TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. MRS. HEMANS. FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air, Answer me, answer me! Have we not communed here, of life and death? To melt away, like song from festal bowers? Answer, oh! answer me! Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that shone Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze; Didst thou bear with thee, to the shore unknown, Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze? Hear, hear, and answer me ! Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep; When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep; Spirit then answer me. THEE. 241 not love thee! am sad; sky above thee, and be glad. ow not why, well done, to me h e like thee! thou art gone, speak be dear) rio of the tone y ear. peaking eyes, ₺ expressive blue— heaven arise, -W. yet, alas! as they pass, THE SPIRIT'S LAND. MALCOLM. THE Spirit's Land!-where is that land On whose mysterious, viewless strand There, fadeless flowers their blossoms wave Beneath a cloudless sky; And there the latest lingering tear Is wiped from every eye; Repose on that blessed shore, Where pain, and toil, and storm, and strife, Shall never reach them more. And yet, methinks, a chastened wo E'en there may prompt the sigh— Sweet sorrows we would not forego When strains from angel-harps may stray Ah! then, perchance, their saddening spell, That from oblivion saves, May wander, like a lorn farewell, From this dim land of graves; And, like the vision of a dream, Shed on the disembodied mind Of mortal life a dying gleam, And loved one left behind. Yes-yes, I will, I must believe And that imperfect were my bliss In heaven itself, and dashed with care, If those I loved on earth should miss The path that leadeth there. THE FEAST OF LIFE. L. E. LANDON. I BID thee to my mystic feast, And bind the cypress in thy hair. The hall is vast, and cold, and drear; But beauty from which bloom has fled; And music echoes from the walls, Here, take this cup, though dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; 'Tis from their native element The cup is filled-it is of tears. What! turn'st thou with averted brow? Thou scornest this poor feast of mine, And askest for a purple robe, Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine. In vain, the veil has left thine eyes, THE SLEEPERS. MRS. HEMANS. OH! lightly, lightly tread! On the worn spirit shed, A holy thing from heaven, |