And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, And the transparent sky Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony And dim remembrances, that still draw birth And who, with silent tread, Mov'd o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell, Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale ? They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round! On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, Their echoes 'midst the mountains!-and become They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied; Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought The soul's far birth-place-but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, But they, of whose abode 'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A void and silent place In some sweet home ;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees! The peasant, at his door Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind!-From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head, Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell! The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast -He might not be thy guest! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of nature to decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, E'en so to pass away, With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou, To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow? Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life's first flowers just opening in her hand, Like the spring's wakening!-But that light was past— Not where thy soft winds play'd, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!- Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove, For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice Around their steps!-till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. |