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

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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.