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ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

And was thy home, pale wither'd thing,

Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, The winds, and suns of glorious Italy ?

Those suns in golden light, e'en now,

Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,

May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.

Thy place is void—oh! none on earth,

This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

45

Another leaf ere now hath

sprung,
On the green stem which once was thine-
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ?

FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY RESTING

ON A SKULL.

CREATURE of air and light,
Emblem of that which may not fade or die,

Wilt thou not speed thy flight,
To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky?

What lures thee thus to stay,

With Silence and Decay,
Fix'd on the wreck of cold Mortality ?

The thoughts once chamber'd there,
Have gather’d up their treasures, and are gone-

Will the dust tell us where
They that have burst the prison-house are flown?

Rise, nursling of the day,
If thou wouldst trace their

way-
Earth hath no voice to make the secret known.

A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

47

Who seeks the vanish'd bird
By the forsaken nest and broken shell ?-

Far thence he sings unheard,
Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell.

Thou of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn!
Thy hope calls heaven-ward from yon ruin'd cell.

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.

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