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ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
The winds, and suns of glorious Italy
Those suns in golden light, e'en now,
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,
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,
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,
The thoughts once chamber'd there,
Earth hath no voice to make the secret known.
A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. 47
Who seeks the vanish’d bird
Thy hope calls heaven-ward from yon ruin’d cell.
THE LOST PLELAE).
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”
AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
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—
Unchang'd they rise, they have not mourn’d for thee.