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Are music parted, and the tones of mirthWild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright!
Have died in others,-yet to me they come, Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home!
They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
In the gray stillness of the summer morn,
E'en as a fount's remember'd gushings burst
Remorse, a Tragedy.
By quenchless longings, to my soul I sayOh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away,
And find mine ark !-yet whither ?—I must bear
And sighing through the feathery canes(1)— hath power
To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave! So must it be!-These skies above me spread, Are they my own soft skies?-Ye rest not here, my dead!
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell.(2)
Peace!-I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain