Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant's blood was pour'd:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer's sword!

Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!

ELYSIUM.

"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal Regions.”- -CHATEAUBRIAND, Génie du Christianisme.

FAIR wert thou in the dreams

Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,
Where, as they pass'd, bright hours

Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,

A swell of deep Eolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh,

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky

Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain.
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,

And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewild'ring music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,

Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel?

Call'd from the dim procession of the dead,

Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,

And listen to the swell

Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale

The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise,

With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays

Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound,

And in all regions found

Their echoes 'midst the mountains !—and become

In man's deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!

Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied

Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought

The soul's far birthplace-but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died,

And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams.

But the most loved are they

Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls!—the shades o'erhang their way, The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps; till silently they die,

As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And these-of whose abode,

'Midst her green valleys, earth retain'd no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,

A shade of sadness on some kindred face,

A dim and vacant place

In some sweet home;-thou hadst no wreaths for these,

Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant at his door

Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head

Thou wert for nobler dead!

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears

Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,
As embers in a burial-urn compress'd;

He might not be thy guest!

No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,

Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,

Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before the mother lay,

E'en so to pass away,

With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land!

For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown
Which, in its clear eye, shone

Like spring's first wakening! but that light was past—
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds play'd,

Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!

Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep!

Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love.'

1 The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs. Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece—

For the most loved are they

Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls! the shades o'erhang their way-
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps; till silently they die,

As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And the world knows not then,

Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men

Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,

The long-remember'd dead!

But not with thee might aught save glory dwell

Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!