ORPHAN'S DREAM OF CHRISTMAS. 47 Now the Christmas morn was breaking And the chilling breeze of morning Came the broken window through; And the hair upon her forehead, Or the brushing wings of seraphs All the festive bells were chiming Her Christmas-day in heaven! The Phantom. AGAIN I sit within the mansion, In the old, familiar seat; And shade and sunshine chase each other O'er the carpet at my feet. But the sweet-briers' arms have wrestled upward, In the summers that are past; And the willow trails its branches lower Than when I saw them last. They strive to shut the sunshine wholly To fill the house, that once was joyful, And many kind remember'd faces They sing, in tones as glad as ever, THE PHANTOM. They braid the rose in summer garlands, And still her footsteps in the passage, Her timid words of maiden welcome, And, all forgetful of my sorrow, I think she has but newly left me, She stays without, perchance, a moment, O flutt'ring heart! control thy tumult, She tarries long; but lo! a whisper Beyond the open door, And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, A shadow on the floor! 49 Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, And my patient heart must still await her, But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, As many a time before; The foot is ever at the threshold, Yet never passes o'er. THE DYING POET. 51 The Dying Poet. FROM THE FRENCH OF DE LAMARTINE. THE lyre in breaking breathes a tone of power; The fading lamp, while in its dying hour, Flashes its parting ray of quiv'ring light; The dying swan beholds the azure sky : 'Tis man alone who looks on days gone by, And as he counts them, mourns their rapid flight. And what were worth the days that we deplore, A sun, a sun; an hour, and then an hour, Each one resembling that before it flown; One takes away that which another brings Labor, repose and grief fly on its wings. Thus goes the day, and then the night is gone. Ah! let him weep whose clinging hands embrace, As twining ivy clasps the broken vase, The ruined wreck of years-his hopes must fail |