Your voice to whispers would have died,
For the deep quiet's sake;

Your tread the softest moss have sought,
Such stillness not to break.

What held the countless multitude
Bound in that spell of peace?
How could the ever-sounding life
Amid so many cease?

Was it some pageant of the air

Some glory high above,

That link'd and hush'd those human souls

In reverential love?

Or did some burdening passion's weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe-the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear-the strong fear of death?

A mightier thing-Death, Death himself
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there yet hermits all-
Thousands, but each apart.

THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.'

O EVER joyous band

Of revellers amidst the southern vines !

1 66 Les sarcophages même chez les anciens, ne rappellent que des idées guerrières ou riantes:-on voit des jeux, des danses, representés en bas-relief sur les tombeaux."

Corinne

THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.

On the pale marble, by some gifted hand,
Fix'd in undying lines!

Thou, with the sculptured bowl,

185

And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath,
And thou, from whose young lip and flute, the soul
Of music seems to breathe;

And ye, luxuriant flowers!

Linking the dancers with your graceful ties,
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours,
Under Italian skies:

Ye, that a thousand springs, And leafy summers with their odorous breath, May yet outlast,—what do ye there, bright things! Mantling the place of death?

Of sunlight and soft air,

And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green,
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear;
Why thus, where dust hath been?

Is it to show how slight

The bound that severs festivals and tombs,
Music and silence, roses and the blight,
Crowns and sepulchral glooms?

Or when the father laid

Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep,
When the friend visited the cypress shade,
Flowers o'er the dead to heap;

Say if the mourners sought,

In these rich images of summer mirth,

These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought Of our last hour on earth?

Ye have no voice, no sound,

Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek;
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown'd,
Yet to my soul ye speak.

Alas! for those that lay

Down in the dust without their hope of old! Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day, But all beyond was cold.

Every sweet wood-note then,

And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow, And each glad murmur from the homes of men, Made it more hard to go.

But we, when life grows dim, When its last melodies float o'er our way, Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, Its flitting lights decay;

E'en though we bid farewell

Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees,
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell
'Midst brighter things than these.

And think of deathless flowers,

And of bright streams to glorious valleys given,
And know the while, how little dream of ours
Can shadow forth of Heaven.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE. 187

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.'

COME to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,

And the summer dew to flowers,

And rest to us, is given

By the cool soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;

When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,

And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;

The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

1 "The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sunset tree." See Captain Sherer's interesting Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.

Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round!

And the gale that fans our brows.

But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.

There shall no tempest blow,

No scorching noontide heat; There shall be no more snow,' No weary wandering feet.

So we lift our trusting eyes

From the hills our fathers trode,

To the quiet of the skies,

To the Sabbath of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone,
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

"Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen

Wo kein schnee mehr ist."

SCHILLER'S Nadowessiche Todtenklage.