TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

MRS. HEMANS.

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world, unreached by human thought,
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,

Answer me, answer me!

Have we not communed here, of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours,
Was not to perish, as a rose's breath,

To melt away, like song from festal bowers?

Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that shone Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze; Didst thou bear with thee, to the shore unknown, Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze? Hear, hear, and answer me !

Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife,
Like a faint breeze :-oh! from that music flown
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life!
But once, oh! answer me.

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush,

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep; When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep;

Spirit then answer me.

THEE.

241

not love thee! am sad;

sky above thee, and be glad.

ow not why,

well done, to me

h

e like thee!

thou art gone,

speak be dear) rio of the tone

y ear.

peaking eyes,

₺ expressive blue—

heaven arise,

-W.

yet, alas!
did heart;

as they pass,
-re thou art.

THE SPIRIT'S LAND.

MALCOLM.

THE Spirit's Land!-where is that land
Of which our fathers tell?

On whose mysterious, viewless strand
Earth's parted millions dwell!
Beyond the bright and starry sphere,
Creation's flaming space remote;
Beyond the measureless career,
The phantom flight of thought.

There, fadeless flowers their blossoms wave

Beneath a cloudless sky;

And there the latest lingering tear

Is wiped from every eye;
And souls beneath the tree of life

Repose on that blessed shore,

Where pain, and toil, and storm, and strife, Shall never reach them more.

And yet, methinks, a chastened wo

E'en there may prompt the sigh—

Sweet sorrows we would not forego
For calm, unmingled joy,

When strains from angel-harps may stray
On heavenly airs, of mortal birth,
That we have heard far, far away,
Amid the bowers of earth.

Ah! then, perchance, their saddening spell,

That from oblivion saves,

May wander, like a lorn farewell,

From this dim land of graves; And, like the vision of a dream, Shed on the disembodied mind Of mortal life a dying gleam, And loved one left behind.

Yes-yes, I will, I must believe
That Nature's sacred ties
Survive, and to the spirit cleave,
Immortal in the skies;

And that imperfect were my bliss

In heaven itself, and dashed with care, If those I loved on earth should miss The path that leadeth there.

THE FEAST OF LIFE.

L. E. LANDON.

I BID thee to my mystic feast,
Each one thou lovest is gathered there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,

And bind the cypress in thy hair.

The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around,

But beauty from which bloom has fled;

And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge-like sound:
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.

Here, take this cup, though dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; 'Tis from their native element

The cup is filled-it is of tears.

What! turn'st thou with averted brow? Thou scornest this poor feast of mine, And askest for a purple robe,

Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.

In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seemed to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality.

THE SLEEPERS.

MRS. HEMANS.

OH! lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep,

On the worn spirit shed,
And eyes that wake to weep:

A holy thing from heaven,
A gracious dewy cloud,