A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,

Of all sweet sounds the life and element."-Coleridge

GREEN spot of holy ground!

If thou couldst yet be found,

Far in the deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath

Of time, or change, or death,

Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers;
Might our tired pilgrim-feet,
Worn by the desert's heat,

On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there

Through heaven's transparent air,

And rest on colors of the immortal rose
Say, would thy balmy skies
And fountain-melodies

Our heritage of lost delight restore?
Could thy soft honey-dews

Through all our veins diffuse

The early, chila-like, trustful sleep once more?

And might we, in the shade
By thy tall cedars made,

With angel voices high communion hold?
Would their sweet solemn tone

Give back the music gone,

Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old?
Oh! no-thy sunny hours

Might come with blossom showers,

All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill;
But we should we not bring

Into thy realms of spring

The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?

What could thy flowers and airs

Do for our earth-born cares?

Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free? No!-past each living stream,

Still would some fever dream

Track the lorn wand'rers, meet no more for thee! Should we not shrink with fear,

If angel steps were near,

Feeling our burden'd souls within us die?
How might our passions brook

The still and searching look,

The starlike glance of seraph purity?

Thy golden-fruited grove

Was not for pining love;

Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies!

Oh! Thou wert but a part

LET US DEPART.

Of what man's exiled heart

Hath lost-the dower of inborn Paradise!

505

LET US DEPART.

It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, “Let as depart hence."]

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers,

And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around,

The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,

In peace, as if the Holy One
Yet watched his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved,

Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword
Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare

Through the dark streets ringing high,

Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"

VOL. II.-43

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night;
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,
And the blaze of banquet light.
The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall,
And the music of the dulcimer
Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.
PAINTED BY VALASQUEZ.*

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky,

Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe, And by the weight of mortal agony

Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,

My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray

Of victory from thy mien! and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,

To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming,
Gazed in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye,
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,
With quenchless faith and deep love's fervency;
Gathering, like incense, round some dim-veil'd shrine,
About the form, so mournfully divine!

Oh! let thine image, as e'en then it rose,
Live in my soul forever, calm and clear,

Making itself a temple of repose,

Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!

A holy place, where through all storms may lie

One living beam of dayspring from on high.

*This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Mer rion Square, Dublin.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

"Could we but keep our spirit's to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.”—Byron.

RETURN my thoughts, come home!

Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep?
And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep,
As birds the ocean foam?

Swifter than shooting star,

Swifter than lances of the northern light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime,

Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes,

By temples of old time:

Through the north's ancient halls,

Where banners thrill'd of yore-where harp-strings rung; But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sungHearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim,

Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood;
And sometimes on the haunted solitude

Rises the pilgrim's hymn:

Or where some fountain lies,

With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming!
There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming
Of man's lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts, return!

Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you back-
Harsh voices, cold and stern!

Oh! no, return ye not!

Sill farther, loftier let your soarings be!

Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free,
O'er many a haunted spot.

Go, seek the martyr's grave,

'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast;

Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past,

Follow the wise and brave!

Go, visit cell and shrine !

507

[scorn,

Where woman hath endured!-through wrong, through

Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne

By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death!

Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind,

Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find,
Where the storm sends no breath!

Higher, and yet more high!

Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings-mount, mount!-Your wav Is through eternity!

SONNETS,

DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

I. THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tune of prophet-years,
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music's consecrated reign?
Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung

A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.

II. TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

WHAT household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently?-of anxious looks beguiled
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,

Each day were bent-her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest: yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be

A seed not lost;-for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

III.-REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.

UNDER a palm-tree, by the green old Nile,

Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair child lies,