How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame A glory for thy brow!-Dreams, dreams!the fire

Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd-awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad thoughts of me :-I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound,
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,-
Say proudly yet-" "TWAS HERS WHO LOVED ME
WELL!"

ELYSIUM.

FAIR wert thou in the dreams

Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,
Where, as they pass'd, bright hours
Left no vain sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay

And ever, through thy shades,

A swell of deep Æolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh,

And young leaves trembling to the winds light

breath,

Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky

Rung as a dome. all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,

And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewild'ring music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of asphodel?

Call'd from the dim procession of the dead, Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,

And listen to the swell

Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise, [round! With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found

Their echoes 'midst the mountains!-and become In man's deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!

Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied— Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought

The soul's fair birth-place-but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died,

And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams.

But the most loved are they

Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls!-the shades o'erhang their way,
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps; till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And these-of whose abode,

'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face,

A dim and vacant place

[for these,

In some sweet home;-thou hast no wreaths Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant at his door

Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head—

Thou wert for nobler dead!

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,

And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears

Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,

As embers in a burial-urn compress'd;

He might not be thy guest!

No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"

Calm, on its leaf strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,

Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before the mother lay,

E'en so to pass away,

With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou

To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land!

For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand,

And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown

Which, in its clear eye, shone

Like spring's first wakening! but that light was

past

Where went the dew drop swept before the blast'

Not where thy soft winds play'd,

Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade!

From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep!

Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love.

THE DEATH OF CONRADIN.

No cloud to dim the splendor of the day Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm'd the great of yore; Th' imperial ones of earth-who proudly bade Their marble domes e'en Ocean's realm invade.

That race is gone-but glorious Nature here
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career,
And bids these regions of the suns display
Bright hues, surviving empires pass'd away.
The beam of Heaven expands—its kindling
smile

Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle,
Whose image floats, in softer coloring drest,
With all its rocks and vines, on Ocean's breast.
Misenum's cape hath sought the vivid ray,
On Roman streamers there no more to play;
Still, as of old, unalterably bright,
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height,