Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom
Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.
They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee !
They who thy wreath and pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.
They fear'd not death! - yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
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
So still a night, a night of summer, lies!
Had they seen aught like thee? - Did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd:
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge!
Oh? happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power
Came by a look so tranquilly divine!
Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!
But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we for loftier faith is ours!
Their gems were lost in ashes - yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array'd
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
But for a time, its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
-Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath
When living light hath touch'd the brow of death?
THE bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll'd on;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death for those who mourn ? He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass'd the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train;
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair
He never smiled again!
He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney's victor crown'd,
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again.
Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour'd,
And stranger's took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years
He never smiled again!
I COME,
I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains;
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
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