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1842.

No sorrow in that place may be,

The noise of life grows less and less :

As moss far down within the sea,

As, in white lily caves, a bee,

As life in a hazy reverie;

So the heart's wave

In thy dim cave,

Hushes, Forgetfulness!

Duty and care fade far away,

What toil may be we cannot guess :

As a ship anchored in a bay,

As a cloud at summer-noon astray,

As water-blooms in a breezeless day;

So, 'neath thine eyes,

The full heart lies,

And dreams, Forgetfulness!

A REVERIE.

In the twilight deep and silent

Comes thy spirit unto mine,

When the starlight and the moonlight Over cliff and woodland shine,

And the quiver of the river

Seems a thrill of joy benign.

Then I rise and go in fancy

To the headland by the sea,

When the evening-star throbs setting

Through the dusky cedar-tree;

And, from under, low-voiced thunder

From the surf swells fitfully.

Then within my soul I feel thee,

Like a dream of bygone years;

Visions of my childhood murmur

Their old madness in mine ears, Till the pleasance of thy presence Crowds my heart with blissful tears.

All the wondrous dreams of boyhood,
All youth's fiery thirst of praise,
All the surer hopes of manhood

Blossoming in sadder days,

Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me With a better wreath than bays,—

All the longings after freedom,

The vague love of human-kind, Wandering far and near at random, Like a dead leaf on the wind,

Rousing only in the lonely

Twilight of an aimless mind,

All of these, O, best-beloved!

Happiest present dreams and past, In thy love find safe fulfilment,

Ripened into truth at last;

Faith and beauty, hope and duty,
To one centre gather fast.

How my spirit, like an ocean,
At the breath of thine awakes,
Leaps its shores in mad exulting,
And in foamy music breaks,
Then, down-sinking, lieth shrinking

From the tumult that it makes !

Blazing Hesperus hath sunken

Low adown the pale-blue west,

And with blazing splendor crowneth The horizon's piny crest;

Thoughtful quiet stills the riot

Of wild longing in my breast.

1842.

Home I loiter through the moonlight,
Underneath the quivering trees,

Which, as if a spirit stirred them,

Sway and bend, till, by degrees,

The faint surge's murmur merges
In the rustle of the breeze.

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