Lo! a grey and rustic tomb

Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, -"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

There is many a summer sound

That pale sepulchre around;

Through the shade young birds are glancing,

Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;

Glimpses of blue festal skies

Pouring in when soft winds rise;

Violets o'er the turf below

Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own

O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note

Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day:

Something, dimly from those old words felt,
-"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?

No! from that bright band of morn,
Not one link hath yet been torn;
'Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer-bloom,
O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
'Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

II. THE WANDERING WIND.

THE Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,

Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass ?

Or is it from the voices

Of all in one combined,

That it wins the tone of mastery?
The Wind, the wandering Wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low.

They are not of the waters,

Nor of the cavern'd hill:
'Tis the human love within us

That gives them power to thrill.
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,

And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the wind, the Wandering Wind!

III.-YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.

YE are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading

The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot; There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding, The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water,
O lily! whence the cup of pearl is gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.

And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving

The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd; Cradled ye were, fair flowers! 'midst all things loving, A joy to all-yet, yet, ye are not miss'd!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list, Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, To say-earth's human flowers not more are miss'd.

IV.-WILLOW SONG.

WILLOW! in thy breezy moan,

I can hear a deeper tone;

Through thy leaves come whispering low Faint sweet sounds of long ago.

Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old

Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough

Leaves to cool his burning brow. Willow, sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!

Many a lute its last lament

Down thy moonlight stream hath sent: Willow, sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on!
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,

And for love, whose heart hath bled,

5*

Ever, willow, willow!

V.-LEAVE ME NOT YET.

LEAVE me not yet-through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!

Not yet!-oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise;
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies:

Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love! By day shut up in their own still recess,

They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness: Leave me not yet!

VI. THE ORANGE BOUGH.

OH! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!

Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.