In the silence of my chamber, When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean Mutters in its charmed sleep,
Oft I hear the angel voices That have thrill'd me long ago,— Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow.
O, the-garden I remember,
In the gay and sunny spring, When our laughter made the thickets And the arching alleys ring!
O the merry burst of gladness! O the soft and tender tone! O the whisper never utter'd Save to one fond ear alone!
Q the light of life that sparkled
In those bright and bounteous eyes! O the blush of happy beauty, Tell-tale of the heart's surprise!
O the radiant light that girdled Field and forest, land and sea, When we all were young together, And the earth was new to me!
Where are now the flowers we tended? Wither'd, broken, branch and stem; Where are now the hopes we cherish'd? Scatter'd to the winds with them,
For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones! Nurs'd in hope and rear'd in love, Looking fondly ever upward
To the clear blue heaven above:
Smiling on the sun that cheer'd us, Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again:
Never shaken, save by accents From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles At the wooing of the bee.
O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in, All the words we spoke in truth.
Sever'd-were it sever'd only
By an idle thought of strife, Such as time might knit together- Not the broken chord of life!
O my heart! that once so truly Kept another's time and tune, Heart, that kindled in the spring-tide, Look around thee in the noon.
Where are they who gave the impulse To thy earliest thought and flow? Look around the ruin'd garden-
All are wither'd, dropp'd, or low!
Seek the birth-place of the lily, Dearer to the boyish dream Than the golden cups of Eden, Floating on its slumbrous stream;
Never more shalt thou behold her, She, the noblest, fairest, best: She that rose in fullest beauty, Like a queen, above the rest.
Only still I keep her image
As a thought that cannot die, He who raised the shade of Helen Had no greater power than I.
O! I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain; All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again.
Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes, Warmly as ye did before! Bloom again, ye happy gardens, With the radiant tints of yore!
Warble out in spray and thicket, All ye choristers unseen, Let the leafy woodland echo
With an anthem to its queen!
Lo! she cometh in her beauty, Stately with a Juno grace, Raven locks, Madonna-braided
O'er her sweet and blushing face:
Eyes of deepest violet, beaming
With the love that knows not shame,
Lips, that thrill my inmost being With the utterance of a name.
And I bend the knee before her, As a captive ought to bow,-1 Pray thee, listen to my pleading, Sovereign of my soul art thou!
O my dear and gentle lady, Let me show thee all my pain, Ere the words that late were prison'd Sink into my heart again.
Love, they say, is very fearful Ere its curtain be withdrawn, Trembling at the thought of error As the shadows scare the fawn.
Love hath bound me to thee, lady, Since the well-remember'd day When I first beheld thee coming In the light of lustrous May.
Not a word I dared to utter- More than he who, long ago, Saw the heavenly shapes descending Over Ida's slopes of snow:
When a low and solemn music
Floated through the listening grove, And the throstle's song was silenced, And the doling of the dove:
When immortal beauty open'd All its grace to mortal sight, And the awe of worship blended With the throbbing of delight.
As the shepherd stood before them Trembling in the Phrygian dell, Even so my soul and being
Own'd the magic of the spell;
And I watch'd thee ever fondly. Watch'd thee, dearest, from afar, With the mute and humble homage Of the Indian to a star.
Thou wert still the Lady Flora
In her morning garb of bloom;
Where thou wert was light and glory, Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom.
So for many a day I follow'd
For a long and weary while, Ere my heart rose up to bless thee For the yielding of a smile,-
Ere thy words were few and broken As they answer'd back to mine, Ere my lips had power to thank thee For the gift vouchsafed by thine.
Then a mighty gush of passion Through my inmost being ran; Then my older life was ended, And a dearer course began.
Dearer!-0, I cannot tell thee
What a load was swept away, What a world of doubt and darkness Faded in the dawning day!
All my error, all my weakness, All my vain delusions fled: Hope again revived, and gladness Waved its wings above my head,
Like the wanderer of the desert, When, across the dreary sand, Breathes the perfume from the thickets Bordering on the promised land;
When afar he sees the palm-trees Cresting o'er the lonely well, When he hears the pleasant tinkle Of the distant camel's bell:
So a fresh and glad emotion
Rose within my swelling breast, And I hurried swiftly onwards To the haven of my rest.
Thou wert there with word and welcome, With thy smile so purely sweet; And I laid my heart before thee,
Laid it, darling, at thy feet!
O ye words that sound so hollow As I now recall your tone! What are ye but empty echoes Of a passion crush'd and gone?
Wherefore should I seek to kindle
Light, when all around is gloom? Wherefore should I raise a phantom O'er the dark and silent tomb?
Early wert thou taken, Mary!
In thy fair and glorious prime, Ere the bees had ceased to murmur Through the umbrage of the lime.
Buds were blowing, waters flowing, Birds were singing on the tree, Every thing was bright and glowing, When the angels came for thee.
Death had laid aside his terror, And he found thee calm and mild, Lying in thy robes of whiteness, Like a pure and stainless child.
Hardly had the mountain violet Spread its blossoms on the sod, Ere they laid the turf above thee, And thy spirit rose to God.
Early wert thou taken Mary! And I know 'tis vain to weep- Tears of mine can never wake thee From thy sad and silent sleep.
O away! my thoughts are earthward! Not asleep, my love! art thou, Dwelling in the land of glory With the saints and angels now.
Brighter, fairer far than living, With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall I see thee once again,
By the light that never fadeth, Underneath eternal skies,
When the dawn of resurrection
Breaks o'er deathless Paradise.
HUZZA FOR THE RULE OF THE WHIGS!
AIR-" Old Rosin the Beau."
ALL ye who are true to the altar and throne, Come join in this ditty with me;
And you who don't like it may let it alone, Or listen a little and see.
How quietly now we may sleep in our beds, And waken as merry as grigs:
Though fears of rebellion hang over our heads, We're safe while we're ruled by the Whigs.
In the 'nineties we saw (I remember the day) Revolution disguised as Reform ; But the country was saved in a different way, By the Pilot that weather'd the storm. Our vessel was steer'd by the bravest and best, And, except a few quality sprigs,
The whole English nation had thought it a jest To propose being ruled by the Whigs.
But as matters now stand in this ill-fated realm, When old comrades will give us the slip, We are strangely compell'd to put men at the helm To prevent them from scuttling the ship. Only think, for a moment, if Russell were out, How wild he'd be running his rigs !
About popular rights he would make such a rout-- 'Tis lucky we're ruled by the Whigs.
The Church-can you doubt what her danger would be Were Tories at present in power¿
Lord John, or his friends, we should certainly see Attacking her posts every hour.
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