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Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out, “Oh! undefiled! I am thy mother !-spurn me not, my child !"
Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll’d,
Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late!
TO THE IVY.
OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN
THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.
OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the god of wine,
Companion of the vine ?
Of revelry hath long been o'er;
But now are heard no more.
The Roman, on his battle plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Around the victor's tent;
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,-
Around the victor's grave.
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past,
Where, through the halls of glory goné,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Each record of the grand and fair-
Wreath of the tomb ! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,
Save thy wild tapestry.
To wave where banners waved of yore, O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air, look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Hath pass’d and left no trace.
Unchanged, the mountain-storm can braveThou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.
The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round Grandeur's marble halls ; The vivid hues by painting thrown
Rich o'er the glowing walls ;
Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptured beauty waving fair,These perish all-and what remains ?
Thou, thou alone art there.
'Tis still the same-where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see,
Left to Decay and thee.
August in beauty, grace, and strengthDays pass, thou "Ivy never sere," *
And all is thine at length.
*"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."
Lycidas. ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
And was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, The winds, and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns in golden light, e’en now,
Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,
May cluster in their purple bloom,
Thy place is void-oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.
Another leaf ere now hath sprung,
On the green stem which once was thineWhen shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ?