Nor sound, nor stir profanes the stilly room, Haunted by Sleep and Silence, linked pair; The very light itself muffled in gloom, Steals in, and melts the enamored air Where Love doth brood and dream, while Passion dies, Breathing his soul out in a mist of sighs! Lo! where she lies behind the curtains white, Pillowed on clouds of down,--her golden hair Braided around her forehead smooth and fair, Like a celestial diadem of light:-- Her soft voluptuous lips are drawn apart, Curving in fine repose, and maiden pride; Her creamy breast,--its mantle brushed aside Swells with the long pulsation of her heart: One languid arm rests on the coverlid, And one beneath the crumpled sheet is hid, (Ah happy sheets! to hide an arm so sweet!) Nor all concealed amid their folds of snow, The soft perfection of her shape below, Rounded and tapering to her little feet! Oh Love! if Beauty ever left her sphere, And sovereign sisters, Art and Poesy, Moulded in loveliness she slumbers here, Slumbers, dear love, in thee! It is thy smile that makes the chamber still; It is thy breath that fills the scented air; The light around is borrowed from thy hair, And all things else are subject to thy will, And I am so bewildered in this deep Ambrosial calm, and passionate atmosphere, I know not whether I am dreaming here, Or in the world of Sleep! XI. My eyes are full of tears, My heart is full of pain, To wake, as now, again, And walk, as in my youth, the wilderness of Years! No more! no more! the autumn winds are loud In stormy passes, howling to the Night: Behind a cloud the moon doth veil her light, And the rain pours from out the horned cloud. And hark! the solemn and mysterious bell, Swinging its brazen echoes o'er the wave: Not mortal hands, but spirits ring the knell, And toll the parting ghost of Midnight to its grave. TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. BY HERMANN. Its smile and happy laugh are lost to thee, Earth must his mother and his pillow be. W. G. CLARK. Mother, now thy task is done, Now thy vigil ended; With the coming of the sun, Grief and joy are blended. Grief that thus thy flower of love From its stem is riven; Joy that will bloom above, Midst the bowers of Heaven. Gone, as oft expires the light Of thy nightly taper: Gone, as 'fore the sunshine bright, Early morning's vapor. Kiss its lips so mute and cold, Cold as chiselled marble, They will now to harp of gold Glad Hosannas warble. At the last they sweetly smiled, Told it not for gladness; Would'st thou now recall thy child To a world of sadness?