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The sudden images of vanish'd things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by,
A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar--
A flower scent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;
Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

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 fear,-

These are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear?

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 made--
Let 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 entwin'd ?— 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

With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise-the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.

AND shrink

ye from the



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,

They are gone where swords avail them not,

From the feast of victory.

And the seers who sat of yore

By orient palm or wave,

They have pass'd with all their starry lore



still fear the grave?

We fear! we fear !-the sunshine

Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not the buried kings,
Nor the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink!—the bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burn,

They 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;

Not from our path those flowers are gone

We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

As the last leaves on the bough!—

Ye have lov'd the light of many a smile,

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.

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