Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain But who shall teach us when to look for thee ?- Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. THE RELEASE OF TASSO. THERE came a bard to Rome; he brought a lyre Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high; He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth Wild fairy-bowers, and groves of deathless green, And fields, where mail-clad bosoms prove their worth, When flashing swords light up the stormy scene- On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, His numbers had been sung-and in the halls, Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep, It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptur'd walls,— Had princes listen'd to those lofty strains, While the high soul they burst from, pined in chains. And in the summer-gardens, where the spray Oh! if it be that wizard sign and spell, But he was free at last!-the glorious land The winds came o'er his cheek; the soft winds, blending All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh; The orange-groves waved round; the hills were sending Their bright streams down; the free birds darting by, And the blue festal heavens above him bending, As if to fold a world where none could die! And who was he that look'd upon these things? -If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were wings To bear him o'er creation! and whose mind -There was no sound that wander'd through the sky, But told him secrets in its melody. Was the deep forest lonely unto him With all its whispering leaves? Each dell and glade -There is no solitude on earth so deep As that where man decrees that man should weep! But oh! the life in Nature's green domains, The breathing sense of joy! where flowers are springing By starry thousands, on the slopes and plains, And the grey rocks-and all the arch'd woods ringing, And the young branches trembling to the strains And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams, And the low cadence of the silvery sea, And reed-notes from the mountains, and the beams Of the warm sun-all these are for the free! And they were his once more, the bard, whose dreams Their spirit still had haunted.-Could it be That he had borne the chain?-oh! who shall dare To say how much man's heart uncrush'd may bear? So deep a root hath hope!—but woe for this, |