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That which the ear can hear is silent all;
But, in the lower stillness which I reach,
Soft whispers call me, like the distant fall
Of waves upon the beach.

Now, like the mother, who, with patient care,
Has soothed to rest her faint, o'erwearied boy,
My spirit leaves the couch, and seeks the air,
For freedom and for joy.

Drunk up like vapors by the morning sun,

The past and future rise and disappear,
And times and spaces gather home, and run
Into a common sphere.

My youth is round me, and the silent tomb
Has burst to set its fairest prisoner free,
And I await her in the dewy gloom
Of the old trysting tree.

I mark the flutter of her snowy dress;
I hear the tripping of her fairy feet;
And now, press'd closely in a pure caress,
With ardent joy we meet.

I tell again the story of my love,

I drink again her lip's delicious wine;

And, while the same old stars look down above,
Her eyes look up to mine.

I dream that I am dreaming, and I start,

Then dream that naught so real comes in dreams;

Then kiss again to re-assure my heart

That she is what she seems.

Our steps tend homeward; lingering at the gate,

I breathe, and breathe again, my fond good-night. She shuts the cruel door, and still I wait

To watch her window-light.

I see the shadow of her dainty head

On curtains that I pray her hand may stir,

Till all is dark; and then I seek my bed

To dream I dream of her.

Like the swift moon that slides from cloud to cloud,
With only hurried space to smile between,

I pierce the phantoms that around me crowd,
And glide from scene to scene.

I clasp warm hands that long have lain in dust,
I hear sweet voices that have long been still;
And earth and sea give up their hallow'd trust
In answer to my will.

And now, high-gazing toward the starry dome,
I see three airy forms come floating down —
The long-lost angels of my early home-
My night of joy to crown.

They pause above, beyond my eager reach,

With arms enwreathed and forms of heavenly grace,
And smiling back the love that smiles from each,
I see them face to face.

They breathe no language, but their holy eyes
Beam an embodied blessing on my heart,
That warm within my trustful bosom lies,
And never will depart.

I drink the effluence, till through all my soul
I feel a flood of peaceful rapture flow,
That swells to joy at last, and bursts control,
And I awake; but lo!

With eyelids shut, I hold the vision fast,
And still detain it by my ardent prayer,
Till faint and fainter grown, it fades at last
Into the silent air.

My God! I thank thee for the bath of sleep,
That wraps in balm my weary heart and brain,
And drowns within its waters still and deep
My sorrow and my pain.

I thank thee for my dreams, which loose the bond
That binds my spirit to its daily load,

And gives it angel wings, to fly beyond
Its slumber-bound abode.

I thank thee for these glimpses of the clime
That lies beyond the boundaries of sense,
Where I shall wash away the stains of time
In floods of recompense ; —

Where, when this body sleeps to wake no more,
My soul shall rise to everlasting dreams,

And find unreal all it saw before,

And real all that seems.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

PART IV

Friendship and Sympathy

The pledge of Friendship: it is still divine,
Though watery floods have quench'd its burning wine:
Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold-
Around its brim the hand of Nature throws
A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose.
Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl,
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's soul;
But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave
That fainting Sidney perish'd as he gave.
'T is the heart's current lends the cup its glow,
Whate'er the fountain whence the draught may flow.

PART IV

FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY

FOREVER

THOSE We love truly never die,
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath,
A ring and flowers, types of life and death,
Are laid upon their graves.

For death the pure life saves,

And life all pure is love; and love can reach
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach
Than those by mortals read.

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead:
A friend he has whose face will never change-
A dear communion that will not grow strange;
The anchor of a love is death.

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath

Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years.
For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears,
She 's thine unto the end.

Thank God for one dear friend,

With face still radiant with the light of truth,
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth,
Through twenty years of death.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

THE MEMORY OF THE HEART

IF stores of dry and learned lore we gain,

We keep them in the memory of the brain;

Names, things, and facts, whate'er we knowledge call
There is the common ledger for them all ;

And images on this cold surface traced

Make slight impression, and are soon effaced.

But we 've a page, more glowing and more bright,
On which our friendship and our love to write;
That these may never from the soul depart,
We trust them to the memory of the heart.

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