Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

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
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen

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
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is a spell,

Holy and precious-oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream;
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves

To the wind of noon at thy casement eaves;
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music in the Sabbath chimes;
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight call'd unto household mirth;

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;"
By the smiling eye and the loving tone,

Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!—it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas,
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

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,
They fill'd one home with glee;
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight;-

Where are those dreamers now?

[blocks in formation]

The Sea, the lone blue sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the lov'd of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

-

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

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!
What ages have gone by,

Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony!

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
Thus fearfully enshrined,
Survived the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering

Upon thy mother's breast,

When suddenly the fiery tomb
Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange dark fate o'ertook thee,
Fair babe, and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs -
Yet better than to part!

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,
To gaze on this rude monument,
Cast in affection's mould.

Love, human love! what art thou?
Thy print upon the dust
Outlives the cities of renown,
Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! immortal

Thou art, whose earthly glow
Hath given these ashes holiness

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.

« AnteriorContinuar »