The cool fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need:

Where must the lone one turn or flee?—
Not unto thee, oh! not to thee!

THE THEMES OF SONG.

WHERE shall the minstrel find a theme?
Where'er, for freedom shed,

Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream,
Amidst the mountains, red.

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove,

Bears record to the faith

Of love, deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor of fear and death.

Where'er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling that all around have striven,
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer.

Where'er the chieftain's crested brow
In its pride hath been struck down,
Or a bright-haired virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth's first crown.

Where'er a home and hearth have been,
That now are man's no more;

A place of ivy, freshly green,
Where laughter's light is o'er.

Where'er by some forsaken grave,
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing, a violet wave,
A star its vigil keep.

Or where a yearning heart of old,
Or a dream of shepherd men,

With forms of more than earthly mould,

Hath peopled grot or glen.

There may the bard's high themes be found—

We die, we pass away!

But faith, love, pity-these are bound

To earth without decay.

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,
The tear from hidden springs,
The thorn, and glory of the rose—

These are undying things.

Wave after wave, of mighty stream,

To the deep sea hath gone;

Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream,

The exhaustless flood rolls on.

THE RETURN.

"ART thou come with the heart of thy childhood back,

The free, the pure, the kind?"

-So murmured the trees in my homeward track,

As they played to the mountain wind.

"Hast thou been true to thy early love?" Whispered my native streams;

"Doth the spirit reared amidst hill and grove, Still revere its first high dreams?"

66

'Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer
Of the child in his parent-halls?”—

Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air,
From the old ancestral walls.

"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead,
Whose place of rest is nigh?

With the father's blessing o'er thee shed?
With the mother's trusting eye?"

Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain,
As I answered—“O ye shades!

I bring not my childhood's heart again
To the freedom of your glades!

"I have turned from my first pure love aside,

O bright rejoicing streams!

Light after light in my soul have died,

The early, glorious dreams!

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath passed,

The prayer at my mother's knee

Darkened and troubled I come at last,

Thou home of my boyish glee!

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears,

To soften and atone;

And, O ye scenes of those blessed years!

They shall make me again your own."

THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.

O DIM, forsaken mirror!

How many a stately throng

Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hour,

Of the wine cup and the song!

The bright wine hath been quaffed,

And hushed is every silver voice

That lightly here hath laughed.

O mirror, lonely mirror,

Thou of the silent hall!

Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom—

Is this, too, vanished all?

It is, with the scattered garlands
Of triumphs long ago,

With the melodies of buried lyres,
With the faded rainbow's glow.

And for all the gorgeous pageants, For the glance of gem and plume, For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, And vase of rich perfume;

Now, dim forsaken mirror,

Thou giv❜st but faintly back

The quiet stars, and the sailing moon,

On her solitary track.

And thus with man's proud spirit

Thou tellest me 't will be,

When the forms and hues of this world fade
From his memory as from thee;

And his heart's long troubled waters

At last in stillness lie,

Reflecting but the images

Of the solemn world on high.

THE WELCOME TO DEATH.

THOU art welcome, O, thou warning voice,
My soul hath pined for thee;

Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore
To wanderer on the sea.

I hear thee in the rustling woods,

In the sighing vernal airs;

Thou call'st me from the lonely earth,

With a deeper tone than theirs.

The lonely earth! since kindred steps
From its green paths have fled,
A dimness and a hush have fallen
O'er all its beauty spread.

The silence of the unanswering soul

Is on me and around;

My heart hath echoes but for thee,

Thou still small warning sound!