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And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Eolian 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 wind's 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 bewildering music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel ?
Who, call’d and sever'd from the countless dead,
Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell,

And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in th’ immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round ! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,

And in all regions found

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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 far birth-place-but without a guide!

Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born ʼmidst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.

But they, 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 void and silent place
In some sweet home;—thou hadst no wreaths for

these, 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

Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
As in the ashes of an 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 its mother lay;

E'en so to pass away,
With its bright smile !Elysium! what.wert thou,
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land ! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life's first flowers just opening in her hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,

Which in its clear eye shone Like the spring's wakening !—but that light was

past-Where went the dew-drop, swept before the


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 !

For 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 the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, that on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,

The long-remember'd dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel !

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“Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur la tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables.”

Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal.

Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls;
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare !
And thou !-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like

these :
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom
Which of the grove seems breathing-not the tomb.

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