THE SLEEPER.

Ar midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically'

Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps !-and lo! where lies

(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies !

Oh, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,

Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully-so fearfully

Above the closed and fringed lid

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,

That, o'er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor ! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!'

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,

While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

As it is lasting, so be deep!

[Soft may the worms about her creep.!]
Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,

Against whose portal she hath thrown
In childhood many an idle stone—

Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin !

It was the dead who groaned within.

THE COLISEUM.

TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length-at length-after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie),
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls !

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon,

The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls-these ivy-clad arcades-
These mouldering plinths-these sad and blackened

shafts

These vague entablatures-this crumbling frieze

These shattered cornices-this wreck-this ruin

These stones-alas! these grey stones-are they allAll of the famed, and the colossal left

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

"Not all"-the Echoes answer me-" not all !

Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,

As melody from Memnon to the Sun.