And thus it seem'd, in that low thrilling tone,
Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own.
Come, come, come!
Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd
For the step that ne'er return'd;
Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life-
Now the heavy day is done,
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the seal'd heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain,
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness!
We have wept, that weep not now-
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'tis hush'd, tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever thirst is still'd,
All the air with peace is fill'd,-
Come, come, come!
And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay,
She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away!
"How lived, how loved, how died they ?"-Byron. "THE dead! the glorious dead!-and shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes? Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
"Would'st thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array?
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.
"Or would'st thou look upon the lords of song?-
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam! Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow'd for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,
Back from their couch of rest! That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd With peace, if human love hath ever still'd
The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth!-An idle quest is thine;
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf inay blooin; But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowersNever hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hail'd their tomb."
Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.
"Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse."-Madame de Staël
DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conquerors pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,*
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.
Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.
Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre ;
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!
Now afar it rolls-it dies-
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.
All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.
Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot ?—
*The trebly hundred triumphs.-Byron.
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!
"Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life
Making a truth and beauty of its own."
"Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it."
No dower of storied song is thine,
O desolate abode !
Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow'd.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.
Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here
By courtly hands been dress'd,
For princes, from the chase of deer,
Under green leaves to rest;
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.
Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty's lot,
House of quench'd light and silent board!
For me thou needest not.
It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link'd one kindred band.
Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
-A solemnizing breath,
A presence all around thee dwells,
Of human life and death.
I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,
To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.
Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!
Deserted now by all!
Voices at eve here met in mirth
Which eve may ne'er recall.
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And childhood's laughing glee,
And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.
Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd
Upon the infant head,
As if in every fervent word
The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away-
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where nought beloved can stay!
Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept,
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept;
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.
The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been mark'd and mourn'd,
And time hath fill'd the vacant place,
And gladness hath return'd;
Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp'd one by one!
And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.
Is there not cause, then-cause for thought,
Fix'd eye and lingering tread,
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draughts of purer day,
Man's soul, with fi:ful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?
Holy to human nature seems
The long-forsaken spot;
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!
Therefore in silent reverence here,
Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have link'd one household band,
THE MINSTER.
"A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of immortality."-Byron.
SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer;
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