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Too much, oh! there too much!—we know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet rous'd by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,

Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more,

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door,

And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feetSpring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these?

Vain longings for the dead!—why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ?

Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breath'd by our lov'd ones there!



THE hills all glow'd with a festive light,
For the royal city rejoic'd by night :

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire,
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I pass'd thro' the streets; there were throngs on throngs

Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne-
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;

The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,

Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ?
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain!

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell;
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,

And bowing the beauty of woman's head:

Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender


For the many brave to their slumbers gone?

I saw not the face of a weeper there

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare!

I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd

The music of victory was all too loud!

Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,

Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car ;
Thro' torches and streamers its flood swept by-
How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,

Dazzling the eyes till they see not wo.

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal

So must thy spirit be taught to feel!


There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,

The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief.


By the soft green light in the woody glade,

On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd ;

By the household tree thro' which thine eye

First look'd in love to the summer-sky ;
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh! guard it well!

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