Oh breathe not--breathe not--sure 'twas something holy--
Earth hath no sounds like these--again it passes
With a wild, low voice, that slowly rolls away,
Leaving a silence not unmusical!--
And now again the wind--harp's frame hath felt
The spirit--like the organ's richest peal
Rolls the long murmur--and again it comes,
That wild, low, wailing voice.-- These sounds to me
Bear record of strange feelings. It was evening,--
In my bowered window lay this talisman,
That the sighing breezes there might visit it;--
And I was wont to leave my lonely heart,
Like this soft harp, the play--thing of each impulse,
The sport of every breath. I sate alone
Listening for many minutes--the sounds ceased,
Or, tho' unnoted by the idle ear,
Were mingling with my thoughts--I thought of one,
And she was of the dead--She stood before me,
With sweet sad smile, like the wan moon at midnight,
Smiling in silence on a world at rest.

I rushed away--I mingled with the mirth
Of the noisy many--it is strange, that night,
With a light heart, with light and lively words,
I sported hours away, and yet there came
At times wild feelings--words will not express them--
But it seemed, that a chill eye gazed upon my heart,
That a wan cheek, with sad smile, upbraided me,
I felt that mirth was but a mockery,
Yet I was mirthful. I lay down to sleep--
I did not sleep--I could not choose but listen,
For o'er the wind--harp's strings the spirit came
With that same sweet low voice. Yes! thou mayest smile,
But I must think, my friend, as then I thought,
That the voice was her's, whose early death I mourned,
That she it was, who breathed those solemn notes,
Which like a spell possessed the soul.-- I lay
Wakeful, the prey of many feverish feelings,
My thoughts were of the dead!--at length I slept,
If it indeed were sleep.--She stood before me
In beauty--the wan smile had passed away--
Her eye was bright--I could not bear its brightness.

Till now I knew not Death was terrible,
For seldom did I dwell upon the thought,
And if, in some wild moment, fancy shaped
A world of the departed, 'twas a scene
Most calm and cloudless, or, if clouds at times
Stained the blue quiet of the still soft sky,
They did not dim its charm, but suited well
The stillness of the scene, like thoughts that move
Silently o'er the soul, or linger there
Shedding a tender twilight pensiveness!

This is an idle song!--I cannot tell
What charms were her's who died--I cannot tell
What grief is their's whose spirits weep for her!--
Oh, many were the agonies of prayer,
And many were the mockeries of hope;
And many a heart, that loved the weak delusion,
Looked forward for the rosy smiles of health,
And many a rosy smile passed o'er that cheek,
Which will not smile again;--and the soft tinge,
That often flushed across that fading face,
And made the stranger sigh, with friends would wake
A momentary hope;--even the calm tone,
With which she spoke of death, gave birth to thoughts,
Weak, trembling thoughts, that the lip uttered not.
And when she spoke with those, whom most she mourn'd
To leave, and when thro' clear calm tears the eye
Shone with unwonted light, oh, was there not
In its rich sparkle something, that forbade
The fear of death?--and when, in life's last days,
The same gay spirit, that in happier hours
Had charactered her countenance, still gleamed
On the sunk features--when such playful words,
As once could scatter gladness on all hearts,
Still trembled from the lip, and o'er the souls
Of those who listened shed a deeper gloom--
In hours of such most mournful gaiety,
Oh, was there not even then a lingering hope,
That flitted fearfully, like parent birds,
Fast fluttering o'er their desolated nest?

Mourn not for her who died!--she lived as saints
Might pray to live--she died as Christians die;--
There was no earthward struggle of the heart,
No shuddering terror--no reluctant sigh.
They, who beheld her dying, fear not Death!
Silently--silently the spoiler came,
As sleep steals o'er the senses, unperceived,
And the last thoughts, that soothed the waking soul,
Mingle with our sweet dreams.--Mourn not for her!

Oh, who art thou, that, with weak words of comfort,
Would'st bid the mourner not to weep?--would'st win
The cheek of sorrow to a languid smile?
Thou dost not know with what a pious love
Grief dwells upon the dead!--thou dost not know
With what a holy zeal Grief treasures up
All that recalls the past!--when the dim eye
Rolls objectless around, thou dost not know
What forms are floating o'er the mourner's soul!--
Thou dost not know with what a soothing art
Grief, that rejects man's idle consolations,
Makes to itself companionable friends
Of all, that charmed the dead! her robin still
Seeks at the wonted pane his morning crumbs,
And, surely, not less dear for the low sigh,
His visit wakes!--and the tame bird, who loved
To follow with gay wing her every step,
Who oft, in playful fits of mimicry,
Echoed her song, is dearer for her sake!--
The wind, that from the hawthorn's dewy blossoms
Brings fragrance, breathes of her!--the moral lay,
That last she loved to hear, with deeper charm
Speaks to the spirit now!--even these low notes,
Breathed o'er her grave, will sink into the soul,
A pensive song that Memory will love
In pensive moments. Mourners, is there not
An angel, that illumes the house of mourning?
The Spirit of the Dead--a holy image,
Shrined in the soul--for ever beautiful,
Undimmed with earth--its tears--its weaknesses--
And changeless, as within the exile's heart
The picture of his country;--there no clouds
Darken the hills--no tempest sweeps the vale,--
And the loved forms, he never more must meet,
Are with him in the vision, fair, as when,
Long years ago, they clasped his hands at parting!