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Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see
Lift the heart and bend the knee !


I come, I come! ye have call’d me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song !
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the south, and the chesnut

By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ;
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.

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Oh! hadst thou still on earth remain’d,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stain'd

With passion or with grief !
Now not a sullying breath can rise,
To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom

Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath, Each glowing season shall combine

Its incense there to breathe ; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,
And bear from thine own world of rest,

Some balm for human woes !
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine, to messenger of Heaven?

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest-tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.

They fear'd not death !—yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ?
Doth he bestow, or will be leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer, lies !

Had they seen aught like thee ?-Did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
-His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d!
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power
Came by a look, so tranquilly divine !
-Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!

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