To him a Voice floats down from every star; An Angel bends from every cloud that rolls; Life has no mystery from our sight more far Than the still joy in solemn Poet-souls. As some vast river, fresh'ning lands unknown Where never yet a human footstep trod, Leave the grand Song to flow majestic on And hymn delight, from all its waves, to God. VIII. A death-bell ceased;--beneath the vault were laid A great man's bones;--and when the rest were gone, Veil'd, and in sable widow-'d weeds array'd, An aged woman knelt upon the stone. Low as she pray'd, the wailing notes were sweet With the strange music of a foreign tongue: Thrice to that spot came feeble, feebler feet, Thrice on that stone were humble garlands hung. On the fourth day some formal hand in scorn The flowers that breathed of priestcraft cast away; But the poor stranger came not with the morn, And flowers forbidden deck'd no more the clay. A heart was broken!--and a spirit fled! Whither--let those who love and hope decide-- But in the faith that Love rejoins the dead, The heart was broken ere the garland died. [F] Burnett. EVA. A TRUE STORY. I. THE MAIDEN'S HOME. A cottage in a peaceful vale; A jasmine round the door; A hill to shelter from the gale; A silver brook before. Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, In mornings soft with May; Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, Reflecting heaven, away! A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth Rejoicing Nature gave; And heaven was mirror'd in her truth More clear than on the wave. Oft to that lone sequester'd place My boyish steps would roam, There was a look in Eva's face That seem'd a smile of home. And oft I paused to hear at noon A voice that sang for glee; Or mark the white neck glancing down,-- The book upon the knee.-- II. THE IDIOT BOY. Who stands between thee and the sun?-- A cloud himself,--the Wandering One! A vacant wonder in the eyes,-- The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll;-- The light was in the laughing skies, And darkness in the Idiot's soul. He touch'd the book upon her knee-- He look'd into her gentle face-- "Thou dost not tremble, maid, to see Poor Arthur by thy dwelling-place. I know not why, but where I pass The aged turn away; And if my shadow vex the grass, The children cease from play. _My_ only playmates are the wind, The blossom on the bough! "Why are thy looks so soft and kind? Thou dost not tremble--thou!" Though none were by, she trembled not-- Too meek to wound, too good to fear him; And, as he linger'd on the spot, She hid the tears that gush'd to hear him.-- III. PRAYER OF ARTHUR'S FATHER.