Like Eolian harp-chords waking
To each starting of the gale,
And in some strong tempest breaking
With a wild and mournful wail—
So the heart-strings thrill and quiver
To the world's rude borean breath,
Till the "silver cords" do sever,
Or are gently loosed by death.
So, as notes Eolian perish,
When the breeze has died away,
Will the soul-strains now I cherish
Live but only for a day.
MADELINE.
I never saw aught like to what thou art—
A spirit so peculiar in its mould,
With so much wildness, and with yet a part
Of all the softer beauties we behold:
So dark and still at times, thy spirit seeming
Like waters sheltered from the shining sun,
Hidden in the dim mantle of its dreaming,
As if it joyed all earthliness to shun;
And yet again, emerging from its dream
Thy soul shines forth, pellucid as the air;
And O so lovely and so bright, we deem
That mortal sprite could never be so fair!
Thy thoughts in their rare current stilly gliding
Glimmer so starrily through thy pure eyes,
Revealing glimpses of the heart's wealth hiding
Within their depths, gem-bedded like the skies.
