Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now! In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought; ELYSIUM. "In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions." Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme. FAIR wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, Along the mountains !—but thy golden day And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, And the transparent sky Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony And dim remembrances, that still draw birth And who, with silent tread, Mov'd o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell, Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round! On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, Their echoes 'midst the mountains!-and become They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied; Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought The soul's far birth-place-but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, But they, of whose abode 'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A void and silent place In some sweet home ;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees! The peasant, at his door Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind !-From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head, Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell! The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of nature to decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, E'en so to pass away, With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou, To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow? |