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Thine is music such as yields

Feelings of old brooks and fields,
And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume;

O, thus for ever sing to me!

O, thus for ever!

The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me,
Flowing like an emerald river,

And the bright-blue skies above!
O, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,—

The sunshine and the merriment,

The unsought, evergreen content,

Of that never cold time,

The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
Through and through the old time!

Peace sits within thine eyes,

With white hands crossed in joyful rest,
While, through thy lips and face, arise
The melodies from out thy breast;

She sits and sings,

With folded wings

And white arms crost,

"Weep not for passed things,

They are not lost :

The beauty which the summer time
O'er thine opening spirit shed,

The forest oracles sublime

That filled thy soul with joyous dread,
The scent of every smallest flower

That made thy heart sweet for an hour, —

Yea, every holy influence,

Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence,

In thine eyes to-day is seen,

Fresh as it hath ever been;

Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet,

Whatever led thy childish feet,

Still will linger unawares

The guiders of thy silver hairs;
Every look and every word

Which thou givest forth to-day,

Tell of the singing of the bird

Whose music stilled thy boyish play."

1841.

Thy voice is like a fountain,

Twinkling up in sharp starlight,

When the moon behind the mountain

Dims the low East with faintest white,

Ever darkling,

Ever sparkling,

We know not if 't is dark or bright;

But, when the great moon hath rolled round,
And, sudden-slow, its solemn power

Grows from behind its black, clearedged bound,
No spot of dark the fountain keepeth,

But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth

Into a waving silver flower.

ODE.

I.

In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder,
The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife ;

He saw the mysteries which circle under
The outward shell and skin of daily life.
Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion,
His soul was led by the eternal law;

There was in him no hope of fame, no passion,
But, with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw.
He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried,
Chief mourner at the Golden Age's hearse,
Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried
Alone were fitting themes of epic verse:

He could believe the promise of to-morrow,
And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day;
He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow

Than the world's seeming loss could take away.
To know the heart of all things was his duty,
All things did sing to him to make him wise,
And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty,
The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes.
He gazed on all within him and without him,

He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him

And whispered to him, and he prophesied.

Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord, "Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer!

Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!" He to his heart with large embrace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind,

And, from that root, a shelter never shaken,

The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. He could interpret well the wondrous voices

Which to the calm and silent spirit come;

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