THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. Echoes of song-the last sweet sounds of life Borne on the battling waves of love and death, "I go, I go! Thou sun, thou golden sun, I go Far from thy light to dwell: 215 Thou shalt not find my place below, Dim is that world-bright sun of Greece, farewell! "The laurel and the glorious rose O'er the dark wave I haste from them and thee. "Yet doth my spirit faint to part? Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart, "Let not a voice of weeping rise- Let the green earth and festal skies "For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord! Thee, my soul's loved! I die; Thine is the torch of life restored, Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory! "Now may the boundless love, that lay In one consuming burst find way, "Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now, Its glory and its might— Are they not written on my brow? "No! deathless in thy faithful breast, Its own bright altar-place of rest, "Oh, the glad light!-the light is fair, And rich notes fill the scented air, And all are gifts—my love's last gifts to thee! THE HOME OF LOVE. 217 "Take me to thy warm heart once more! Night falls-my pulse, beats low: Seek not to quicken, to restore— Joy is in every pang-I go, I go! "I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, Keen is the strife of love and death; "Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, Though mists o'ershade mine eye! -Sing, Pæan! sing a conqueror's song! For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die!" THE HOME OF LOVE. THOU mov'st in visions, love!-Around thy way, E'en through this world's rough path and changeful day, For ever floats a gleam, Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn, Love, shall I read thy dream?-oh! is it not Yes! lone and lowly is that home; yet there Something that mellows and that glorifies, E'en like the soft and spiritual glow, The very whispers of the wind have there Where none have said farewell!—where no decay And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, There would'st thou watch the homeward step, whose sound Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, There by the hearth should many a glorious page, From mind to mind the immortal heritage, For thee its treasures pour; Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, And the rich unison of mingled prayer, THE HOME OF LOVE. Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, 219 There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come To mar the stillness of that angel-home; There should thy slumbers be Weigh'd down with honey-dew, serenely bless'd, Love, Love! thou passionate in joy and woe! Gifts of infinity! Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love! Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued, Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill |