Was it a dream? or did my love behold Indeed my lonely couch?-Methought the breath Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold And hollow, and the livery of death Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid! My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore Of better promise; and I know at last, When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ-to part no more. FRAGMENTS.* SAW'ST thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused: Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? * These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the last year of his life. Who, hidden long by the invidious veil That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods? THE pious man, In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, Night's watchman hurries down. THERE was a little bird upon that pile; It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, O PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint Thy melancholy ray : When the still night's unclouded saint Is walking on her way. Through my lattice leaf embower'd, I throw aside the learned sheet, I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. O GIVE me music-for my soul doth faint; I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. Hark how it falls! and now it steals along, Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars AND must thou go, and must we part? Thy sex is fickle,—when away, Some happier youth may win thy-- AH! who can say, however fair his view, Through what sad scenes his path may lie? Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh, Secure his own will never need it too? Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, HUSH'D is the lyre-the hand that swept Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes it is still the lyre is still ; The spirit which its slumbers broke Hath pass'd away,—and that weak hand that woke Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. Yet I would press you to my lips once more, |