THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."

Byron.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
-Oh! void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exil'd thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning—
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning

Unchang'd they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place
Ev'n as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,

Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
-Bow'd be our hearts to think of what we are,
When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star !

7

THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain

And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.
"Twas silent where the free blood gush'd,
When Persia came array'd—

So many a voice had there been hush'd, many a footstep stay'd.

So

I slumber'd on the lonely spot,
So sanctified by Death-

I slumber'd-but my rest was not

As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,

They rose-the chainless dead

All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power,

Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by—

Chas'd to the seas, without his shield I saw the Persian fly.

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast Call'd to another fight—

From visions of our glorious past,

Who doth not wake in might?

TROUBADOUR SONG.

THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam,
For the stormy fields of war-
The maid was left in a smiling home,
And a sunny land afar.

His voice was heard where javelin showers Pour'd on the steel-clad line e;

Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stain'd his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.

Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by,

And again he cross'd the seas;

But she had died, as roses die,

That perish with a breeze.