Vain longings for the dead!—why come they back, With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that, from thy earthly track, Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes! gentle Spring; no sorrow dims thine air, Breath'd by our lov'd ones there! THE SPELLS OF HOME. There blend the ties that strengthen Joy's visits when most brief. Bernard Barton. By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss, where thy childhood played; By the household tree, thro' which thine eye First looked in love to the summer sky; By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Holy and precious-oh! guard it well! By the sleepy ripple of the stream, To the wind of noon at thy casement eaves; By the gathering round the winter hearth, By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told; By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer, and the kind "Good Night;" Over thy life has the spell been thrown. And bless that gift!—it hath gentle might, Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray From the pure first loves of its youth away; When the sullying breath of the world would come O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home, Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made; Think of the tree at thy father's door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night Where are those dreamers now? The Sea, the lone blue sea, hath one, He was the lov'd of all, yet none One sleeps where southern vines are drest, He wrapt his colors round his breast, And one-o'er her the myrtle showers - And parted thus they rest, who play'd They that with smiles lit up the hall And cheer'd with song the hearth, Alas! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh, earth! THE IMAGE IN LAVA. THOU thing of years departed! Since here the mournful seal was set Temple and tower have moulder'd, Empires from earth have pass'd, And woman's heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast! And childhood's fragile image Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Upon thy mother's breast, When suddenly the fiery tomb A strange dark fate o'ertook thee, Happy if that fond bosom, On ashes here impress'd, Thou wert the only treasure, child, Whereon a hope might rest. Perchance all vainly lavish'd Its other love had been; And when it trusted, nought remain'd But thorns on which to lean. Far better then to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and loose thee, precious one, From that impassion'd grasp. Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, Love, human love! what art thou? Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow It must, it must be so! * * The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, was found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. |