The light it was ashen; the shade it was dun;

The hills hid the sun;

The sand in the golden-rimmed crystal was run: They slumbered the while.

And grand were his features, unsullied by guile, In the dreamless repose;

And heavenly sweet was the peace of her smile; The palm and the rose.

In a holier chamber they laid them away,

To sleep till the day,

Till the trumpeter sounded, at gold-shotten gray, The awakening call.

The door it was barred; and the portal was tall, And it fronted the vale,

Where the moon's magic languor and splendor was thrall

On the slumbering gale.

But there the dark cypresses bore up aloof,

On their pillars of proof,

A frondage of sable, like some Gothic roof

O'er a sepulchre rare:

The long pendent mosses drooped still in the air From the leaf-fretted piles;

They hung, like black bannerols, heavily there Above the grand aisles.

And there they slept sweetly, in visionless calm : They heard not the psalm,

When the air of the valley was heavy with balm, And the moon large and low;

When the winds moved together, like nuns, to and fro,

And crooned an old song, that they learned long ago,

In the solitude there.

The armorial signs of the race, on the field

Of the sculptured stone shield,

The skull and the wings, the weird brilliance

revealed;

And the word of sweet lore,

"Resurgamus," -all carven above the black door,

On the architrave gray;

But the lord and his lady will rise nevermore,

Till the dawn of the day!

OH! think not that the bosom's light
Must dimly shine, its fire be low,
Because it does not all invite

To feel its warmth and share its glow.
The altar's strong and steady blaze
On all around may coldly shine,
But only genial warmth conveys

To those who gather near the shrine.
The lamp within the festive hall

Doth not more clear and brightly burn Than that which, shrouded by the pall, Lights but the cold funereal urn.

The fire which lives through one brief hour,
More sudden heat perchance reveals
Than that whose tenfold strength and power
Its own unmeasured depths conceals.

Brightly the summer cloud may glide,
But bear no heat within its breast,
Though all its gorgeous folds are dyed.
In the full glories of the west;
'Tis that which through the darkened sky,
Surrounded by no radiance, sweeps,
In which, concealed from every eye,
The wild and vivid lightning sleeps.

Do the dull flint, the rigid steel,

Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal

The hidden power which they infold?
But take these cold, unyielding things,
And beat their edges till you tire,
And every atom forth that springs
Is a bright spark of living fire:
Each particle, so dull and cold

Until the blow that woke it came, Did still within it, slumbering, hold power to wrap the world in flame.

A

What is there, when thy sight is turned
To the volcano's icy crest,

By which the fire can be discerned
That rages in its silent breast;

Which, hidden deep, but quenchless still,
Is at its work of sure decay,

And will not cease to burn until
It wears its giant heart away?
The mountain-side upholds in pride

Its head amid the realms of snow,
And gives its bosom depth to hide

The burning mass which lies below.

While thus, in things of sense alone,

Such truths from sense lie still concealed,

How can the living heart be known;
Its secret, inmost depths revealed?
Oh! many an overburdened soul

Has been at last to madness wrought,
While proudly struggling to control

Its burning and consuming thought; When it had sought communion long,

And had been doomed in vain to seek, For feelings far too deep and strong

For heart to bear or tongue to speak.