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And ever, through thy shades,
To summer's breezy sigh!
breath, Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!
And the transparent sky
With dreams and yearnings vain,
And who, with silent tread,
And listen to the swell
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
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
A void and silent place
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
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
-He might not be thy guest !
Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
E'en so to pass away,
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,
And gentle hearts rejoice
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 !
THE FUNERAL GENIUS;
AN ANCIENT STATUE.
“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
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead