« AnteriorContinuar »
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 ?
FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.
CREATURE of air and light,
Emblem of that which may not fade or die,
To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky?
Fix'd on the wreck of cold Mortality?
The thoughts once chamber'd there, Have gather'd up their treasures, and are goneWill the dust tell us where
They that have burst the prison-house are flown? Rise, nursling of the day,
If thou wouldst trace their way—
Earth hath no voice to make the secret known.
Who seeks the vanish'd bird
By the forsaken nest and broken shell ?-
Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell.
Take the bright wings of morn!
Thy hope calls heaven-ward from yon ruin'd cell:
THE LOST PLEIAD.
"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."
AND is there glory from the heavens departed? —Oh! void unmark’d!—thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning-Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.
Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON.
I LAY upon the solemn plain
'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd, When Persia came array'd—
So many a voice had there been hush'd, So many a footstep stay'd.
I slumber'd on the lonely spot,
I slumber'd-but my rest was not
I saw their spears, on that red field,