Who murmured of the dead?

Hush, boding voice! We know

That many a shining head

Lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day!

They shall have their praise e'er long,

And a power all hearts to sway,

In ever-burning song.

But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine-
Io! they come, they come!

NAPLE S.

A SONG OF THE SYREN.

Then gentle winds arose,
With many a mingled close,

Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odour keen;
Where the clear Baian ocean

Welters with air-like motion

Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.

SHELLEY.

STILL is the Syren warbling on thy shore,

Bright City of the Waves!-her magic song

Still, with a dreamy sense of extacy,

Fills thy soft summer's air :—and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er Fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of Sunshine! doth the Syren sing.

"Thine is the glad wave's flashing play, Thine is the laugh of the golden day,

The golden day, and the glorious night,

And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light! -Forget, forget, that thou art not free!

Queen of the summer sea.

"Favored and crowned of the earth and sky!

Thine are all voices of melody,

Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower,

Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower;

Hark! now they melt o'er thy glittering sea;

-Forget that thou art not free!

"Let the wine flow in thy marble halls!
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls!
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough,
And cover with roses thy glowing brow!
Queen of the day and the summer sea,

Forget that thou art not free !"

So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves Dance to her chaunt. But sternly, mournfully,

O city of the deep! from Sybil grots

And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore

Take

up the cadence of her strain alone,

Murmuring-" Thou art not free!"