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On! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?

The summer-birds are calling,
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling,

With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 'Midst the banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours

But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wandered long
From thy home without a guide,
And thy native woodland song
In thine altered heart hath died.

Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring,
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.

-But when wilt thou return?
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O'er the image of the sky,

Which the lake's clear bosom wore,

Darkly may shadows lie

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again

To the gladness of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain-solitudes.

-But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own free air,

There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee,

And by thy smile restored,

Joy round the hearth shall be.

Still hath thy mother's eye,
Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,

Tender, and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said,
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed-
-Oh! when wilt thou return?

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"Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, Our yirgins dance beneath the shade."


Io! they come, they come!
Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home;
Bring roses, pour ye wine!


Swell, swell the Dorian flute,
Thro' the blue triumphal sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
The Sons of Victory!



With the offering of bright blood,
They have ransomed hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field and flood;

Io! they come, they come !


Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave,-
Sing, sing, the land is free!


Mark ye the flashing oars,

And the spears that light the deep?

How the festal sunshine pours

Where the lords of battle sweep!


Each hath brought back his shield ;,--
Maid, greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
Io! thy son is come!


Who murmured of the dead?
Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
Lies in its glory low.


Breathe not those names to-day!
They shall have their praise ere long,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song.


But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine!
lo! they come, they come!


"I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ?” "Not there, not there, my child?

"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?— Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?" "Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"


DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dash'd it out.-There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip,- he touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded;-forth from those blue eyes

There spake a wishful tenderness,—a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids

For ever; there had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear

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