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And it hath gone into the grave of time—

The past—the mighty sepulchre of all!

That solemn sound—the midnight's mournful chime,

Was its deep dead-bell!—but, within the hall,

The old and young held gladsome festival.—

What hath it left them, thus to cause such joy ?—

Gray hairs to some—and hearts less green to all,

And fewer steps to where their fathers lie

Low in the church-yard cell—cold—dark—and silently!

Strange time for mirth !—when round the leafless tree

The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh,

And, while the twilight saddens o'er the lea,

Mute every woodland's evening melody—

Mute the wide landscape—save where hurrying by

Roars the dark torrent on its headlong flight,

Or slowly sailing through the blackening sky,

Hoots unto solitude the bird of night;

Seeking the domeless wall—the turret's hoary height:— And yet with nature, sooth, we need not grieve;

She does not heed the woes of humankind;

No; for the tempests howl—the waters heave

Their hoary hills unto the raging wind,

And the poor bark no resting-place can find;

And friends on shore shall weep—and weep in vain,

For, to the ruthless elements consigned,

The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main,

Ne'er to be seen by them—nor heard of e'er again.

Now o'er the skies the orbs of light are spread,

And through yon shoreless sea they wander on:—

Where is the place of your abode ye dead?

To what far regions have your spirits gone?

But ye are silent—silent as the stone

That gathers moss above your bed of rest,

And from the land of souls returneth none

To tell us of the place to which we haste:

But time will tell us all—and time will tell us best.

How still—how soft—and yet how dread is all
The scene around !—the silent earth and air!
What glorious lamps are hung in night's high hall—
Her dome—so vast, magnificent, and fair!
Oh! for an angel's wing to waft me there!

How sweet, methinks, e'en for one little day,
To leave this cold, dull sphere of cloud and care,
And, 'midst the immortal bowers above, to stray
In lands of light and love—unblighted by decay.

Surely there is a language in the sky—
A voice that speaketh of a world to come;
It swells from out thy depths, Immensity!
And tells us this is not our final home.—
As the tossed bark amidst the ocean's foam,
Hails, through the gloom, the beacon o'er the wave;
So from life's troubled sea, o'er which we roam,
The stars, like beacon lights beyond the grave,
Shine through the deep, o'er which our barks we hope
to save 1

Now gleams the moon o'er Arthur's mighty crest,
That dweller of the air—abrupt and lone;
Hushed is the city in her nightly rest;
But hark! there comes a sweet and solemn tone,
The lingering strains, that swelled, in ages gone,
The music of the wake—Oh! many an ear
Raised from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown,
Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear,
As recollections ri.i3 of many a vanished year.

It speaks of former scenes—of days gone by—

Of early friendships—of the loved and lost—

And wakes such music in the heart as sigh

Of evening wooes from harpstrings gently crost;

And thoughts and feelings crowd—a varied host,

Oerthe lone bosom from their slumbers deep,

Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost

Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep,

And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep!



And thou hast walked about, (how strange a story I)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,

When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,

Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy,
Thou hast a tongue—come let us hear its tune;

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade,

Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue which at sunrise played?

Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh glass to glass;

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

A torch at the great temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,

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