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They parted—ne'er to meet again!

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining—

They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cl'ffs which had been rent asunder;

A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,

Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.

Coleridge.

MUSIC.

Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!

My Minstrels are the trees, The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls,

Earth's sounds my symphonies.

There's music sweeter to my soul
In the weed by the wild wind fanned—

In the heave of the surge, than ever stole
From mortal minstrel's hand.

There's mighty music in the roar

Of the oaks on the mountain's side, When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar,

And the lightnings flash blue and wide.

There's mighty music in the swell

Of Winter's midnight wave— When all above is the thunder peal,

And all below is the grave.

There's music in the city's hum,

Heard in the noontide glare,
When its thousand mingling voices come

On the breast of the sultry air.

There's music in the mournful swing

Of the lonely village bell, And think of the spirit upon the wing • •

Released by its solemn knell.

There's music in the forest-stream,

As it plays through the deep ravine, Where never Summer's breath or beam

Has pierced its woodland screen.

There's music[in the thundering sweep

Of the mountain waterfall,
As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap,

From the brow of its marble wall.

There's music in the dawning morn,
Ere the lark his pinion dries—

Tis the rush of the breeze through the dewy corn-
Through the garden's perfumed dyes.

There's music on the twilight cloud,
As the clanging wild swans spring,

As homewards the screaming ravens crowd,
Like squadrons upon the wing.

There's music in the depth of night,

When the world is still and dim,
And the stars flame out in their pomp of light,

Like thrones of the Cherubim!

Anon.

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course? so long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form 1
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! but when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy ciystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

0 dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer

1 worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,

VOL. II. L

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Into the mighty vision passing—there,

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! awake,
Voice of sweet song I awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink;
Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald! wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered, and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), . ' Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?'

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