Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, Had burden'd her full soul. But now, oh! now, Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, The soft pure air Came floating through that hall--the Grecian air, Borne on the battling waves of love and death, "I go, I go ! Thou sun! thou golden sun! I go Far from thy light to dwell: Thou shalt not find my place below, Dim is that world-bright sun of Greece, farewell! "The laurel and the glorious rose Thy glad beam yet may see; O'er the dark wave I haste from them and thee. "Yet doth my spirit faint to part? -I mourn thee not, O sun! Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart: Sing me triumphal songs !-my crown is won! "Let not a voice of weeping rise My heart is girt with power! Let the green earth and festal skies Laugh, as to grace a conqueror's closing hour! "For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord! Thee, my soul's loved! I die; Thine is the torch of life restored, Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory! "Now may the boundless love, that lay Unfathom'd still before, In one consuming burst find wayIn one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! "Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now! Its glory and its might Are they not written on my brow? And will that image ever quit thy sight? "No! deathless in thy faithful breast, There shall my memory keep Its own bright altar-place of rest, While o'er my grave the cypress branches weep. "Oh, the glad light !—the light is fair, The soft breeze warm and free; And all are gifts-my love's last gifts to thee! "Take me to thy warm heart once more! Night falls-my pulse beats low: Joy is in every pang. I go, I go ! "I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, I meet thy fond look still; Keen is the strife of love and death; Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. "Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, Though mists o'ershade mine eye! -Sing, Paan! sing a conqueror's song! For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die !" THE HOME OF LOVE. THOU mov'st in visions, Love! Around thy way, But the green peaceful world that never sorrow'd, Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swellThe world of leaves, and dews, and summer air! Look on these flowers! as o'er an altar shedding, O'er Milton's page, soft light from colour'd urns! They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding, When to her breast the prodigal returns. They are from lone wild places, forest dingles, Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream, Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers; -Too richly dower'd, O friend! are we for sad ness Look on an empire-mind and nature-ours! ["The brightly associated hours' she passed with Mrs Lawrence, have been alluded to by Mrs Hemans, in the dedication to the National Lyrics,' and recorded by her friend, and the sister of her friend, Colonel D'Aguilar,' in her own affectionate Recollections.' The Books and Flowers' of Wavertree Hall were ever fondly identified with their dear mistress; and, years after the enjoyment of them had passed away from all senses but memory, she who was then herself, too, passing away,' thus tenderly alluded to them from her sick couch at Redesdale :- When I write to you, my imagination always brightens, and pleasant thoughts of lovely flowers, and dear old books, and strains of antique Italian melody, come floating over me, as Bacon says the rich scents go to and fro like music in the air.""] ing, Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies? Bright guests! even such as left of yore their dwelling For the deep cedar-shades of Paradise! What. strain? Oh! not the nightingale's, when, showering Her own heart's life-drops on the burning lay, She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, And pours her strength, but not her grief, away: And not the exile's-when, midst lonely billows, He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung, Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung: And not the pilgrim's-though his thoughts be holy, And sweet his avè-song when day grows dim; Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, Something of sadness floats through that low hymn. But thou !-the spirit which at eve is filling This is the soul of thy rich harmony. |