Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring;
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return ?-
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O'er the image of the sky,

Which the lake's clear bosom wore,

Darkly may shadows lie

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again

To the freedom of the woods, To the birds' triumphant strain, To the mountain solitudes !

But when wilt thou return?

Along thine own pure air

There are young sweet voices borneOh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee;

And, by thy smile restored,

Joy round the hearth shall be.

Still hath thy mother's eye,

Thy coming step to greet,

A look of days gone by,
Tender and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said,
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed-
Oh! when wilt thou return?

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh, well may their hearts rejoice!—
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice:
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath, And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,

Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell,

To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the din from the city borne
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequer'd earth:
Each unto light hath a daily birth;
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awaken us all:
One!-but to sever'd and distant dooms,
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs ?

THE BREEZE FROM SHORE.

["Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings; and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life."-CHANNING.

Joy is upon the lonely seas,
When Indian forests pour

Forth, to the billow and the breeze,
Their odours from the shore;
Joy, when the soft air's fanning sigh
Bears on the breath of Araby.

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep

Where, far away, the jasmines dwell,
And where the myrrh-trees weep!
Blest on the sounding surge and foam
Are tidings of the citron's home!

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, midst the waves, to greet
The fair earth's messengers,

That woo him, from the moaning main,
Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade,

And fount's bright gleam, in island vales
Of golden-fruited shade:

Across his lone ship's wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring.

And, O ye masters of the lay!
Come not even thus your songs
That meet us on life's weary way,
Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.

Their power is from the brighter clime
That in our birth hath part;

Their tones are of the world, which time
Sears not within the heart:

They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us, with a voice divine,
Back to our early love,-

Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
Whence far and fast we rove.
Welcome high thought and holy strain
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again!

THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.*

"My heart shall be pour'd over thee-and break.

THE spirit of my land,

Prophecy of Dante.

It visits me once more!-though I must die

Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd, My own bright Italy!

It is, it is thy breath,

Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame
Is shaken by the wind,-in life and death

*

Still trembling, yet the same!

Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his deathbed at Paris, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, in his most impassioned poetry.