet awhile,
As the last leaves on the bough!-
That is taken from you now.
There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks, that now are still; There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.
That made Spring-time in your heart;
still fear to part ?
Though the way through darkness bends; Our souls are strong to follow them,
Our own familiar friends!
It waved not through an eastern sky,
Strange look'd it there !- the willow stream'd
There came an eve of festal hours-
1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les Jardins.
But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,