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Love of mine, 0, press me nearer!
Let mine eyes thy love-look mirror,
Fondly echoing mine own;
That my dreaming soul's endurance
From the holy morning flown, Let thy murmur'd blessings tell me
Thou art mine, and mine alone.
Coldly streams the moonbeam o'er me,
And a new-made grave before me Lay in loneliness and silence,
With its wither'd flow'rets spread, And a myrtle wreath was braided
Round the willow shrunk and faded, That with melancholy motion
Waved above the grassy bed, Like a solemn priest at midnight
Swinging censers o'er the dead
Then methought that, fair and beaming,
Thou didst come in radiant seeming, From the shadowy groups
cypress That around the churchyard grew. But another's arm was round thee,
And another's love had bound thee, And to him who loved thee truly,
Was thy love no longer true,
As to me ye nearer drew.
'Tis a dream that now thou hearest, Yet my heart with fear is trembling,
As its memory I recall.
Though thine arms my neck are twining,
heart like music fall, Yet the memory of that vision
Shrouds me like an icy pall.
Thou and he whose arm upheld thee,
Thou and he whose love had spell’d thee, Stood together in the moonlight
That reveal'd my marble breast, And with lips that falter'd never,
Thou didst swear to love for ever. Him who stood in pride beside thee,
With his arms around thee prest, While beneath, all cold and silent,
Lay the one who loved thee best.
God be thanked, is nought but error,
heart. For its phantom thoughts betoken,
How that heart, all crush'd and broken, Would be like that marble tombstone,
Should thy gentle love depart, And the cypress round my myrtle
From the grave of hope would start.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the cluster'd trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillard clouds. Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind-a sweet and passionate wooerKisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up
life Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves ; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, --comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel ; whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings ; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well perform’d, and days well spent ! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.
That skirts the ocean foam,
The tempest in its home.
The clouds were gone to play,
The smile of heaven lay;
Sent from beyond the skies,
A light of Paradise.
The giants of the waste,
As serpents interlaced.
And soothed by every azure breath,
That under heaven is blown,
As tender as its own;
Like green waves on the sea,
The ocean woods may be.
By such a chain was bound,
Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness ;
The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
Of the wide mountain waste
A magic circle traced,
A thrilling silent life,
Our mortal nature's strife ;-
The magic circle there
The lifeless atmosphere.
Under the forest bough,
Gulf'd in a world below;
Which in the dark earth lay,
than the day-
As in the upper air,
Than any spreading there.
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Can never well be seen,
Of that fair forest green.
With an Elysian glow,
A softer day below.
To the dark water's breast
With more than truth exprest,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Blots one dear image out.
A PLEA FOR LOVE. A sweet lyric by Thomas Davis, Ireland's latest poet, -taken from her by a premature death.
The summer brook flows in the bed
The winter torrent tore asunder ;
Where walk the lightning and the thunder :
The gayest tenderness concealing,
Are order'd by some fairy feeling.
That's hardened by the swaying sabre-
As evening after day of labour :
That thought has knit, and passion darken'd-
The tenderest tales are often hearken'd.