Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! Her lot is on you—to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, THE HOUR OF DEATH. Il est dans la Nature d'aimer à se livrer à l'idée même qu'on redoute." Corinne. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, The banquet hath its hour Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; A time for softer tears-but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee! Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! THE LOST PLEIAD. "Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON. AND is there glory from the heavens departed? Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? No desert seems to part those urns of light, They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning- To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? When from its height afar A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanished star! THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. "The inviolate Island of the sage and free."--BYRON Rocks of my country! let the cloud My spirit greets you as ye stand, I have left rich blue skies behind, The breathings of the myrtle flowers The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their blood hath mingled with the tide Oh, be it still a joy, a pride, To live and die for thee! THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. THE kings of old have shrine and tomb The mounds arise where heroes died; The thousands that, uncheered by praise, By no proud stone Where sleep they, Earth? The still sad glory of their name No-not a tree the record bears Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. Yet haply all around lie strewed The ashes of that multitude: It may be that each day we tread Where thus devoted hearts have bled; And the young flowers our children sow, Oh, that the many-rustling leaves, Which round our homes the summer weaves, Might whisper through the starry sky, Would not our inmost hearts be stilled, Yet what if no light footstep there THE HOUR OF PRAYER. Pregar, pregar, pregar, Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?" ALFIERI. CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, Mother, with thine earnest eye, Traveller, in the stranger's land, Warrior, that from battle won Heaven's first star alike ye see-- THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL. "Von Bäumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern, OH! when wilt thou return LA MOTTE FOUQUE. 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. But when wilt thou return? Oh thou hast wandered long |