THE DISTANT SHIP.

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,
Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,

On thy soft air

Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the south's rich gift
Of sudden song-
A charm'd fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien :-

Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!

177

THE DISTANT SHIP.

HE see-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast
Shoots like a glancing star,

While the red radiance of the West
Spreads kindling fast and far;
And yet that splendor wins thee not-
Thy still and thoughtful eye

Dwells but on one dark distant spot
Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep,

A solemn glory broods;

A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,

And all the golden woods;

A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn with the amber light!-
What spell, from that rich pageantry,
Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares,
A feeling link'd to earth!

Is not yon speck a bark which bears
The loved of many a hearth?

Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear,
Crowd her frail world even now,

And manhood's prayer and woman's tear
Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above.
The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love
To kindred weal and woe.
Therefore amidst this wide array
Of glorious things and fair,
My soul is on that bark's lone way-
For human hearts are there.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd—
Silent they lie with the deserts round!

We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regain'd its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome,"
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ?--
"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt-
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!"
O joyous birds, it hath still been so ;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep:
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

66

'A change we have found there-and many a change Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange!

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,

And the young that were have a brow of care,
And the place is hush'd where the children play'd
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?

GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.-MOZART'S REQUIEM 179

Ye over desert and deep have pass'd-
So may we reach our bright home at last!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee;-
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth-

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, O earth!

MOZART'S REQUIEM.

A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger, of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an

omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he la bored to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.]

"These birds of Paradise but long to flee

Back to their native mansion."

A REQUIEM!-and for whom?
For beauty in its bloom?

Prophecy of Donte

For valor fallen-a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?
Not so it is not so!

The warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;
A solemn funeral air,

It call'd me to prepare,

And my heart answer'd secretly-my own!

One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain,

Mighty the troubled spirit to inthrall!
And let me breathe my dower
Of passion and of power

Full into that deep lay-the last of all!

The last-and I must go
From this bright world below,

This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound!
Must leave its festal skies,

With all their melodies,

That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long:

Too restless and too strong

Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame;
Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o'er me sent,

Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,
Which none may stay or bind,

The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
I strive with yearnings vain

The spirit to detain

Of the deep harmonies that past me rol!!

Therefore disturbing dreams

Trouble the secret streams

And founts of music that o'erflow my breası,
Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine,

Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest.

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

Shall I then fear the tone

That breathes from worlds unknown ?

Surely these feverish aspirations there

Shall grasp their full desire,

And this unsettled fire

Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

One more then, one more strain;
To earthly joy and pain

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!
I pour each fervent thought,

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught,
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.

181

THE IMAGE IN LAVA*

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony?

Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image,
Thus fearfully enshrined,

Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb
Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impress'd,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!

Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish'd

Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, nought remain'd

But thorns on which to lean.

*The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

VOI., II-16