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They hear the wind's low sigh,

And the river sweeping free,

And the green reeds murmuring heavily,

And the woods-but they hear not thee!

Long have I striven

With my deep foreboding soul,

But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,

And darkly on must roll.

There's a young brow smiling near,

With a bridal white-rose wreath,

Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touch'd solemnly by death!

Fair art thou Morna!

The sadness of thine eye

Is beautiful as silvery clouds

On the dark-blue summer sky!

And thy voice comes like the sound

Of a sweet and hidden rill,

That makes the dim woods tuneful round

But soon it must be still!

Silence and dust

On thy sunny lips must lie,

Make not the strength of love thy trust,

A stronger yet is nigh!

No strain of festal flow


my hand for thee hath tried,

But into dirge-notes wild and low,

Its ringing tones have died.

Young art thou, Morna!

Yet on thy gentle head,

Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,

A spirit hath been shed!

And the glance is thine which sees

Thro' nature's awful heart

But bright things go with the summer-breeze,

And thou too, must depart!

Yet shall I weep?

I know that in thy breast

There swells a fount of song too deep,

Too powerful for thy rest!

And the bitterness I know,

And the chill of this world's breath-

Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!
Young and crown'd bride of death!

Take hence to heaven

Thy holy thoughts and bright,

And soaring hopes, that were not given

For the touch of mortal blight!

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There was a burst of tears around the bard:

All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye,

Rais'd to the first faint star above the hills,

And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek

Was paler than before. So Morna heard

The minstrel's prophecy.

And spring return'd,

Bringing the earth her lovely things again,

All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,

A young sweet spirit gone.


From the "Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poem.

If there be but one spot upon thy name,
One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice

Whose tones thou shrink'st from-Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head-and die!

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along

Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,

Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!

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