He turn’d him with a silent heart,

Unto the daily cares of clay,
The dullest breast can act its part,

When sorrow is the play.
But those who knew him mark’d the soul,

Was absent from his quiet eye;
The smile at will he might control,

But not at times the sigh. And never as of old, the smile!

It chill'd, it sadden'd while it shone,
Like lights we only kindle, while

The life of day is gone.
From his youth upward he had fed

On lonely, but on daring thought,
And now the altering charm was fled,

His ancient food he sought ;
Oft would he sit for hours, and mark
The wan moon creep

her

weary way, And hold communion, sad and dark,

With that true Genius of our clay, Urger of Hope-Woe-Virtue—SinThe unsleeping Second-Self within ! And, when the morning came, you saw

Upon his cheek the haggard brand,
Which one might bear, whose spell could draw

The Spirit from its land.
The fallen lip, the harass'd brow,

The wrung exhaustion, and the awe!

Alas! the soul has fiends that sear,
As dreadly the consuming frame

As aught, escaped from Nature's law,
That ever to the cavern came

Of those whose kingly charm could bow Of old, the monster-powers of Fear ! Whose daring souls were nerved to brave The dark things of the riven grave; Girt with the menaced fire, to breast The lighnings of the armed Priest ; Trample the fears of nature—quell The flesh, by one immortal spell, And shake the very Thrones of Hell ! Arch Rebels of our tyrant BirthThe more than monarchs of the earth, Humbling that dread, and shadowy world, Around our own so dimly curled; Who, mightier than the Heathen's God, From Fate herself usurped the rod, And made her rent recess the cells, Voiced with a mortal's oracles. Sceptering the mysteries of the Deep, The Whirlwinds in their Mountain-keep; The Seasons in their rounded march, The wan Kings of the starred Arch; Rapt above Nature and o'er Time, By lore too glorious to be crime !

Days went; and Julian's schemes at last,
From their completing mould were cast,
And fixed the bourne on Indian soil,
Where Wealth might sometime yield to Toil.
And wealth was precious in his eyes,
For wealth might win to love the prize.

Improved are now the bribes of old,
Since Danaë was seduced by gold-
You want the daughter ?---well then, rather
Shower the gold upon the father!

And, tho' not oft, our lovers yet,
By stealth, and for brief moments met-
Ah! meetings which are traced in tears,
And hopes just-born--are tomb’d in fears !

Oh! what a soft and lovely shroud

Of thought hangs o’er such mournful meeting ! The grief consoled--the comfort vow'd

Are memories far too fond for fleeting.

As some benign and gentle shade
Our woe itself hath sacred made,
They wander with us, and invite
Our steps to no unholy rite;
Wearing the mystery of the tomb,
Its tenderness but not its gloom !

They glide athwart our manhood's cares,

And care is hush'd !--they haunt our sins, And sin grows soft!-our hopes--our prayers-

All interest sways--or passion wins---
Or Fancy dreams--those thoughts suffuse
With their own loved and faithful hues!
They bathe, for aye, the surface sere
That crusts upon us year by year;
And, as unto our youth they brought
The lesson which by Age is taught,
So now, in turn, they seem to bring
Our Age-sweet whispers from the spring ;-
Flock round our pillow at life's close,
And in our very grave repose!

The lovers met, and Julian still
Soothed Mary's dim forefears of ill;
Spoke hopes which rugged Reason bade not,
And poured the comfort which he had not.

And when he told how years would pass

But love remain--and he return Rich as her sire could wish-alas!

She thought not of the early urn
Such hopes too often find !--the wide

Dark gulf between, she scarcely viewed;
She looked at once beyond Time’s tide,
And saw them once more side by side,

As now they fondly stood !

So would they meet, and hope, and raise
Fair morrows to the evil days;
And in her youth and innocence,
She dreamt not love could need defence.
She knew not why so wildly trembled

His hand, if only touch'd by her's;
The wish by Passion oft dissembled,

If true, for ever it incurs.-
As hearths--as fuel without fire-
Man's love that would disown desire !

And there was peril in the hour,

And place, and silence, of their meetingEve, and its star, and that soft power,

That sway'd their pulse's fitful beating. Nature below, and shade aboveAnd they--their young hearts and their love!

And never was a lovelier breast
Than her’s by youthful ardour prest ;
And never did a dreamier

eye, Look back to love unknown reply.

Oh! what is that divine, intense,
And holy soul within the sense-
That can control-restrain-inspire
The deafened fierceness of desire---
That can the wildest wish of clay,
The strength---the self of Nature sway,