But helms were glancing on the stream, And shields flung back a glorious beam And the mountain-echoes of the land Swell'd through the deep-blue sky; While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die. They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, Nor bade the horn peal out, And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd, Rung with no battle shout! They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire And still sweet flutes, their path around So moved they calmly to their field, Save bearing back the Spartan shield, V. THE URN AND SWORD. THEY sought for treasures in the tomb, They scatter'd far the greensward heap, Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd; -What found they in the home of sleep ?— A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword! An urn, which held the dust of one Who died when hearths and shrines were free A sword, whose work was proudly done Between our mountains and the sea. And these are treasures!-undismay'd, VI. THE MYRTLE BOUGH. STILL green, along our sunny shore, • See Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234. ; The graves, wherein our mighty men Still green it waves! as when the hearth And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd, Still green! as when on holy ground ELYSIU M. "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, Génie du Christianisme. FAIR wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains!-but thy golden day And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by, 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 And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 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-notes, 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! |