And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When Summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee! Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! THE LOST PLEIAD. "Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON. AND is there glory from the heavens departed?— Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? No desert seems to part those urns of light, 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 turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven ?-Bow'd be our hearts to think on 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 CLIFFS OF DOVER. "The inviolate Island of the sage and free."-Byron. Rocks of my country! let the cloud My spirit greets you as ye stand, I have left rich blue skies behind, The breathings of the myrtle flowers The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! Their voices meet me in thy breeze; Their blood hath mingled with the tide O be it still a joy, a pride, To live and die for thee! THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. THE kings of old have shrine and tomb The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise, Where sleep they, Earth ?-by no proud stone The still sad glory of their name No-not a tree the record bears Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. Yet haply all around lie strew'd The ashes of that multitude: It may be that each day we tread, Where thus devoted hearts have bled; And the young flowers our children sow, Take root in holy dust below. O that the many-rustling leaves, Which round our homes the summer weaves, Or that the streams, in whose glad voice Might whisper through the starry sky, Would not our inmost hearts be still'd, Yet what if no light footstep there |