Fain would I bind, for you,

My memory with all glorious things to dwell;
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew
Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!

MUSIC OF YESTERDAY.

"O! mein Geist, ich fühle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem, das keinem Menschem gegönnt ist.” — TIECK.

THE chord, the harp's full chord is hush'd,
The voice hath died away,

Whence music, like sweet waters, gush'd,
But yesterday.

Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell,
The full o'ersweeping tone,

The sounds that sigh'd "Farewell, farewell!"
Are gone all gone!

The love, whose fervent spirit pass'd
With the rich measure's flow;
The grief, to which it sank at last-
Where are they now?

They are with the scents, by Summer's breath Borne from a rose now shed:

With the words from lips long seal'd in deathFor ever fled.

The sea-shell, of its native deep
A moaning thrill retains;

But earth and air no record keep
Of parted strains.

And all the memories, all the dreams,
They woke in floating by;

The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams-
Could these too die?

They died-as on the water's breast
The ripple melts away,

When the breeze that stirr'd it sinks to rest-
So perish'd they!

Mysterious in their sudden birth,

And mournful in their close,

Passing, and finding not on earth

Aim or repose.

Whence were they?-like the breath of flowers
Why thus to come and go?

A long, long journey must be ours
Ere this we know!

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

"Was mir fehlt?-Mir fehlt ja alles,
Bin so ganz verlassen hier!"

Tyrolese Melody.

THE Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the fire is quench'd and gone

That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing shone;

The place where mirth and music met is hush'd through day and night.

Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light!

But scatter'd are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore,

Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more.

Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy or mirth,

Unbound is that sweet wreath of home-alas! the lonely Hearth!

The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue,

Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung.

Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone,

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the bright fire quench'd and gone.

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee?

Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea?—

Oh! some are hush'd, and some are changed, and never shall one strain

Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again!

And of the hearts that here were link'd by longremember'd years,

Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister's tears!

One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone,

For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quench'd and gone!

Not so 'tis not a broken chain-thy memory binds them still,

Thou holy Hearth of other days, though silent now and chill!

The smiles, the tears, the rites beheld by thine attesting stone,

Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own.

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though call'd from earth away,

With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway;

And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet

are one,

Though the loved Hearth be desolate, the bright fire quench'd and gone!

VOL. IV. - 18

THE DREAMER.

"There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscription on the mind; but alike, whether veil'd or unveil'd, the inscription remains for ever." English Opium-Eater.

"Thou hast been call'd, O Sleep! the friend of woe,
But 'tis the happy who have call'd thee so."

SOUTHEY.

PEACE to thy dreams!-thou art slumbering now,
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow;
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest,
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell,
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh'd farewell.
Peace! the sad memories that through the day
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay,
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,
That bow'd thee as winds bow the willow's head,
The yearnings for faces and voices gone-
All are forgotten!-Sleep on, sleep on!

Are they forgotten?-It is not so!

Slumber divides not the heart from its woe.
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass,
Like lights and shades over wavy grass:
Tremblest thou, Dreamer?-O love and grief!
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf!

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill,
As on a lyre ere its chords are still;