Rhode Island American, Statesman And Providence Gazette

SELECTED

(From the New Monthly Magazine.)

THE RUINED HOUSE.

Oh! the heart that magnifies this lone
Making a truth and beauty of its own.
Birth has gladdened it! Death has sanctified it:
Plain, yet it had a voice to speak of home,
No dower of storied song is thine, but strong
O desolate abode!

Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flowed:
Banners of Knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
No bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.

Nor have rich bowers or
Pleasaunce here
By courtly hand been dressed,
For princes, from the charm of deer,
Under green leaves to rest.

Only one rose, yet lingering, bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the Spirit of Delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet mightier tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign Beauty's lore,
House of quenched light and silent board
For me thou needest not.

It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and Love, and Hope and Fear,
Have linked one kindred band.

Thou blindest me with mighty spells!
A tranquillizing breath,
A presence all around thee dwells
Of human life and death.

Need not pluck yon garden-flower
From where the wild weeds twine,
To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies!

Thou hast heard many a sound, thou hearth,
Deserted now by all!
Voices at eve here met in mirth,
Which eve may ne'er recall.

Youth's buoyant step, and Woman's tone
And Childhood's laughing glee,
And song, and prayer, have well been known
Hearth of the Dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured
Upon the infant head,
As if in every fervent word
The living soul were shed;

Thou hast seen partings—such as bear
The bloom from Life away—
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where nought beloved can stay!

Here, by the restless bed of Pain
The Vigil hath been kept,
Till sunrise bright with Hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept:

Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposes the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been marked and mourned;
And Time hath filled the vacant place,
And Gladness hath returned only
Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropped, one by one—
And homeward hither o'er the plain
Came the Spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause then—cause for thought,
Where with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Fixed eye and lingering tread,
E'en lowliest hearts have bled?

Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draught of purer day,
Man's soul, with fitful strength hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?

Holy to human nature seems
The long forsaken spot!
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!

Therefore in silent reverence here,
Hearth of the Dead! I stand,
Where Joy and Sorrow, Smile and Tear
Have linked one kindred band.