pe, and faith, holding communion high,
Over a fragrant land with flowers wrought,
Where gush the living springs of poesy;
There speak the voices that I love to hear,
There smile the glances that I love to see,
There live the forms of those my soul holds dear,
For ever, in that secret world, with me.
They who have walked with me along life's way,
And sever'd been by Fortune's adverse tide,
Who ne'er again, through Time's uncertain day,
In weal or woe, may wander by my side;
These all dwell here: nor these, whom life alone
Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead;
Those weary ones who to their rest are gone,
Whose footprints from the earth have vanished;
Here dwell they all: and here, within this world,
Like light within a summer sun cloud furled,
My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life,
With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings,
Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings,
Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife.
O thou! who readest, of thy courtesy,
Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee!

A FAREWELL.

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,
The fairies' palace beside the stream;
Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall
Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.

I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,
When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,
Nor see the morning, at early dawn,
Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.

I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,
O'er the springing sward,--through the twilight wood;
Nor reign my courser, and check my speed,
By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.

At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more
'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell:
The sun is set,--the day is o'er,--
The summer is past;--farewell!--farewell!

TO A PICTURE.

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,
The burning rays that mine pour into ye,
Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night--
Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?
Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,
Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell
To waken sense in ye?--oh, misery!--
Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?
Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears
Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;
I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,
Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.
Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply
To my fond prayers and wild idolatry?

SONNET.

Th