THE FUNERAL GENIUS; AN ANCIENT STATUE. "Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le répos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." VISCONTI, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal. THOU shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed, They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee! As that of one, by music's dreamy close, They fear'd not death!-yet who shall say his touch Had they seen aught like thee?-Did some fair boy Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour -Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, -21 In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Is it for us a darker gloom to shed O'er its dim precincts?-do we not intrust -Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, THE TOMBS OF PLATEA. FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. AND there they sleep!-the men who stood And bathed their spears in Persian blood, They sleep!-th' Olympic wreaths are dead, They sleep, and seems not all around Silence is on the battle-ground, The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. And stars are watching on their height, Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud. And thou, pale night-queen! here thy beams Nor look they down on shining streams, Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, But o'er a dim and boundless waste, And be it thus!-what slave shall tread Let deserts wrap the glorious dead, When their bright Land sits weeping o'er her chains: Here, where the Persian clarion rung, From year to year swell'd on by liberty! Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, Save of the leader's charging word, Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. THERE have been bright and glorious pageants here, Where now grey stones and moss-grown columns lie; There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear, Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh: There have been voices, through the sunny sky, And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody, With incense clouds around the temple blending, And throngs with laurel-boughs, before the altar bending. There have been treasures of the seas and isles Brought to the day-god's now-forsaken throne; Thunders have peal'd along the rock-defiles, When the far-echoing battle-horn made known That foes were on their way!-the deep-wind's moan Hath chill'd th' invaders heart with secret fear And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone, 1A single tree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive picture. |