Thou dost sanctify each sorrow,
And with such a holy art,
That the promise of the morrow

Drives the past pain from the heart;
And though false the fair deceiving,
Of the sibyl Future's wile,
I will rest content, believing,
'Neath the rainbow of thy smile.

ALICE.

THROUGH the Muse's temple solemn
Haunted by a spirit band,
Lights she up the darkened column,
By the lamp within her hand,
And the ancient statues hoary,
In their niches seem to start,
As like bright Madonna's glory
Golden rays shoot from her heart!

Twine the myrtle round the chalice,
Pledge me now ye festive throng,
Brimmers, to the dark-eyed Alice,
Priestess of the Halls of Song!

Not the Vestal Virgin purer,

With the white rose on her head, Nor can painted Joy allure her, With his poison goblet red,

Not the Delphic shrine's attendant,
Nor fair Isis of the Nile,
Seems so holy and resplendent
As her dark eye's mystic smile.

Fill me then a crystal chalice,
With ambrosial, ruby wine,
Join me to the health of Alice!
Alice of the muse's shrine !

Druid priestess crowned with holly, And the waxen mistletoe,

Or the ivy, melancholy,

Hath not such a brow of snow,

Where the raven lock reposes,

While her magic lips and eyes Seem made up of night and roses, In a dreamy Paradise!

Banish then all earthly malice,
Fill with joy the mystic bowl,
Pledge me deep to gentle Alice!
Alice, Empress of the Soul!

Bring me flowers of the Aloe,
And the Ceris of the West,
Round the temples like a halo,

Let the blooming chaplet rest;

Bring me tuneful backwood thrushes,
Birds no common eye hath seen,
Dwellers where the red-bud blushes,
As the minstrels of our queen!

No nightingale by Eastern palace,
Worthy plaint for her hath made,
Only Western things for Alice,
Alice of the haunted shade!

STANZAS.

WHY dost thou haunt my breast,
Child of the woody West!

When I have wandered away from thee far?
Coming in silver light

O'er my heart's sable night, Gilding my gloom like a radiant star.

Why in this distant place

Where not a single face

Greets me with smiles I was wont to receive, Why will thy form intrude,

Breaking my solitude,

Giving me joy, when I'm dying to grieve?

As when the grape is pressed

So is the heart distressed,

Yielding when crushed its most delicate flood,