The tune that speaks of other times—
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night,
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,-
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,-
Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,-

Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside.
Or lift them unto Heaven.

THE PARTHENON.

FAIR Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep In all their beauty still-and thine is gone! Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd Thy walls; and thou-their fate must soon be thine!

But when shall earth again exult to see

Visions divine like theirs renew'd in aught like thee?

Lone are thy pillars now-each passing gale Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moan'd

That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale
Of the bright synod once above them throned.
Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill,
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have
shared :

Yet art thou honor'd in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared ;

Each hallow'd stone, from rapine's fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet

unborn.

Yes; in those fragments, though by time defaced

And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains All that may charm the enlighten'd eye of taste,

On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. As vital fragrance breathes from every part Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, E'en thus the essential energy of art There in each wreck imperishably glows! The soul of Athens lives in every line, Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine.

Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train,
The holy festival's triumphal throng,
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane,
With many a sacred symbol, move along.
There every shade of bright existence trace,
The fire of youth, the dignity of age;
The matron's calm austerity of grace,
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage;
The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's
proud mien;

Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the

scene.

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,

Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows There e'en the steed, with bold expression

warm,

Is cloth'd with majesty, with being glows.

One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole;

Those varied groups the same bright impress

bear;

One beam an essence of exalting soul

Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair;
And well that pageant of the glorious dead
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled.

O, conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain
The subtle graces, fading as they rise,
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign,
Arrest warm life in all its energies,

And fix them on the stone-thy glorious lot
Might wake ambition's envy, and create
Powers half divine: while nations are forgot,
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish'd
fate!

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
But once beheld, and never to return?
No-we may hail again thy bright career,
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn!
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been
renew'd-

A light inherent-let not man despair:

Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; For still is nature fair, and thought divine, And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

SISTER! Since I met thee last,

O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes,

Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
-Gentle sister, thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art followed by a dream :
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
-Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
'Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest.

-Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!