And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel? Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round! Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found Their echoes 'midst the mountains !-and become They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied— Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, But the most loved are they Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, Around their steps; till silently they die, And these-of whose abode, 'Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace, A dim and vacant place In some sweet home ;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, The peasant at his door Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast He might not be thy guest! 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, 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 appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables.' -VISCONTI, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal.] 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, On the wood violets lulled to deep repose. 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 But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed : Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour -Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, 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 -Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, 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 Nor look they down on shining streams, 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. |