The willow shade is on the ground,
A green and solitary shade;
many a wild flower on that mound,
Its pleasant summer home has made.
And every breath that waves a leaf,
Flings down upon the lonely flowers
A moment's sunshine, bright and brief —
A blessing looked by passing hours.
Those sweet vague sounds are on the air,
Half sleep, half song, false half, half true,
As if the wind that brought them there
Had touched them with its music too.
It is the very place to dream
Away a twilight's idle rest;
Where Thought floats down a starry stream,
Without a shadow on its breast.
Where Wealth, the fairy gift's our own,
Without its low and petty cares;
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown
To hide the weary face she wears.
Where hopes are high, yet cares come not,
Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea,
Its froth and depth-where Love is what
Love only in a dream can be.
I cannot muse beside that mound
I cannot dream beneath that shade;
Too solemn is the haunted ground
Where Death his resting-place has made.
I feel my heart beat but to think
Each pulse is bearing life away;
I cannot rest upon the grave,
And not feel kindred to its clay.
There is a name upon the stone
Alas! and can it be the same-
The young, the lovely, and the loved?—
It is too soon to bear thy name.
Too soon!-oh no, 'tis best to die
Ere all of life save breath is fled;
Why live when feelings, friends and hopes,
Have long been numbered with the dead?
But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright No check, no soil had either known ; The angel natures of yon sky
Will only be to thee thine own.
Thou knew'st no rainbow hopes that weep
Themselves away to deeper shade;
Nor Love, whose very happiness
Should make the wakening heart afraid.
The green leaves e'en in spring that fall,
The tears the stars at midnight weep,
The dewy wild flowers such as these
Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep.
For human tears are lava drops,
That scorch and wither as they flow: Then let them flow for those who live,
And not for those who sleep below.
Oh, weep for those whose silver chain
Has long been loosed, and yet live on
The doomed to drink of life's dark wave,
Whose golden bowl has long been gone!
Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn,
Dragged downward by some earthly tie,
By some vain hope, some vainer love,
Who loathe to live, yet fear to die.
How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough,
To the rustling 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.
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 't is 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, e'er 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,
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the sounds 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,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.
But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
One, though to severed and distant dooms.
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ?
Mrs. Hemans.
'Tis moonlight over Oman's Sea;
Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,
And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's walls;
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell
Of trumpet, and the clash of zel,
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,
To sing him to his golden rest!
All hushed. there's not a breeze in motion; The shore is silent as the ocean.
If zephyrs come, so light they come,
Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome,
Can hardly win a breath from Heaven.
E'en he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps ;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame
His race hath brought on Iran's name.
Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike
'Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;
One of that saintly, murderous brood,
To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think, through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to Heaven;
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
To mutter o'er some text of God
Engraven on his reeking sword; —
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,
To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart!
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