Aye, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstain'd what there they found-Freedom to worship God! THE VOICE OF SPRING. I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 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 streams and founts I have loosed the chain, They are sweeping on to the silvery main, Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, But ye!-ye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features pass'd! There is that come over your brow and eye, Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yetOh! what have you look'd on since last we met? Ye are changed, ye are changed!—and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanish'd year! There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light, There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dull decay! There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality! Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?— Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last! I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!But I know of a land where there falls no blight, I shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell! The summer is coming, on soft winds borne, Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more; ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. ROME, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow'd at thy feet. They that thy mantle wore, Rome! thine imperial brow What hast thou left thee now?→ Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar With color'd light. Thou hast the sunset's glow, Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress bough, Temple and tower! And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night o'er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell, On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there. |