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.

gone;

They sleep!-th' Olympic wreaths are dead,
Th' Athenian lyres are hush'd and
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 deemly 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 pean 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 harvest 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,

Breath'd 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.

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

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' invader's heart with secret fear, And from the Sybil-grottoes, wild and lone, Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce

career,

From his bold hand have struck the banner and the

spear.

The shrine hath sunk!—but thou unchanged art there!

Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams! Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant air,

With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, And all thy founts of song! their bright course

teems

With inspiration yet; and each dim haze,

Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems As with its mantle veiling from our gaze

The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!

Away, vain phantasies!—doth less of power Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, Though in deep stillness now, the ruin's flower Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast? -Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest!

Let the great rocks their solitude regain!

No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest With their full chords :-but silent be the strain! Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eternal's reign ! *

THE FESTAL HOUR.

WHEN are the lessons given

That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe While the friend sleeps! When falls the traitor's blow?

When are proud sceptres riven,

High hopes o'erthrown?—It is when lands rejoice,
When cities blaze and lift th' exulting voice,
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!

Fear ye the festal hour!

When mirth o'erflows, then tremble !-'Twas a night Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light,

When through the regal bower

The trumpet peal'd, ere yet the song was done,
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon,
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.

The marble shrines were crown'd:

Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky,

This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine.