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"Life hath been heavy on my head,

I come a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled,

To bleed in stillness here."

She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept, Shook all her thrilling frame

She fell upon his neck and wept,

Murmuring her brother's name.

Her brother's name !-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,

That came, the bitter world to flee,

A stranger to his own?-

He was the bard of gifts divine

To sway the souls of men ;

He of the song for Salem's shrine,

He of the sword and pen!


Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,
And gaz'd o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander'd o'er the earth,
And never found thy likeness.-Speak to me!
This once-once more!

"THOU'RT gone!--thou'rt slumbering low,

With the sounding seas above thee;

It is but a restless wo,

But a haunting dream to love thee!

Thrice the glad swan has sung,

To greet the spring-time hours,

Since thine oar at parting flung

The white spray up in showers.


There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and round

thy home;

Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou'rt surely of


'Twas Ulla's voice--alone she stood

In the Iceland summer night,

Far gazing o'er a glassy flood,

From a dark rock's beetling height.

"I know thou hast thy bed.

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee:

The storm sweeps o'er thy head,

But the depths are hush'd around thee.

What wind shall point the way

To the chambers where thou'rt lying?

Come to me thence, and say

If thou thought'st on me in dying?

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and


Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou'rt surely of them-speak!"

She listened-'twas the wind's low moan,

'Twas the ripple of the wave,

'Twas the wakening ospray's cry alone,

As it started from its cave.

"I know each fearful spell

Of the ancient Runic lay,

Whose mutter'd words compel
The tempest to obey.

But I adjure not thee

By magic sign or song,

My voice shall stir the sea

By love, the deep, the strong!

By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her


Come to me from the ocean's dead-by the vows we


Again she gaz'd with an eager glance,

Wandering and wildly bright;

She saw but the sparkling waters dance
To the arrowy northern light.

"By the slow and struggling death
Of hope that loath'd to part,

By the fierce and withering breath
Of despair on youth's high heart;
By the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,

By the heavy dawn which brings

Nought lovely to the sight,

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