Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep! As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,* And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, Shine on—my own land is a far distant spot, But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, * Constantine. THE SLEEPER OF 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 gusli'd, When Persia came array'd— So many a voice had there been hush'd, So many a footstep stay'd. I slumberd on the lonely spot So sanctified by death: As theirs who lay beneath. For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power I saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by— I saw the Persian fly. I woke—the sudden trumpet's blast CalPd to another fight— Who doth not wake in might? TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY. What wish can Friendship form for thee Thy path from every thorn is free, Life hath no purer joy in store, Time hath no sorrow to efface; Hope cannot paint one blessing more Than memory can retrace! Some hearts a boding fear might own, Since many an eye by tears alone, And there are virtues oft conceal* d, As odorous trees no balm will yield, But fear not thou the lesson fraught With Sorrow's chast ning power to know; Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught, "To melt at others' woe." Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, Ah! why should Virtue dread the storm. WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM OF THE SAME. What first should consecrate as thine, With many a sweet and playful line, It should be, what a loftier strain WThat never yet was pour'd in vain,— For kindness, which hath soothed the hour And oft, with its beguiling power, Long shall that fervent blessing rest On thee and thine, and heavenwards borne, Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, TO THE SAME—ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER. Say not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear, But grief will claim her hour,—and He, whose eye Looks pitying down on nature's agony, He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep, Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep! He, too, hath wept—and sacred be the woes Once borne by him, their inmost source who knows, Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring Celestial healing on its dove-like wing! And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke, |