Thou❜lt tell me all that man may know,
Of worlds above, and worlds below;
And all of wonderful or fair

Thou'st learn'd since last we parted here.

Of dear ones lost-the young, the gay,
How they waned, and waned, and past away:
And thou wilt tell me if thy wings
Have cross'd them in their wanderings.

Of her, yet mine, whom love hath borne Through life-long toil, and wrong, and scorn; Whose restless heart e'en now doth wake Through night's dull watches for my sake.

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So will we mingle converse high

Of love and holy mystery,

Till the cold and glaring day

Calls us from our joys away.

BROOD NOT.

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BROOD not on things gone by;

On friendships lost, and high designs o'erthrown, And old opinions swept away like leaves

Before the autumn blast.

Brood not on things gone by!

Thy house is left unto thee desolate;

Thou canst not be again what once thou wert;

Away, my soul, away!

No longer weakly cower

O'er the white ashes of extinguish'd hope;

Nor hover, ghost-like, round the sepulchres
Of thy departed joys.

Another star hath risen,

Another voice is calling thee aboard;

Thy bark is launch'd, the wind is in thy sail;
Away, my soul, away!

THE LOVER'S SONG.

SOFTLY sinks the rosy sun,

And the toils of day are past and done;
And now is the time to think of thee,
My lost remember'd Emily!

Come dear Image, come for a while,

Come with thy own, thy evening smile; -Not shaped and fashioned in fancy's mould, But such as thou wert in the days of old.

Come from that unvisited cell,

Where all day long thou lovest to dwell,
Hous'd amid Memory's richest fraught,
Deep in the sunless caves of thought.

Come, with all thy company

Of mystic fancies, and musings high, And griefs, that lay in the heart like treasures, "Till Time had turn'd them to solemn pleasures;

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And thoughts of early virtues gone,-
For my best of days with thee were flown,
And their sad and soothing memory

Is mingled now with my dreams of thee.

Too solemn for day, too sweet for night,
Come not in darkness, come not in light;
But come in some twilight interim,

When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim:

And in the white and silent dawn,

When the curtains of night are half undrawn,
Or at evening time, when my task is done,
I will think of the lost remember'd one!

ONCE MORE.

ONCE more, and yet once more, mine early love,
Have I beheld thee; but thy face is wan,
And change, and sorrow, and a law austere,
Have done their work upon thee: yet thy hair
Is golden still; and in thy voice I trace
The tones that thrill'd my boyish heart in song;
And in thy looks and in thy words what seems
The ghost of that sweet playfulness, which made
Thy early years so exquisite, and hung
Upon thee, like a garland of wild flowers.
But care and inward strife have temper'd now
All sadness; and the heartless spirit and light,
Gazing on thee, would from that placid brow,
So fix'd and stedfast in its melancholy,
Recoil soul-humbled. Fancy might descry
In thee, thus pale and solemn of attire,
Some veiled votaress of the faith thou lov'st,
O'er her deserted shrine in quiet woe

Mourning; or partial love in thee might trace