Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848. Various

      When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,

      When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,

      When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,

      And the will-o'-the-wisp is at play in the brake,

      Oh then do we gather, all frolic and glee,

      We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree!

      And brightly we hover on silvery wing,

      And dip our small cups in the whispering spring,

      While the night-wind lifts lightly our shining hair,

      And music and fragrance are on the air!

      Oh who is so merry, so happy as we,

      We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree?

      We sat within the farm-house old,

      Whose windows looking o'er the bay,

      Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,

      An easy entrance, night and day.

      Not far away we saw the port, —

      The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, —

      The light-house, – the dismantled fort, —

      The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

      We sat and talked until the night

      Descending filled the little room;

      Our faces faded from the sight,

      Our voices only broke the gloom.

      We spake of many a vanished scene,

      Of what we once had thought and said,

      Of what had been, and might have been,

      And who was changed, and who was dead.

      And all that fills the hearts of friends,

      When first they feel, with secret pain,

      Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,

      And never can be one again.

      The first slight swerving of the heart,

      That words are powerless to express,

      And leave it still unsaid in part,

      Or say it in too great excess.

      The very tones in which we spake

      Had something strange, I could but mark;

      The leaves of memory seemed to make

      A mournful rustling in the dark.

      Oft died the words upon our lips,

      As suddenly, from out the fire

      Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

      The flames would leap, and then expire.

      And, as their splendor flashed and failed,

      We thought of wrecks upon the main, —

      Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,

      And sent no answer back again.

      The windows rattling in their frames,

      The ocean, roaring up the beach —

      The gusty blast – the bickering flames —

      All mingled vaguely in our speech;

      Until they made themselves a part

      Of fancies floating through the brain —

      The long lost ventures of the heart,

      That send no answers back again.

      O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!

      They were indeed too much akin —

      The drift-wood fire without that burned,

      The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

      Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise,

      And tell your gladness to the listening skies;

      Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil,

      From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil;

      Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increase

      Till one loud pæan hails the day of peace.

      Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing;

      Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring;

      Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swells

      And heaven seems full of great celestial bells!

      Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide,

      With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride;

      The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hills

      And every grove with choral welcome thrills.

      Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers,

      With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers;

      Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs,

      Go age and greet her with your holiest vows; —

      See where she comes, her hands upon her breast

      The sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest.

      Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dwelt

      In noisome cities, whence Thy sacred works

      Are ever banished from my sight; where lurks

      Each baleful passion man has ever felt.

      Here human skill is shown in shutting out

      All sight and thought of things that God hath made;

      Lest He should share the constant homage paid

      To Mammon, in the hearts of men devout.

      O, it was fit that he 2 upon whose head

      Weighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse,

      Should build a city, when he trembling fled

      Far from his Maker's face. And which was worse,

      The murder – or departing far from Thee?

      Great God! impute not either sin to me!