SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.

Thy soul shall find itself alone

‘ Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude

Which is not loneliness — for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

In life before thee are again

In death around thee — and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night — tho’ clear — shall frown —

And the stars shall not look down

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given —

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee forever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish —

Now are visions ne'er to vanish —

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more — like dew-drops from the grass.

The breeze — the breath of God — is still —

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy — shadowy — yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token —

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries!