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Where is the place of your abode, ye dead ?
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 toss'd 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 !
Now gleams the moon on Arthur's mighty crest, That dweller of the air-abrupt and lone ; Hush'd is the city in her nightly rest ; But hark !--there comes a sweet and solemn tone, The lingering strains, that swell’d 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 rise of many a vanish'd year,
It speaks of former scenes-of days gone byOf early friendships_of the loved and lostAnd wakes such music in the heart, as sigh Of evening wooes from harp-strings gently crost ; And thoughts and feelings crowd-a varied host, O'er the 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!
Thou shalt sing to me
When the waves are sleeping,
And the winds are creeping
Thou shalt sing by night,
When no birds are calling,
And the stars are falling
Of those thy song shall tell
From whom we've never parted,
But we'll not profane
Such a gentle hour,
Nor our favourite bower,
GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
THE MARINER'S SONG.
A wind that follows fast,
And bends the gallant mast;
While, like the eagle free,
Old England on the lee.
"O! for a soft and gentle wind,”
I heard a fair one cry ;
And white waves heaving high ;
The good ship tight and free, The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud ;
The wind is piping loud ;
The lightning flashes free,
Our heritage the sea.
FROM THE SERVIAN.
AGAINST white Buda's walls a vine