And lo! where floating through a glory, sings Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice But purer light than of the early sun And gifts more precious by its breath are shed Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head. Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye, Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes, Till thou, bright day-spring! mad'st its waves our own, By thine unsealing of the burial-stone. Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills! By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills Unfolded-and the stern, dark shadow cast And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread But not by time, and not by nature sown grown. Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head From those majestic tidings of the morn, Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love! But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried. Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death. By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear, And where the board was fraught With wine and myrtles in the summer-bower, Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power. But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead, Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown, And where the mountain heath a couch has spread, And, settling oft on some grey-letter'd stone, The red-breast warbles lone; And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass And a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass. Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep, Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh bright sod, Christ hath arisen! -O mountain peaks! attest, Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn. The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day — Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone, Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray Rose up to arm! the pure, high snows have known A colouring not their own, But from true hearts which by that crimson stain Those days are past-the mountains wear no more E'en though the faithful stood, A noble army, in the exulting sight Of earth and heaven, which blest their battle for the right! But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken Is yet borne silently in homes obscure; And many a bitter cup is meekly taken; And, for the strength whereby the just and pure Thus steadfastly endure, Glory to Him whose victory won that dower, Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast! With those that sat in darkness.-Earth and sea! I SAW him at his sport erewhile, Like summer's lightning came the smile A flash that wheresoe'er it broke, His fair locks waved in sunny play, And pearly spray at times would meet He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers, He flung them o'er the wave in showers, Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild, To look on all that joy and bloom |