Ianthe And Other Poems

Their fading spells invoke It was a gentle song, they sang, As morn peeped through her barn, And soft as seraphs music, rang Beneath the evening stars- INVOCATION. The trembling soul must echo it, Though other lips have thrilled It was the deep unspoken song, That all our spirits filled. 0, if my lay shall charm one heart, As harp and bird hath done, My toil has finished well its part, My fondest dream is won The sun and shade, the hope and fear, The faith and doubt were mine From these I wove with many a tear, The garland at the shrine- My guerdon but the morning air, And yon aweet star above, Which beams upon the souls despair, With all the light of love Thanks, to the lips which bade me sing,. The kind, the good, the true To them, to all, the harp I bring,. And bid them here adieu Tears unto those who sit in tears, . And smiles to smiles are given Through tears and smiles in coming years, I strive as I have striven. IANTHE, . Artists Prayer, Do-Hum-Me, . Ponce De Leon, Christ, Greenwood, . Napoleon, Prometheus, . Horicon, . . Evening, a Hymn, Wa-Con-Tarn-Ee, England, . Lelia, . The Marble Bride, The Ruined One, As It Is, . . Henry Inman, . To a Picture, . MDonald Clarke, To My other, . Myra, m CONTENTS. Bryant, . . i . 177 From Nina, . . . 178 To Nina, . . 180 Ella, . . . 182 Death, . . . . 184 From Nina, . . -. . 185 To Nina, . . g . 187 Estelle, . 188 Sottg of Beauty, . . . 190 Death of Charming, . . 191 Light, . . 193 Odd-Fellowship, . . 195 Robert Emmet, . . 197 Dawn, . 198 Erin, . . . . . 201 Ticonderoga, . . . . . 203 The Battle Ship, . 205 Vermont, . . . 207 Lake Champlain, . . . . 209 Columbias Pine, . . 210 Lowly Places, . . 212 My Native land, . . . 214 Washington Allston, . . . . 216 Man, . . . . . 217 The Poets Death, . . 219 Isadore, . . . g i 223 The IGss, . . . 224 THERE is a tongue mysteriously given To soothe the pilgrim in his hours of WO, A gentle breathing from the spirit heaven Which fans the tear from every cheek below A sun of brightness which makes ripe the soul, And fits it for its temple and its goal. There is a language of the thrilling eyes, A gentle pleading of the heaving breast, A soft persuasion in the smothered sighs From out young hearts by the adoring prest In all, a magic strengthened by desire, Which fills the soul with an estatic fire. It is the voice of waving curls, and lips, b And cheeks that tempt us with delicious blushes, So fair that every wind fill wanton sips The purple stream, that in its channel gushes Below that brow of marble, which alone Were worthy to be called a fairys throne. 1 POEMS. It is the bond of spirits speaking thlough The crystal windows of the human soul, A language silent, but so faultless true, That they who read resist not its control It is the perfect of that inner being, Too fine for aught but sympathys fine seeing...