HAUNTED GROUND.
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever—it may be a sound,
A tone of music, summer eve, or spring,
A flower—the wind—the ocean—which shall wound
Striking the electric chain, wherewith we are darkly bound.
—Byron.
THE HAUNTED GROUND.—MRS. HEMANS.
Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear thou not, for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow’s on me alone.
Have I not, under these whisp’ring leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows yet unto which life seem’d bound,
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Have I not lived ’midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrowed, and heard farewells,
And learn’d in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows—yet unto which life seemed bound,
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?