222 AMELIA B. WELBY. [1830-40. We sit with smiling faces To list their silver calls. And when their holy anthems Come pealing through the air, Our hearts leap forth to meet them With a blessing and a prayer. Amid the morning's fragrant dew, Amid the mists of even, They warble on as if they drew Their music down from heaven. How sweetly sounds each mellow note Beneath the moon's pale ray. When dying zephyrs rise and float Like lovers' sighs away ! Like shadowy spirits seen at eve Among the tombs they glide, Where sweet pale forms, for which we grieve. Lie sleeping side by side. They break with song the solemn hush Where peace reclines her head, And link their lays with mournful thoughts, That cluster round the dead. For never can my soul forget The loved of other years ; Their memories fill my spirit yet — I've kept them green with tears ; And their singing greets my heart at times As in the days of yore. Though their music and their loveliness Is ever o'er — forever o'er. And often, when the mournful night Comes with a low sweet tune, And sets a star on every height And one beside the moon. When not a sound of wind or wave The holy stillness mars, I look above and strive to trace Their dwellings in the stars. The birds of summer hours — They bring a gush of glee To tJie child among the dewy flowers, To the sailor on the sea. We hear their thrilling voices In their swift and airy flight, And the inmost heart rejoices With a calm and pure delight. In the stillness of the starlight hours. When I am with the dead, O ! may they flutter mid the flowers, That blossom o'er my head, And pour their songs of gladness forth In one melodious strain, O'er lips, whose broken melody Shall never sino- again. THE MOURNFUL HEART. My heart is like a lonely bird. That sadly sings, Brooding upon its nest unheard, With folded wings. For of my thoughts the sweetest part Lie all untold, And treasured in this mournful heart Like precious gold. The fever-dreams that haunt my soul Are deep and strong ; For through its deep recesses roll Such floods of song. I strive to calm, to lull to rest, Each mournful strain, To lay the phantom in my breast — But ah ! 'tis vain. The glory of the silent skies, Each kindling star, The young leaves stirred with melodies INIy quiet mar. ! in my soul, too wild and strong Tliis gift hath grown, Briglit spirit of immortal song ! Take back thine own.
