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“LATA SILENTIA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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“LATA SILENTIA.”

Ye vacant and far-spreading silences
Men call with low and trembling voice the tomb,
Are there not other regions with no less
Of solitude and gloom?

118

In the wide chambers of your dreary realm
The struggle of this labored life is o'er;
The mariner forgets his drifting helm,
The landsman delves no more.
There, if the heart lie desolate and cold,
Its pulses rest alike unvexed and chill,
There all unheeding slumber young and old,
Devoid of good or ill.
They suffer not who know not joy or pain;
But we who toil across the desert sands
Are visited by tempests and fierce rain
Unknown to those drear lands.
When the dismaying south wind hotly blows,
Its breath of passion blasts both flower and tree,
And, though before it Paradise arose,
Behind it deserts be.
These are the true wide silences of time,
Whence all the glory that abode has gone,
Wherein, through every season, change, and clime,
The soul remains alone.
The haunts once redolent with life and bliss,
Still as the waters of a reedy lake,
Whose stagnant pool no swallow dares to kiss,
Whose sleep no winds awake.

119

Or they who are accursed with leprosy,
Stamped with the branded sign of mortal sin,
Wide as the sky from which they cannot flee,
Their silence reigns within.
Oh! for one voice to break this hush profound!
One echo through these vaulted depths to spread.
Descend from Heaven, divine delaying sound,
Awake these living dead!