The graves, wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;

And fearless was the banquet's mirth,
And free the minstrel's hand;

And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd,

Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant's blood was pour'd:

Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer's sword!

Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,

We still have sword and myrtle bough!

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, Genie du Christianisme.

Fair wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,

Where, as they pass'd, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last

Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep iEolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply

To summer's breezy sigh,
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain

With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewild'ring music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel?
Call'd from the dim,procession of the dead,
Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might
dwell,

And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-note3, and inhale
The spirit wand ring in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound,

And in all regions found Their echoes 'midst the mountains!—and become In man's deep heart as voices of his home!

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 birthplace—but without a guide!

Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams.

But the most loved are they Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls !—the shades o'erhang their way, The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,

And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps; till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And these—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 dim and vacant 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 Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,

As embers in a burial-urn compress'd;

He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd " Liberty!"

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before the mother lay,

E'en so to pass away,
With its bright smilef—Elysium! what wert thou
To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's
brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown

Which, in its clear eye, shone Like spring's first wakening! but that light was past—

Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds play'd, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,

And bade man cease to weep!