THE FUNERAL GENIUS;

AN ANCIENT STATUE.

"Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le répos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables."

VISCONTI,

Description des Antiques du Musée Royal.

THOU shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls-
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!

And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring flowers like
these:

Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze :
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom
Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest tree,

As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.

They fear'd not death!-yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer, lies!

Had they seen aught like thee?-Did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
-His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd:
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power
Came by a look so tranquilly divine!

-Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!

But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
VOL. III.

-21

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we-for loftier faith is ours!
Their gems were lost in ashes-yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array'd,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed

O'er its dim precincts?-do we not intrust
But for a time, its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?

-Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch'd the brow of death?

THE TOMBS OF PLATEA.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

AND there they sleep!-the men who stood
In arms before th' exulting sun,

And bathed their spears in Persian blood,
And taught the earth how freedom might be won.

They sleep!-th' Olympic wreaths are dead,
Th' Athenian lyres are hush'd and gone;
The Dorian voice of song is fled-
Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on.

They sleep, and seems not all around
As hallow'd unto glory's tomb?

Silence is on the battle-ground,

The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.

And stars are watching on their height,
But dimly seen through mist and cloud,
And still and solemn is the light

Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.

And thou, pale night-queen! here thy beams
Are not as those the shepherd loves,

Nor look they down on shining streams,
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves:

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines;
No temple gleaming from the steep,
'Midst the grey olives, or the mountain pines:

But o'er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood,
Where man's departed steps are traced
But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!-what slave shall tread
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains?

Let deserts wrap the glorious dead,

When their bright Land sits weeping o'er her chains:

Here, where the Persian clarion rung,
And where the Spartan sword flash'd high,
And where the pæan strains were sung,

From year to year swell'd on by liberty!

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard,
Until the bonds of Greece be riven,

Save of the leader's charging word,

Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven!

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave!
No vines festoon your lonely tree!'
No harvests o'er your war-field wave,
Till rushing winds proclaim-the land is free!

THE VIEW FROM CASTRI.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

THERE have been bright and glorious pageants here, Where now grey stones and moss-grown columns lie; There have been words, which earth grew pale to

hear,

Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh: There have been voices, through the sunny sky, And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody,

With incense clouds around the temple blending, And throngs with laurel-boughs, before the altar bending.

There have been treasures of the seas and isles Brought to the day-god's now-forsaken throne; Thunders have peal'd along the rock-defiles, When the far-echoing battle-horn made known That foes were on their way!-the deep-wind's moan Hath chill'd th' invaders heart with secret fear And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone,

1A single tree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive picture.