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Till, lost in depths of heaven on high,
Then springs the wild hut, bosomed lone,
In glens and mountain wood;
Amid the solitude—
I saw the prisoner in his cell
Again before we parted;
With grief nigh broken-hearted,
LINES WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE
O, wanderer! would thy heart forget
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amid wild scenes of lone magnificence.
Unmixed with aught of meaner tone,
Here nature's voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks, and ocean-caves around,
Reverberate each awful sound;
That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.
But when no more the sea-winds rave,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth, to slumber with the dead?
Oh! pause awhile—the world disown,
And dwell with nature's self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul's departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o'er,
Beyond her magic to restore;
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal,
And sooth the wounded heart they cannot heal.
THE SOLDIER'S HOME.
My untried muse shall no high tune assume,
Brief be my verse, a task within my power,
Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land ;—that instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black, stedfast eye,
And seemed to say (past friendship to renew)
'Ah, ah! old worn-out soldier, is it you?'
Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble bee,
And bombed, and bounced, and struggled to be free,
Dashing against the panes with sullen roar,
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor:
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed
O'er undulating waves the broom had made,
Reminding me of those hideous forms
That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms,
Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never;
They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.
But here was peace, that peace which home can yield;
The grasshopper, the partridge in the field,
And ticking clock, were all at once become
The substitutes for clarion, fife and drum.
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
VOL. III. D