Felicia Hemans

“ Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old Minster—forest-like itself—
With its long avenues of pillared shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes.—Join, join, my Soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious Hymn. ”

“ And hath in Heaven its perfect rest."—Southey.
Thou movest in visions, Love!—Around thy way,
E'en through this World's rough path and changeful day,
For ever floats a gleam,
Not from the realms of Moonlight or the Morn,
But thine own Soul's illumined chambers born—
The colouring of a dream!
Love, shall I read thy dream?—Oh! is it not
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot—
A Bower for thee and thine?
Yes! lone and lowly is that Home; yet there
Something of Heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine. ”

“ In the deep sanctuary of one true breast
Hidden from earthly ill:
There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound
Wakening all Nature to sweet echoes round,
Thine inmost soul can thrill. ”