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She comes-she comes-her voice is in mine ear, Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings forever,

Whose strains of song sweet thoughts awake to hear, Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river; (Flowers that, like lovers, only speak in sighs, Whose thoughts are hues, whose voices are their hearts,)

Oh-thus the spirit yearns to pierce the skies,
Exulting throbs, though all save hope departs:
Thus the glad freshness of our sinless years
Is watered ever by the heart's rich tears.

She comes-I know her by her radiant eyes, Before whose smile the long dim cloud departs; And if a darker shade be on her brow,

And if her tones be sadder than of yore, And if she sings more solemn music now,

And bears another harp than erst she bore,

And if around her form no longer glow

The earthly flowers that in her youth she wore— That look is loftier, and that song more sweet, And heaven's flowers-the stars--are at her feet.

TO ONE DEPARTED.

I know thou art gone to the home of thy rest;
Then why should my soul be so sad?

I know thou art gone where the weary are blessed,
And the mourner looks up and is glad;
Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stains it had gathered in this,

And Hope, the sweet singer, that gladdened the earth,
Lies asleep on the bosom of Bliss.

I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred
With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul,
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,
Nor thy spirit flung back from its goal.

I know thou hast drunk of the Lethé that flows
Through a land where they do not forget;—
That sheds over memory only repose,

And takes from it only regret.

This eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine;

But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,
In many a token and sign:

I never look up with a vow to the sky,
But a light like thy beauty is there;

And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.

In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be,
I know thou hast glimpses of mine;
For the love that made all things as music to me,
I have not yet learned to resign.

In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea,
Or alone with the breeze on the hill,

I have ever a presence that whispers of thee,
And my spirit lies down and is still.

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
I am wrapped in a mantle of care,
Yet the grief of my bosom-oh, call it not gloom!—
Is not the dark grief of despair.

By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
Far off a bright vision appears,

And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light,
Is born, like the rainbow, from tears.

CLEOPATRA EMBARKING ON THE CYDNUS. Flutes in the sunny air,

And harps in the porphyry halls!

And a low, deep hum, like a people's prayer,
With its heart-breathed swells and falls!

And.an echo, like the desert's call,

Flung back to the shouting shores!
And the river's ripple, heard through all, .
As it plays with the silver oars!-
The sky is a gleam of gold,

And the amber breezes float,

Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but never told, Around the dancing boat!

She has stepped on the burning sand-
And the thousand tongues are mute,
And the Syrian strikes, with a trembling hand,
The strings of his gilded lute!

And the Ethiop's heart throbs loud and high,
Beneath his white symar,

And the Lybian kneels, as he meets her eye, Like the flash of an Eastern star!

The gales may not be heard,

Yet the silken streamers quiver,

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DE PROFUNDIS.

"There may be a clond without a rainbow, but there cannot be a rainbow without a cloud."

My soul was dark

But for the golden light and rainbow hue,
That, sweeping heaven with their triumphal are,
Break on the view.

Enough to feel

That God, indeed, is good. Enough to know, Without the gloomy cloud, he could reveal No beauteous bow.

Edmund D. Griffin.

AMERICAN.

Griffin (1804-1830) was a native of Wyoming, Penn.-a grandson, on the mother's side, of Colonel Zebulon Butler, who defended the valley against the British attack which led to the massacre of 1778. Graduating at Columbia College, N. Y., where he held the first rank in his class, Edmund studied for the Episcopal Church; but an affection of the lungs compelled him to give up preaching, and try a voyage to Europe. On his return from home, in 1830, he was prostrated by an inflammatory attack, and died. His "Literary Remains" were collected by his brother. They include several Latin poems. There is abundant promise in his lines on Italy, though the influence of Byron is manifest in the general tone.

LINES ON LEAVING ITALY. "Deh! fossi tu men bella, O almen piu forte."-Filicaia. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Land of the orange-grove and myrtle bower! To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air, Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power. To look upon whose mountains in the hour When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil Of purple flows around them, would restore The sense of beauty when all else might fail.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,
Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men!
Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare,
The yellow harvest loads the scarce-tilled plain,
Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon

From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading

soon,

E'en fallen columns and decaying towers.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave!

Where noble form, bold outline, princely air,

Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,
Thou nurse of every art save one alone,
The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care
Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone,
And bids e'eu canvas speak: thy magic tone,
Infused in music now constrains the soul
With tears the power of melody to own,
And now with passionate throbs that spurn control.

Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean! Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong,

No memory of the brave,-of what has been? Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then That mouldering wall, too, spoke of brave de

fence

Shades of departed heroes, rise again!

Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence!

O italy! my country, fare thee well!

For art thon not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me dwell,

The fathers of my mind? whose fame impressed, E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest

With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest,— Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams?

Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost:
Too early lost, alas! when once so dear;

I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast,
And urge the feet forbid to linger here.
But must I rove by Arno's current clear,

And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood,
And wander on the mount, now waste and drear,
Where Caesar's palace in its glory stood;-

And see again Parthenope's loved bay,

And Pæstum's shrines, and Baia's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay That floats by night through Venice-never more? Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar-It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretched arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas! from thee.

OTWAY CURRY.—EDWARD, LORD LYTTON.

Fare, fare thee well once more. I love thee not
As other things inanimate. Thou art
The cherished mistress of my youth; forgot

Thon never canst be while I have a heart. Launched on those waters, wild with storm and wind,

I know not, ask not, what may be my lot; For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought.

Otway Curry.

AMERICAN.

Curry (1804-1855) was a native of Greenfield, Highland County, Ohio. His school education was limited. In 1823 he went to Lebanon, and learned the trade of a carpenter. He had a taste for poetry, and in 1838 became connected with Mr. W. D. Gallagher in editing The Hesperian, a monthly magazine. In 1839 he removed to Marysville, began the study of the law, and practised it for ten years. In 1853 we find him connected with the Scioto Gazette, a daily paper published in Chillicothe. He filled various public offices, and lived an unblemished life.

KINGDOM COME.

I do not believe the sad story

Of ages of sleep in the tomb; I shall pass far away to the glory And grandeur of Kingdom Come. The paleness of death and its stillness May rest on my brow for awhile; And my spirit may lose in its chillness The splendor of Hope's happy smile;

But the gloom of the grave will be transient,
And light as the slumbers of worth;
And then I shall blend with the ancient
And beautiful forms of the earth.

Through the climes of the sky and the bowers
Of bliss evermore I shall roam,

Wearing crowns of the stars and the flowers That glitter in Kingdom Come.

The friends who have parted before me
From life's gloomy passion and pain,
When the shadow of death passes o'er me
Will smile on me fondly again.
Their voices were lost in the soundless
Retreats of their endless home:
But soon we shall meet in the boundless
Effulgence of Kingdom Come.

Edward, Lord Lytton.

605

Bulwer (whose full name was Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer), afterward Lord Lytton (1805–1873), one of the most versatile and conspicuous English authors of his day, was the youngest son of Gen. Bulwer of Haydon Hall, county of Norfolk, who died in 1807. Edward's mother was of the ancient family of Lytton; and on her death, in 1843, he succeeded to her valuable estate, and took the name of Lytton. He wrote verses at a very early age; and his first volume, consisting of boyish rhymes, appeared before he was sixteen years old. At Cambridge, in 1825, he carried off the chancellor's gold medal for the best English poem. In 1826 appeared another volume of verse, "Weeds and Wild Flowers;" and in 1827 his first novel, "Falkland." He sought and won distinction in poetry, the drama, the historical romance, domestic novel, ethical essay, and political disquisition. His plays, "The Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," and "Money," still hold their place on the stage. His poems are contained in three 12mo volumes. In politics he was at one time a supporter of extreme radical measures, but in 1852 entered Parliament as a Conservative. His few speeches were able and apt. His reputation rests chiefly on his novels, which are as various in style as in their degrees of excellence. In 1827 he married Miss Wheeler, by whom he had a son and daughter. The latter died in 1848; of the former, also a poet, an account will be found in our pages. The connection with Miss Wheeler proved an unhappy one; there was a separation; and she, as Lady Bulwer, wrote novels reflecting personally on her husband and his mother.

As a poet, Lytton did not reach "the summit of the sacred mount;" but he has done some good work, and his reputation is not likely to be ephemeral. Among the "Curiosities of Literature" will be reckoned the interchange of sarcasms between him and Tennyson. In his "New Timon" (1845), a poem partly satirical and partly narrative, Lytton had designated the laureate as "School Miss Alfred," and his poetry was alluded to as "The jingling medley of purloined conceits, Out-babying Wordsworth and out-glittering Keats." Tennyson gave no babyish blow back. He published in Punch (1846) some stinging stanzas in reply, from which we quote the following:

"Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys

With dandy pathos when you wrote;

O Lion, you that made a noise,

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A SPENDTHRIFT.

FROM "RICHELIEU."

You have outrun your fortune;

I blame you not, that you would be a beggar;
Each to his taste! But I do charge you, sir,
That, being beggared, you would coin false moneys
Out of that crucible called DEBT. To live

On means not yours; be brave in silks and laces,
Gallant in steeds, splendid in banquets; all
Not yours, ungiven, uninherited, unpaid for;
This is to be a trickster, and to filch
Men's art and labor, which to them is wealth,
Life, daily bread; quitting all scores with, "Friend,
You're troublesome!" Why this, forgive me,
Is what, when done with a less dainty grace,
Plain folks call "Theft!" You owe eight thousand
pistoles,

Minus one crown, two liards!

TO THE KING.

FROM "THE DUCHESSE DE LA VALLIÈRE."

Great though thou art, awake thee from the dream That earth was made for kings- mankind for slaughter

Woman for lust-the People for the Palace!
Dark warnings have gone forth; along the air
Lingers the crash of the first Charles's throne.
Behold the young, the fair, the haughty king,
The ruling courtiers, and the flattering priests!
Lo! where the palace rose, behold the scaffold—
The crowd-the axe-the headsman-and the vic-
tim!

Lord of the Silver Lilies, canst thou tell
If the same fate await not thy descendant!
If some meek son of thine imperial line
May make no brother to yon headless spectre!
And when the sage who saddens o'er the end
Tracks back the causes, tremble, lest he finds

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