With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But yeye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features pass'd! There is that come over your brow and eye,

Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! -Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet―

Oh! what have ye

look'd on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!—and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanish'd year;

There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,

Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light,
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay

No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;

There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!

Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?
-Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!

-But I know of a land where there falls no blight,
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne,

Ye may press the

grape, ye may bind the corn!

For me, I depart to a brighter shore,

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more.

I go where the loved who have left you dwell,

And the flowers are not death's-fare ye well, farewell!

NOTE.

The following is an extract from a letter of Mrs. Hemans. "There is one line in the poem of Elysium which I should wish altered; it is the third of the fifth stanza, I should like it to stand thus:

Who, call'd and sever'd from the countless dead,"

The alteration was accidentally omitted, in reprinting the poem, in this volume.

ED.

WITH

OTHER POEMS.

BY FELICIA HEMANS.

-Mightier far

Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distrest,

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast.

WORDSWORTH.

Das ist das Loos des Schönen auf der Erde!

SCHILLER.

BOSTON :

HILLIARD, GRAY, LITTLE, AND WILKINS.

1828.