Page:Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath 1830.pdf/5

    On my own heart I lay
The weary babe, and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
    The shadowing lids to play.

    I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent?—I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
    Borne on my sweeping wings.

    I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
    Till the bright day is done.

    But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake
    The mantle of its rest.

    I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which though long o'erborne,
    Make their tone heard at last.

    I bring them from the tomb:
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love,
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove,
    Like trumpets through the gloom.