No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, E'en so to pass away, With its bright smile !-Elysium! what wert thou Thou hadst no home, green land! Like spring's first wakening! but that light was past— Not where thy soft winds played, Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! Fade with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!1 1 The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs. Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece : For the most loved are they Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice, Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remembered dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- ["Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos THOU shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls It hath too fitful and too wild a glare! And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Were crowned of old, with pale spring flowers like these: As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, They feared not death!—yet who shall say his touch Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much Of tender beauty as thy features wear? Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes Had they seen aught like thee?-Did some fair boy ZN But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed : Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Is it for us a darker gloom to shed O'er its dim precincts?-do we not intrust And strew immortal seed upon the dust? ---Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, When living light hath touched the brow of death? THE TOMBS OF PLATEA. FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. AND there they sleep!-the men who stood And bathed their spears in Persian blood, They sleep!-the Olympic wreaths are dead, Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on. They sleep, and seems not all around The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. And stars are watching on their height, But dimly seen through mist and cloud, And still and solemn is the light Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud And thou, pale night-queen! here thy beams Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, But o'er a dim and boundless waste, But by his dust, amidst the solitude. And be it thus !-What slave shall tread Let deserts wrap the glorious dead, When their bright land sits weeping o'er her chains : Here, where the Persian clarion rung, And where the Spartan sword flashed high, From year to year swelled on by liberty! Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, Save of the leader's charging word, Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. THERE have been bright and glorious pageants here, Where now grey stones and moss-grown columns lie; There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear, Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh: There have been voices, through the sunny sky, And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody, With incense-clouds around the temple blending, And throngs with laurel-boughs, before the altar bending. 1 A single tree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive picture. There have been treasures of the seas and isles Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career, The shrine hath sunk!--but thou unchanged art there! Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days! Away, vain phantasies !-doth less of power -Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest! No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest Thou hast a mightier voice to speak the Eternal's reign!1 1 THE FESTAL HOUR. WHEN are the lessons given That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe High hopes o'erthrown?—It is when lands rejoice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven! Fear ye the festal hour! When mirth o'erflows, then tremble !-'Twas a night The trumpet pealed, ere yet the song was done, The marble shrines were crowned: Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 1 This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine. |