Then I heard that silvery singing, still upon my ear ’tis ringing, And where once beneath that cedar, knelt my soft-eyed sweet gazelle, Saw I there a seraph glowing, with her golden tresses flowing, On the perfumed zephyrs blowing, from Eolus’ mystic cell Saw I in that seraph’s beauty, semblance of my Isabel, Gently whispering, ‘Fare thee well!’” “Glorious one,” I cried, upspringing, “art thou joyful tidings bringing, From the land of shadowy visions, spirit of my Isabel? Shall thy coming leave no token? Shall there no sweet word be spoken? Shall thy silence be unbroken, in this ever blessed dell? Whilst thou nothing, nothing utter, but that fatal, ‘Fare thee well!’” Still it answered, ‘Fare thee well!’” “Speak! oh, speak to me bright being! I am blest thy form in seeing, But shall no sweet whisper tell, me,――tell me that thou lovest still? Shall I pass from earth to heaven, without sign or token given, With no whispered token given――that thou still dost love me well? Give it, give it now, I pray thee――here within this blessed dell, Still that hated ‘Fare thee well.’” Not another word expressing, but her lip in silence pressing, With the vermeil-tinted finger seeming silence to compel, And while yet in anguish gazing, and my weeping eyes upraising, To the shadowy, silent seraph, semblance of my Isabel, Slow she faded, till there stood there, once again the white gazelle, _Faintly whispering_, “Fare thee well!” C. _Evening Mirror_, New York, April 29, 1845. ―――――――― THE WHIPPOORWILL. * * * * * In the wilderness benighted, lo! at last my guide alighted On a lowly little cedar that o’erspread a running rill; Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly fluttered, Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless wonder still; “Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore me still? Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill! Soon beneath him, as he hover’d, by the starlight I discovered That his gentle mate was lying on the dead leaves, dead and still:―― “Then,” said I, “he _did_ implore me, in my chamber flitting o’er me, Flitting to and fro before me, to avert some fearful ill;―― With prophetic instinct surely, he entreated human skill To save the dying Whippoorwill.” * * * * *