HAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.- Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest.- Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown: Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !— Restore the dead, thou sea! A CHARADE. I hid the love that could not die— Its doubts, and hopes, and fears; And buried all my misery In secrecy and tears. Thou sleep'st beneath thy lowly stone That dark and dreamless sleep; And he, thy loved and chosen one, Why goes he not to weep? And days passed on-and thou didst He does not kneel where I have knelt; prove The pangs of unrequited love, Even in thy early years; And thou didst die-so fair and good— In silence and in solitude. While thou wert living I did hide Affliction's secret pains; He cannot feel what I have felt The anguish, still and deepThe painful thoughts of what has been The canker-worm that is not seen. But I, as o'er the dark blue wave Unconsciously I ride, I'd not have shocked thy modest pride My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave, For all the world contains: But thou hast perished; and the fire It is no crime to speak my vow, My soul is by thy side. There is one voice that wails thee yet- The visions that have died: A barade. COME from my First, ay, come ! The battle-dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum Are calling thee to die! Fight as thy fathers fought, Fall as thy fathers fell! Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought!- The Hebrew Wedding. O the sound of timbrels sweet, Moving slow our solemn feet, To the virgin's blest abode; And thy scarlet mantle streaming, And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast, And the mirth and wine have ceast; And now we set thee down before The jealously unclosing door, That the favoured youth admits, Where the veilèd virgin sits In the bliss of maiden fear, Waiting our soft tread to hear, And the music's brisker din, |