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VI.

No echoes that will blend

A sadness with the rustlings of the grove;

No memory of a friend

Far off, or dead, or chang'd to thee, thou Dove!

VII.

Oh! to some cool recess

Take, take me with thee on the summer-wind!
Leaving the weariness,

And all the fever of this life behind:

VIII.

The aching and the void

Within the heart whereunto none reply,
The early hopes destroyed-

Bird bear me with thee thro' the sunny sky.

IX.

Wild wish, and longing vain,

And brief upspringing to be glad and free!
Go to thy woodland reign!

My soul is bound and held-I may not flee.

X.

For even by all the fears

And thoughts that haunt my dreams-untold, unknown, And by the woman's tears

Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone;

XI.

Had I thy wings, thou Dove!

High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,

Soon the strong cords of love

Would draw me earthwards-homewards-yet once

more!

190

THE VOICE OF HOME.

THE VOICE OF HOME.

TO THE PRODIGAL.

OH! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?

The summer-birds are calling,
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling,
With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-veined flowers,
'Midst the banks of moss and fern,`
Breathe of the sunny hours-

But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wandered long
From thy home without a guide,
And thy native woodland song

In thine altered heart hath died.

Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring,
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return?
Sweet dews may freshen soon
"The flower within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O'er the image of the sky

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again

To the gladness of the woods, To the birds' triumphant strain, To the mountain-solitudes!

-But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own free air,

There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there ?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee,
And by thy smile restored,
Joy round the hearth shall be.

Still hath thy mother's eye,
Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,
Tender, and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said,
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed-

-Oh when wilt thou return?

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With the offering of bright blood,
They have ransomed hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;

Io! they come, they come !

IV.

Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave,-
Sing, sing, the land is free!

V.

Mark ye the flashing oars,

And the spears that light the deep?

How the festal sunshine pours

Where the lords of battle sweep!

VI.

Each hath brought back his shield;--
Maid, greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
Io! thy son is come!

VII.

Who murmured of the dead?
Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
Lies in its glory low.

VIII.

Breathe not those names to-day!
They shall have their praise ere long,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song.

IX.

But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine !
Io! they come, they come !

THE BETTER LAND.

"I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! oh, where that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?" "Not there, not there, my child!" 17

VOL. II.

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