It is not in the sea, nor in the air; It is not on the valley, nor the hill; IV. Is it the music of some distant sphere V. I look around-still is each gloomy tree- It were the day-sounds of another world. VI. So once the holy bird sang all night-long, Till broke the day-star's beam on Bethlehem ; VII. Is it the rushing sound of years to come, Billows of time, that on the outskirts roam Of the dread ocean of eternity? VIII. Is it the fairy band's unearthly sound? Or spirits whispering in the middle air? IX. Perchance 'tis Fancy's voice-the sound of dreams, We The voice of conscience in the ear of night. THE PRISONER. I paused-then, turning back the heavy bolt, And the white moon, with its thin silvery beams, W. D. Flooded the blackened floor. 'Twas deathly still :The light grey spider's thread clung to the roof, And the dank dew was clotted on the wall. On a rush mattress, in a tattered robe, upon whose furrowed cheek A bright cold tear had, fading, left a stain; All night I sat in silence by her side, Has knelt in agony to look on heaven, To breathe a prayer of penitent remorse ! How many an injured spirit here Like her's I must not think of this, Lest I upbraid. -I see the moon In midnight grandeur roll Upon her cloudless course; And through those narrow bars Her beams fall lightly on that sleeping breast. Even now I marked the change That ever and anon, was wrought By her wild passing dreams. * At length she moved,—she woke, she rose,— In mine: she clenched it with a moist cold grasp, Reposed its softness, as the evening sun Slants trembling rays upon the misty earth. Played round the curve of her unbreathing lips/; I marked the, twilight of her setting soul. Alastor. THE SHADE OF SAMUEL. Of power and honour no longer a token, He mournfully leaned on the spear of his wrath, And his cry wildly came in the silence of night, Her form darker grew, like the moon in eclipse, He hath come-he hath come- -at her terrible word, He hath come he hath come-like a dream of the night, So fearfully sudden he glides on the sight: 'Tis he! by that visage so awfully pale, Like the cloud of the night that o'ershadows the vale. 6 Say wherefore, O King! dost thou trouble my rest, The sleep of the holy in Abraham's breast? |