GENTLE SUMMER, THOU ART WANING.

Gentle summer, thou art waning, thy roses all are dead,
The brightness and the perfume from their petals long have fled;
Like angel wings outspreading, drifts of gold and amber lie,
All along the breezy hill-tops, that rest against the sky:
The clustering grapes are growing round, and purple with the wine
That morning dews and sunlight distilleth in the vine;
And where sang the gentle song-birds, and bloomed the forest flowers,
Now falls the clinging moss-wreaths, to drape those silent bowers.

Thou art wending, gentle summer, to the valley of the past,
Where all earth's brightest jewels in one common tomb are cast;
Thou'rt passing like a phantom, with soft and soundless tread,
To sleep amid the shadows, in the city of the dead;
The bursting buds of beauty that enwreathed thy youthful brow,
With the buds of human promise, oh! where, where are they now?
Along the dusty highways, and trampled in the sod,
With scarce a seed-pod ripened for the harvest time of God.

The mists of coming autumn are foreshadowed in my heart,
As I see thy glories fading, and then silently depart;
For though the coming days may bring friends, cherished as the old,
Yet the heart clings to the love-lambs already in the fold;
And the sorrows we have suffered have become familiar now,
While 'neath the accustomed burden the neck has learned to bow;

Yet we can but dread the new ones, that time must surely bring
To every weary mortal, on his heavy laden wing.

      LIFE'S SUNNY SPOTS.

Oh, there are many brilliant spots,
      To gild life's loneliest hours,
Where bloom the sweet forget-me-nots
      Of the spirit's green-wood blowers.

There, down within those sunny nooks,
      Far, far from the human eye,
Softly murmuring, love-toned brooks
      Go sweetly singing by.

There a host of joyous mem'ries come,
      Like stars of summer night,
And borrow of Hope's beaming sun
      A golden-tinted light.

'Tis there our brightest dreams, Love's own,
      That blest our trusting youth,
Are garnered up with all we've known
      Of goodness, and of truth.

Thus, there are many brilliant spots
      To gild life's loneliest hours,
Where bloom the sweet forget-me-nots
      Of the spirit's green-wood bower.

      SUMMER EVENINGS IN THE WILD WOOD.

Summer evenings in the wild-wood, oh, how beautiful they are,
Our inmost thoughts baptising in the glory that they wear;
How like a lovely maiden, when sorrow's clouds have thrown
Upon her heart a shadow, the first it e'er has known;
The sombre hues half veiling the brightness of her brow--
So comes the gentle Evening o'er the sunset mountains now,
Where trails her long, half-mourning robes, behind the leafy hills;
Night softly follows, where her steps have passed the singing rills.

And now with queenly air she comes, serenely gliding through
Where late the God of day had passed, the gates of gold and blue--
How like the bright and heavenly beams from eyes we fondly love,
Falls on the soul the radiance from the azure vaults above;
While, like the witching melody of Love's delicious strain,
Seem the murmurs of the zephyrs, as they go and come again--
Now passionately breathing words that lovers ever know,
Now growing faint, and fainter, from their own too sudden flow.

The gently flowing waters, like a silver sash they lie,
Starred with the constellations that thick cluster in the sky;
And how they plash and ripple, by the old moss-covered stone,
Where long I've sat and listened to their melody alone;
Yet not alone--I ever feel, amid such scenes as these,
That tones of loved ones whisper me, upon the perfumed breeze,

And angel eyes are looking down, from out their home of bliss,
To win my thoughts to their bright world, and cheer my steps through this.

And thus, where gleaming dew-drops lie, like pearls among the flowers,
I treasure up unwritten dreams, through all the moonlight hours,
While Faith and Hope resume their post, though with the rosy dawn,
They spread their rainbow-colored wings, and quickly both are gone;
They've no abiding temple where they sit--within my soul;
When care commands, they bow them to the tyrant's fierce control;
But ever in the "stilly hours," they come with gentle tread,
To weave their gentle halo, brief but bright, around my weary head.

  NEVER STOP TO LOOK BEHIND YOU.

Never stop to look behind you,
      Never loiter through the day,
Never let inaction bind you
      In its woof of brown and gray;
But up! and onward, ever!
      To the left, nor to the right,
Let your gaze be turning never;
      But where beams the beacon light
Of duty, straight before you,
      Keep your feet upon the way;
For though clouds should gather o'er you,
      They must quickly pass away.

Never stop to mope in sadness,
      To mourn, and sigh, and fret,
'Tis a sinful kind of madness,
      To believe your star is set

In a night of hopeless sorrow;
      Oh, arouse, and soon forget,
In the stirring, bright to-morrow,
      Each unworthy, vain regret;
Fortune never stoops when, sighing,
      The suppliant breathes her name;
At her feet are only lying,
      For the brave, her wreaths of fame.

What though the friends you've cherished,
      And the hearts that were your own,
And the dreams your fancy nourished,
      Like meteor gleams have flown;
The soul is narrow moulded,
      If, in all this world of ours,
Brighter gems are not enfolded
      In the hearts of human flowers,
To give thee, at the asking,
      Their freshness and their bloom,--
If but earnest smiles were basking
      Where now hangs that sullen gloom.

With youth and health distilling,
      In that manly frame of thine,
The blue veins, softly filling
      With life's sweet, rosy wine,

'Tis naught but rank insanity
      To fold the arms, and sigh
O'er the faults of frail humanity,
      And moan, and pray to die;
With slaves and cowards, never
      Le the powers you possess
Ignobly sink forever,
      In the slough of idleness!

      THE LAST FLOWERS OF THE SEASON.

Written on gathering a November bouquet for a Friend.

The last flowers of the season, I've culled them for thee,
      Ere the halls of the forest shall ring,
And the far mountain haunts of the bird and the bee,
      With the anthems the troubled winds sing;
The last flowers of the season, how strangely they blush,
      Through the darkness that gathers around,
When the cold, and the chill, have robbed even the flush
      From the dead leaves that carpet the ground!

Thus, the beautiful, soul-cheering visions that spring,
      And burst through life's summer in bloom,
Round the heart where they grew, pertinaciously cling,
      Though 'tis bound in a mantle of gloom.

When the winter of life, with its frost, and its snows,
      Shall lie white 'mong the locks of thy head,
And down in the heart, where its icy breath blows,
      The green leaves lie withered and dead.

Oh, then may some roses still cling to the tree,
      Where in sprint time they flourished and grew,
Unfolding their petals with mirth, and with glee,
      To the zephyr's low sighs, and the dew;
Mayst thou gather them then, as I gather these now,
      And still twine them with care, one by one,
To gladden the heart, and illumine the brow,
      When thy youth, with its sunlight is done.

      THAT STRAIN UPON THE WATERS.

That strain upon the waters!
      How it floats upon the breeze,
'Till the echoes seem to nestle
      'Mong the tall, green forest trees;
How the mellow flute-tones warble,
      Seeming quite to speak the words,
As we sometimes trace the rythm [sic]
      In the melody of birds.

Oh, 'tis joyous thus to hear it,
      In the stillness of the night,
When the Earth is hushed in slumbers,
      'Neath the Heavens' starry light;

Like Lethean waves, steals o'er me
      A tranquilizing spell,
As that strain awakes the waters
      Of the spirit's boundless well;

While the heart chords seem repeating,
      In low, and witching tone,
"Oh, who would live forever,
      In this bleak world, all alone?"
The smiles of love, and friendship,
      Are the roses on life's tree,--
May there ever be one blossom,
      To unfold its leaves for me!

And when the cold winds scatter
      Its blighted petals round,
May my weary heart sleep with them,
      In the dark and silent ground;
That strain upon the waters
      Has now died upon the breeze,
But the echoes softly linger
      With the spirit's melodies.

      A MORNING IN MAY.

Where the bright birds were singing a welcome to May,
In Nature's grand temple, I've wandered to-day,
And while my heart beat, in each pause of their rhyme,
With monotonous sound, keeping low, measured time,
My thoughts backward flew to a morning in May,
In the years that are wrapped in Time's mantle of gray,
Where, like scene of enchantment, sprang up to my view
A glen, with its wild flowers gleaming with dew,

And a cherry-cheeked maiden, who wandered with me,
'Till the shadows of night lengthened out o'er the sea,

And we dreamed, long we dreamed, of the beautiful years,
When life's springtime had passed, with its sunshine and tears,
And the summer would come, with its pure, golden light,
Undimmed by the storm-cloud, from morning 'till night,
And, like Sages, we talked of the good and the true,
And planned the great things that we surely would do.

Then years flew apace, and once more it was May,
While together we roamed o'er the green hills away,
Yet we talked nevermore of the future, so bright,
But only of beams which had vanished in night;
Then, as we sat down in the shade of a tree,
In sad, plaintive tone, said dear Eva to me,
"Oh! I'm weary of life, and I would I might die,
In this cool, breezy spot, in the green-wood to lie."

And to-day, as I roamed through the green hills alone. [sic]
With no kindred soul to commune with my own,
Softest tones have seemed calling my spirit away
From the darkness and gloom of its prison of clay;

And a sadness came o'er me, as gentle and sweet
As the song of the waters that played at my feet,
While they seemed to repeat, "Oh, I would I might die,
In this cool, breezy spot, in the green-wood to lie."

      AUTUMN LEAVES.

Falling, falling, day by day,
Scarlet, golden, crimson, gray,
      Autumn leaves, how bright
Gleam ye, through the mellow haze,
That wraps these sweet October days
      In soft, mysterious light!

Like are ye to human pleasures,
Which the saddened heart so treasures,
      Brightening, as the gloom
Of sorrow's clouds fast gather round
The way our weary steps are bound,
      To wander to the tomb.

On the breezes straying wide,
Like playful children now ye hide,
      In nooks all dark, and lone:

Now leaping, whirling on the wind,
That leaves thy fellows far behind,
      On stranger hills ye're strewn!

Thus, cling bands of friends together,
Through all their spring and summer weather,
      Like leaves upon a tree;
Until the autumn breezes rend them
Far apart, and rudely send them
      Alone o'er life's dark sea.

Garlands green! where are ye now,
That decked young Autumn's blushing brow?
      Ye are falling, one by one,
A charm around each passing leaf,
Like Beauty's tears, when sudden grief
      Obscures Hope's glowing sun.

Ye 're passing, like the hours of youth--
As beautiful as words of truth,
      Upon the low wind's breath,
To sink upon the ground below,
Where Earth's fair children all must go,
      To silent sleep in death.

Thy days of glory now are o'er--
Autumn leaves! ye'll hear no more
      The wild birds' merry lay;
When from the south they come again,
New leaves will deck the verdant plain,
      To welcome in sweet May.

And ye will lie, all brown and sere,
'Neath the tread of the proud young year,
      That rules her given hour;
Unconscious that her rose-wreathed brow
Must lowly lie, as ye do now,
      'Neath Time's resistless power.

      THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

The warm spring winds are breathing, with their voices soft and low,
Sweet, gentle rhyming sonnet, in the valleys where they go;
The flowrets are uprising, along the verdant hills,
And gladly rings the chorus of the gleeful mountain rills;
The thrush, that cherished warbler, on light and fleeting wing,
Has come from southern spice-groves, to herald back the spring,
And now sings 'mid the blossoms, on the scented hawthorn bow:
The world is full of gladness--but where, oh, where art thou?

Along the azure curtains that drape the boundless sky,
Floats a flood of softened lustre, from the silver lamps on high;
The all-too-vivid brightness of the day has passed from earth,
And Night has thrown her shadow on its merriment and mirth;
The bee, with wings close folded, has ceased its busy hum,
And the holy hour, when angels keep their vigils, now has come;
Yet a weight of grief and sadness lies o'erheavy on my brow,
And my soul is filled with yearnings, for where, oh, where art thou?

One seat, alas! is vacant, beside the hearth-fire bright,
One voice, we miss the music of its low and sweet "good night,"
One less now chaunts, at even, the old accustomed hymn,
One light amid our circle has suddenly grown dim,--
One planet, from the system that revolved around our home,
Has left us in its brightness, with higher orbs to roam!

My son, my son! my cherished one! thou of the broad, white brow,
My beautiful, my loved one! oh, tell me, where art thou?

Oh, then Heaven's beams were lighting that stricken mother's eye,
And with Faith's unclouded vision she looked beyond the sky;
Low, soothing tones were breathing of hopefulness and love,
And nestling in her bosom, like the Ark's returning dove;
A pure and smiling spirit gently led her by the hand,
To the rose-embowered portals of the angels' happy land;
And though that mother's footsteps on earth do linger yet,
Her heart is far above us, where her brightest gem is set!

      THE HILLS FOR ME.

Oh, I would sigh, in the close confines
      Of a city's crowded walls,
For the bursting buds, and clambering vines,
      Of the green-wood's leafy halls,
Though genius, beauty, wealth, and power,
      And loving hearts were there,
Upon my heart to constant shower
      The sunniest smiles they wear.

Yet, there are times when shadows fall,
      Like nightmare, on the heart;
When at some strange, unwelcome call,
      In the brain wild phantoms start;
When faith in Friendship, and in Love,
      Dwell not within the breast,
And our winged thoughts, like a weary dove,
      Can find no place of rest;

When the soft lyre that thrills the soul,
      Is sadly out of tune,
When its gentle numbers madly roll,
      Like sudden storms in June,
Then, O then, who'd willing be
      A guest amid the throng,
To list the jests, that echo free,
      Or swell the tide of song?

But oh! how sweet, alone to stray
      Through the forest's sounding isles,
Where softly falls the light of day,
      Like angel's silvery smiles:
There to sit, by the gushing springs
      That burst beneath the trees,
The fevered brow cooled by the wings
      Of bright birds, and the breeze.

'Mid scenes like these, no darkling cloud
      O'ershadows fancy's skies--
There Faith folds back the sombre shroud
      That veils Hope's sunny eyes.
The city belle may love her home,
      The sailor love the sea,
The hunter the glades, where tigers roam--
      But the hills, the hills for me!

      LET US SIT AND TALK TO-NIGHT.

I cannot sing a merry lay, or strike the chords, to-night,
Of my low, silver-toned guitar, with fingers free and light,
For my heart is sad and weary, with a weight of settled gloom
Falling all around my spirit, with the darkness of the tomb;
And the shades of early sorrows are now drooping, like a pall,
Round hopes all dead, and silent, in the heart's deserted hall,--
Then ask me not to sing for thee, a light or merry lay,
'Till happy thoughts shall gaily chase these weary ones away.

Then let us sit and talk to-night, in tones serene and low,
That soothe the spirit, like the sound of waves' faint ebb and flow,
While in fancy we will wander through the corridors of Time,
Explore each dim and misty dell, and rugged mountains climb;
We'll roam through many a distant land, and sail on far-off seas,
Then rest among sweet orange groves, and quaff the perfumed breeze;
We'll gather Orient pearls of thought, in fairy wreaths to twine,
While our hearts leap higher as we sip Italia's blushing wine.

We'll laugh to see the German sit beside his silent "vrow,"
While from their pipes the smoke-wreaths twine, like turbans, round each brow;
We'll roam through Scotia's mountain paths, where Burns first woke his lyre,
And catch a spark to light our own, from its undying fire;

We'll visit then the Emerald Isle, land of the gifted Moore,
And list the echo of his songs from many a foreign shore,
For where a strain of melody on raptured lips have hung,
Or where a bird of song has flown, there Moore's sweet lays are sung.

Then, through the proud ancestral halls of Byron we will tread,
With step so soft, so light, will seem but phantoms of the dead;
And 'mong the evergreens that deck the noble sleeper's bed,
We'll list the turtle doves of peace, cooing softly o'er his head,--
We'll dream of all things fair and bright, 'till the stars in the upper blue
Are bathed in tears, while tales we tell of the noble, good, and true,--
Then let us sit and talk, to-night, with voices soft and low--
'Twill soothe the spirit, like the sound of waves' faint ebb and flow.

But breathe not now of future years, the present, or the past--
Of days too full of happiness, and mirth, and joy, to last;
But all of other climes, and things, I care not WHAT or WHERE,
So in OUR joys and griefs they have no lot, no part, or share;
Breathe not of old, familiar things, but let stern Silence brood
Above her treasures, undisturbed, while lasts her fitful mood:
There are hours when I love to view the scenes on Memory's wall,
But to-night the watch is sleeping, that guards the dim, old hall.

            TO FRANK--
        IN CALIFORNIA.

I was thinking to-night, as the mellow light
      Came down from the heaven's clear blue,
Of the hearts that Fate had made desolate--
      Thus thinking, I thought of you.
Once only we met--I can ne'er forget,--
      'Twas long, long years ago,
When the springs were few that had shed their dew
      Above thy brow of snow.

I said in my heart, CAN time ever part
      In that bosom, devoid of care,
Youth's delicate bloom, to strew over the tomb,
      Where hope lowly sleeps in despair?
Now the sunbeams rise, on the bending skies,
      That curtain a foreign land,
Where on life's dark sea, float, a fragment ye
      Of a household's broken band.

But turn ye at eve, when good angels weave
      Sweet dreams round the hearts of men,
And see in thy home, though far off ye roam,
      The land of thy soul again;
Then come once more to thy native shore,--
      Kind friends await thee here,
Praying to meet thee, hoping to greet thee
      With smiles, thy sad lot to cheer.

And through long years of griefs and tears
      Have dimmed thy soul-lit eye,
Yet once more may Joy's golden ray
      Illume thy clouded sky!
Father and mother, sister and brother
      For thy presence fondly yearn--
How many years yet, ere life's sun is set,
      Must they sigh for thy safe return?

      THE TABLETS OF THE SOUL.

Oh! 'tis a study wonderous rare--
Those fadeless pictures, dark and fair,
      Upon the tablets of the soul!
First, is Childhood's golden hours
With its bright wreath of spring-time flowers,
      In mezzotint, upon the scroll.

Now we turn another leaf,
And find a picture, not so brief,
A steel engraving, soft and fine.
Where all the lights and shades combine
With the mellow tints that painters love
To trace in the bending skies above,
Where the golden light comes glancing through
Morn's silvery veil, of mist and dew.
There a broad and shining river,
Falling onward,--onward ever,

Receives ten thousand singing rills
From babbling springs amid the hills;
And gleaming rainbows shining there,
Like braids of many-colored hair--
Still rises from the crystal wave,
To where an old oak, tall and brave,
Stands 'mong the violets, where they peep
O'er a hill top, high and steep;
Now, traced by Limner's cunning hand,
In brilliant hues a laughing band
Of sportive sisters gaily move--
Bright-eyed Beauty, Hope, and Love,
Clustering round a noble youth,
The soul of sterling pride and truth,
Making his pathway yet more bright,
With their own pure, effulgent light.

Now, on a richly embossed page,
In yet maturer, riper age,
Is one the heart still loves the best--
Where long the eye delights to rest;
Oh, how surpassing bright and fair,
With Parian brow and flowing hair,
'Tis daguerreotyped there.

Now an interval is past,
'Tween this portrait and the last;
And this one seems rough and rude--
A rustic picture, carved in WOOD;
Disappointment, and its grief
Are sadly lowering o'er the leaf;
Beauty's dimples all are gone--
And old age is creeping on--
Hark! the cold and chilling blast
Beats around the wanderer fast;
Love's flowerets all have withered long,
And even Hope has ceased her song:--
Oh, 'tis a picture, rough and rude,
O'er which the thoughts love not to brood.

This snowy page is blotted o'er
With darker, deadlier ills, and more
Of the deep misery of years,
With oft recurring woes and fears--
'Tis STEREOTYPED in blood and TEARS!

Now we turn another page,
And find the picture of old age
Wandering slowly, and alone,
Where the rank thistles have o'ergrown

The valley he is winding through,
All studded thick with thyme and rue,
And here and there, all dark and lone,
A cypress, and funereal yew--
With no soft light around him cast,
Save that reflected from the past;;
Oh, 'tis a picture sad and grave!
Imprinted by Time's dark, fadeless wave.

But rising o'er yon mountain far,
Behold a pure and radiant STAR,
To guide the wandered on to rest,
In yon bright regions of the blest--
'Tis painted by a Master's hand,
With colors of the Better Land.

      THE INVITATION.

The light wavy wreaths of Octer's soft mist
      Give their silvery sheen to the hills,
And the sunbeams look dreamily down, while they list
      To the songs of the murmuring rills;
Then away from the city, its strife, and turmoil,
      Away to the wild-wood, and be
For awhile, from anxiety, trouble, and toil,
      Like the bounding deer, happy and free!

The luscious paw-paw, in its soft, yellow nest,
      Lies gleaming with dew on the ground,
And, 'mong the low grass, in their sombre coats drest,
      The brown nuts lie scattered around,
The grapes hang all purple and ripe, where the trees
      Graceful bend o'er the darkling ravine;
And the broad leaves, that sport on the mirth-loving breeze,
      Have mingled gold tints with their green.

There's a beautiful nook, on the Kentucky shore,
      Where the green-wood slopes down to the tide,--
'Twere fit place for fairies, when daylight is o'er,
      To lock hands with the water-king's bride.
Then come from the city's dark walls, and we'll stray
      Where the crystal waves glide o'er the sands,
Now leaping along, and now dashing their spray,
      Then bursting in glistening bands!

And, as we sit down 'neath the broad, arching sky,
      With its roofing of "star-spangled blue,"
'Mid the bright panorama on earth and on high,
      We will talk of the good and the true,--
Then come, let us rove while the gentle winds bear,
      Through the chambers of each forest dell,
The anthems that close like a beautiful prayer,
      As the wood-spirits chaunt their farewell.

      THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Oh, would that I knew the soft language of flowers,
Or might study it out, in the long summer hours,
And my heart hold communion with them, and them only,
When 'tis careworn and desolate, weary, and lonely;
I would go out with them, in the wild, tangled wood,
(Those innocent types of the lovely and good,)
And, 'mid the sweet songs of the caroling birds,
I'd learn their soft language, their musical words.

With the green turf beneath me, the moonlight above,
All encircled about by Omnipotent love,
With the fair, meek-eyed flowers I'd lull me to sleep,
While the angels above me their vigils would keep;

Then with the first dawn I'd renew the sweet task,
While beneath their bright smiles my glad spirit would bask;
I'd forget that the world (save the world I was in,)
Was o'erflowing with sadness, with grief, and with sin,

Would forget human hearts were all filled up with guile,
And that dark venom lurked 'neath the disciplined smile,
All this would forget, could I dwell but with flowers,
And their sweet language learn, in the long summer hours;
But my heart it is doomed, and I can't go away,
With the birds and the flowers, in the wood-lands to stray,
And my life must wear out 'mid the scenes I am in,
And the world's fierce turmoil, its rude strife, and its din.

But I know where at last they will lay me to rest,--
Where the sod is perfumed by the flowers on its breast,
And there will I list, in my solemn repose,
To the tales of the tulip, and opening rose;

There I'll learn their soft language, and know when they call
For the spirits to come from their dim, distant hall,
And thus will I rest, in the far, forest bowers,
With the birds, and the angels, the moonlight and flowers.

      THE BOUGH THAT WILL NOT BEND MUST BREAK.

Whene'er the whirlwinds break the chains
      That bind them in the sky,
To wildly sweep the verdant plains,
      Or mountains green and high,
'Tis not the Monarch of the wood
      That bears their fury best,
Though for long years  it still has stood
      In robes of greatness drest,
Yet when the Storm-God's tones awake,
The boughs that will not bend must break!

Though 'mong the wigwams, rough and rude,
      Of tribes long passed away,
It sheltered oft the tawny brood
      Of pappooses, at their play;

And summer's suns have brightly shone
      For ages o'er its head,
While nations, like brief dreams, have flown,
      To slumber with the dead,
Yet when its head bows not, the storm
Will rave above its stricken form.

'Tis thus with mortals,--strength and pride
      Are safeguards not below;
The high and low sink side by side
      Beneath affliction's blow:
The haughty child of earth defies
      The gathering ills of life,
Though lightnings flash along the skies
      Revealing storms and strife;
But soon despair brings on the end--
The heart soon breaks that will not bend!

      LINES WRITTEN IN THE FOREST.

Sing on, bright birds, sing sweetly,
      For my heart is sad to-day,
And the gloom that shrouds my spirit
      I'd have ye chase away.

I have come to sit down silent
      On the soft, green mossy turf,
To bend my ear, and listen
      To thy melody and mirth.

O! not like you I come, sweet birds,
      To the green embowring trees,
With songs of gushing gladness,
      To fill the perfumed breeze;

I come, as one who goeth
      To the feast, or carnival,
Where alone, and all unheeded,
      He roams through each proud hall.

Where smiles gleam round like sunlight,
      And tones of joy are heard,
And Love and Hope are breathing
      On each impassioned word.

While in some far-off corner,
      Where the light falls faint and dim,
He feels no part or portion
      Is given, or meant for him.

Yet, those sweet tones will waken
      The soul's harmonious lyre,
And each soft smile rekindle
      Some smouldering, pent-up fire

In the chambers of the spirit,
      And glow along the wall
That long has been deserted,
      Like some ruined abbey's hall.

Now, as I sit and listen
      To each enchanting lay,
The gloom from off my spirit
      Is vanishing away;

While visons bright and brighter,
      Flit o'er Hope's lonely grave,
Like the lamps the eastern maidens
      Give the star-lit Ganges' wave;*

While round each dreary picture,
      Oblivion, sad and pale,
Enfolds her misty curtains,
      Like Mochanna's silver veil.