'l'hose varied groups the same bright impress bear; One beam an essence of exalting soul Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain And fix them on the stone-thy glorious lot And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a name on earth. Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere A light inherent-let not man despair: SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST SISTER! Since I met thee last, Deep and still a shadow lies; Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught Tell me not the tale, my flower! THE TWO VOICES. Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, "Thou art gone hence " one sang; Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own "Thou art gone hence!—our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise! Never the friend's familiar step to meet With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet Of thy glad eyes." "Thou art gone home, gone home!" then, high and clear, Warbled that other Voice: "Thou hast no tear Again to shed. Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again To bow thy head. "Thou art gone home! oh! early crown'd and blest! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest With aught below? Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, All the bright rose leaves drop from life away--Thrice bless'd to go! 19 Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief--"Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief, So loved should be; 'Thou tak'st our summer hence !-the flower, the tone 'The music of our being, all in one, Depart with thee! "Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled! Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead? The dark unknown? Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall. Thy smile is gone!" Home, home!" once more the exulting Voice arose: 'Thou art gone home!-from that divine repose Never to roam ! Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, (( By the bright waters now thy lot is castJoy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past The rough sa's foam! Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd, Home! home! thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd Thou art gone home!" THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* THOU thing of years departed! Temple and tower have moulder'd. And childhood's fragile image, Babe wert thou brightly slumbering Shut round each gentle guest? A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, Yet better than to part! The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. |