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516 E.JUSTINE BAYARD.
In summer we parted, in winter we met,
(How the inner world mocks at the outer!)
December was lit by those star-eyes of jet,
July bound the death-shroud about her.

ERROR.
I SAW a light cloud floating in the sheen
Of the resplendent moonshine; undefined
Its fleecy edges shivered in the wind
Alone, at first it moved in distance seen,
But as it neared on the broad disk serene
Of the full moon, it grew a settled form;
And in its train appeared a shadowy swarm,
Attendant vapors, hovering links, between
This pale forerunner, and huge shrouds of gloom,
Which, lowering o'er the hills, portentous prophets loom.

Thus, on its inner heaven, the soul descries
Shapes of significance, indefinite,
Dimming its native clarity, yet bright
And cozening in beauty. Lone they rise,
In seeming harmless; but to virtue's eyes
When brought to Truth's illumined disk anear,
They show as darkness-harbingers appear
Of gloomy ranks, whose dim perspective dies
In earthly mists born of corruption's slime,
Leading through paths obscure, from Error down to Crime.

STANZAS.
(ON FINDING THE KEY OF AN OLD PIANO.)
UNLOCK, unlock the shrines of memory,
And bid her many keys their voices send
Up in the silent hour unto me.
Speak! that the tones of other years may lend
Their vanished harmonies and lost romance
To days immersed in gloom and dissonance.

E. JUSTINE BAYARD. 517

Thou who the while unconscious played thy art,
And called fair music from her silent cell
To echo murmurs form the gushing heart,
Come! wake once more the departed spell,
I fain would hear of things and thoughts again,
Which mingled often with the stealing strain.

Hark! it comes creeping on. It is an air
Full of strange wailing-mournfully profound;
Some music-spirit moaning in despair,
Prisoned in that sweet barrier of sound:
And yet, methinks "might I a captive be
If thus environed in captivity!"

And showy forms around the instrument
Come closely pressing, whispering low words
That keep time with the music, redolent
Of deep vibrations in the hidden chords
That round the heart their hurried measure keep,
And sway its pulses with resistless sweep.

Voice of the voiceless! Graves give up their dead,
And at thy words departed echoes ring,
Familiar carols from the lips that fled
Long weary years ago, with fatal wing,
Unto the silent regions of the tomb,
And died away there in its hollow gloom.

Hush! other instruments are creeping in
To perfect the concordance of the whole,
And well-remembered voices now begin
To bear on wings invisible my soul.
My own! Amongst them I can hear my own,
Alas! 'Tis almost a forgotten tone!
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