Gazed sorrowing—mute and motionless. The tempest with his train has fled, And yet no moon hath lit her fire; Nought lights the darkness, deep and dread, Save that dim-burning Vulcan-pyre. With its drear, wavering, ghastly light, Still heavier than the heavy night: Most terrible! The task is done! How gladly mounts the trembling soul, Like light returning to its sun, When Heaven’s own streams of glory roll! Joy, spirit! joy! I’ve broke the spell; Land of the lost! dread land, farewell. —— Soul of that shadowy realm, where Time Hath thrown his last-expiring wave, When the Immortal glooms sublime And terrible above the grave,— Dread image o’er whose phantasm we Have hung a shroud of mystery, And then for countless ages shook Before its dark, eternal look. Bold scorner of the groan or tear— Swaying between the star and storm— Thou art a mighty thing of fear, Yet glory crowns thy mystic form. Vast, potent, melancholy, dim, Past ruler of the cherubim, And king-like in thy ruin still, Thou livest despite of sleepless ill. Oh! once all splendid in that time, Ere thy great banners were unfurl’d Like thunder flashes in the clime From which the rebel hosts were hurl’d, How art thou fallen—fallen now!— The burning seal upon thy brow Which towered in its own glory bright— A mighty pyramid of light. And battling still? Thine essence gleams Like the dim flashing of a cloud; Oh! how unlike its heavenly beams Ere sin that angel-beauty bowed, And changed thee to a giant curse Breathed through the shuddering universe— A deathless, hopeless agony— An aching immortality. * * * * * THE HEAVENLY VISION. BY THOMAS HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D. If I be sure I am not dreaming now, I should not doubt to say it was a dream. _Shelley._ I met her in the spring-time of my years, When suns set golden in the azure west; The sight of her dissolved my heart to tears— It seemed she came from heaven to make me blest. A golden harp was in her snow-white hand, And when she touched the strings, so softly prest, The music seemed as from some heavenly band, As though she came from heaven to make me blest. Her eyes were of that soft, celestial hue, Which heaven puts on when Day is in the west; Whose words were soft as drops of evening dew— It seemed she came from heaven to make me blest. Long had we parted—long had she been dead— When late one night, when all had gone to rest, Her spirit stood before me—near my bed— She came from heaven to tell me she was blest.