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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 !

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'dSo many a voice had there been hushid,

So many a footstep stay’d.

I slumber'd on the lonely spot,

So sanctified by DeathI slumber'd—but

my

rest was not As theirs who lay beneath. For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,

They rose—the chainless deadAll 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 byChas’d to the seas, without his shield

I saw the Persian fly. I woke-the sudden trumpet's blast

Call'd to another fightFrom 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 warThe 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; Her step was ’midst the summer-flowers,

Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was clest, 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.

As roses die, when the blast is come,

For all things bright and fairThere was death within the smiling home,

How had death found her there?

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