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Tas pious man,
upon the troublows en iz mis
But on whose billowy back from mas cometa The glaring sunbeam plays
Through my lattice leaf embower'd,
I throw aside the learned sheet,
Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,
Or why am I so frail ?
And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards;
Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;
O GIVE me music—for my soul doth faint;
I 'm sick of noise and care; and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,
That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,
As when the choral train their dirges weave,
O’er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. Oh! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores,
And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell ! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs,
Ah! who can say, however fair his view,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie ?
Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye
The illusive past and dark futurity; Soon will they know
And must thou go, and must we part?
Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit; The pang
that rends in twain my heart, Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it? Thy sex is fickle,—when away,
Some happier youth may win thy
(A term much darken’d with untimely woes),
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disown'd ;--and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,
I say to her she robb’d me of my rest,
When that was all my wealth.—'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;
Though wrong d, I love her-yet in anger love,
For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove
When high romance o’er every wood and stream
Dark lustre shęd, my infant mind to fire, Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream,
First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre; All there was mystery then, the gust that woke
The midnight echo with a spirit's dirge,
To their light morrice by the restless surge.
And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.
Hush'd is the lyre—the hand that swept
The low and pensive wires,
Robb’d of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes-it is still—the lyre is still ;
The spirit which its slumbers broke
Hath passed away,--and that weak hand that woke
Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy;
Mix'd with decaying odours; for to me
As in the wood-paths of my native
Once more, and yet once more,
I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay; I heard the waters roar,
I heard the flood of ages pass away.