142

TO A WATERFOWL.

There is a power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable air,—

Lone wandering, but not lost,

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And soon shall not depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

Bryant.

"And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the might which it would fling
Aside for ever;-it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound

Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."

Childe Harold.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanished things,

That o'er the spirit flash we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;

144

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERies.

A rippling wave, the dashing of an oar,—
A flower sent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;

Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear—
These are night's mysteries-who shall make ·
them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow
fall?

Why shakes the spirit thus ? 'Tis mystery all!

Darkly we move, we press upon the brink

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think

Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on but undismayed!

Humbly for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismayed-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined?— So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest for that high nature's sake. Mrs. Hemans.

SONG.

WHEN I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree :

L

146

THE SPANISH GYPSY.

Be the green grass above me
With showers and dew-drops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain ;

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

Christina Rossetti.

THE SPANISH GYPSY.

(FEDALINA SPEAKS.)

OH I am sick at heart! The eye of day,
The insistent summer sun seems pitiless,
Shining in all the barren crevices

Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark,