Thanks to thy lyre! she liveth yet, Who shone o'er all thy slumbers: At LAURA's shrine was given, Yet was her life-lot severed far From thine as earth and heaven! And thou, the crowned of Rome-gifted and great-Stood in thy glory still alone and desolate! James Gordon Brooks. GREECE IN 1832. LAND of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned, And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Where proudly it hath swept before? No! coward souls, the light which shone With helmet shattered-spear in rust- Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom? Tyrants have trampled on the clay Where Death hath hushed them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; And Fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living, but the dead! But 'tis the dim, sepu'chral light Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance- In might in majesty revealed. In vain, in vain the hero calls— In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud: Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, Of Ignorance hath brooded long, Thy sun hatn set-the evening storm To blast the beauty of thy form, And spread its pall upon the sky! Gone is thy glory's diadem, And Freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! I Mary E. Brooks. DREAM OF LIFE. HEARD the music of the wave, As it rippled to the shore, And saw the willow-branches lave, That did the torrent span; From the youthful heart of man. The wave rushed on-the hues of heaven Fainter and fainter grew, And deeper melodies were given As swift the changes flew : I saw him not; only a throng Like the swell of troubled ocean, Rising, sinking, swept along In the tempest's wild commotion⚫ There was a rush upon my brain, Flowers, music, gems, were flung o'er all, Then in its mist, far, far away, SONG. "Cone while with wine the goblets flow, For wine, they say, has power to bless; And flowers, too—not roses, no! Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness! "A lethè for departed bliss, And each too well remembered scene: Earth has no sweeter draught than this, Which drowns the thought of what has been. |