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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,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.

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,
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,

To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay,
With Silence and Decay,

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 ?-
Far thence he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell.
Thou of the sunshine born,

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."

BYRON.

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,
Though thou art exiled thence-
No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ;
And from the silvery sea

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
Ev'n as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bow'd be our hearts to think of what we are,
When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!

THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain
And by the funeral mound,
Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.

'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,
So sanctified by Death-

I slumber'd-but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.
For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,
They rose-the chainless dead-
All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by-
Chased to the seas, without his shield
I saw the Persian fly.

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