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And stars to set—but all,
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 ?

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ?-
They have one seasonall are ours to die !

Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth—and thou art there.

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,

And stars to set-but all-
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 ?
O void unmark'd !—thy sisters of the sky

Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,

Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,

Though thou art exiled thence-
No desert seems to part those urns of light,

Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;

And from the silvery sea
To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning-
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn’d for

thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,

Swept by the wind away?
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,

And was there power to smite them with decay ?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are,

When from its height afar

A world sinks thus—and yon majestic heaven

Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star !

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

“The inviolate Island of the sage and free."-BYRON.

Rocks of my country! let the cloud

Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud
Above the surge

and

spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand,

Breasting the billow's foam :
Oh! thus for ever guard the land,

The sever'd land of home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,

Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,

And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers

Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours,

Hath soothed me with its lay.

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,

The purple heavens of Rome
Yes, all are glorious,—yet again

I bless thee, land of home !

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land !

And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead--the noble band,

That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze,

Their steps are on thy plains; Their names, by old majestic trees,

Are whisper'd round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide

Of thine exulting sea :
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
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green, along the ocean side,
The mounds arise where heroes died ;
But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest !

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake,
Resign'd the bitter cup to take;
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no fountain unto Fame;
No—not a tree the record bears
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew'd
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,
Take root in holy dust below.

Oh, that the many-rustling leaves,
Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be stillid,
With knowledge of their presence fillid,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice ?
-But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be! Like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,

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