Thou hast the sunset's glow, And all sweet sounds are thine Lovely to hear, While night o'er tomb and shrine Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell' On thy soft air Lingers and loves to dwell With summer there. Thou hast the South's rich gift Of sudden song- Joyous and strong. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien : Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been ! THE SPELLS OF HOME 167 THE SPELLS OF HOME "There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief."-BERNARD BARTON. By the soft green light in the woody glade, By the sleepy ripple of the stream, To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, By the gathering round the winter hearth, In that ring of happy faces told, By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night!" By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has the spell been thrown. And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might, Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray When the sullying breath of the world would come And the sound by the rustling ivy made Think of the tree at thy father's door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more! THE DISTANT SHIP THE sea-bird's wing o'er ocean's breast Shoots like a glancing star, While the red radiance of the west And yet that splendour wins thee not- Look round thee! o'er the slumbering deep THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD A fire hath touched the beacon-steep, A thousand gorgeous clouds on high "A softening thought of human cares, Is not yon speck a bark which bears Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear "Bright are the floating clouds above, Of glorious things and fair, My soul is on that bark's lone way— For human hearts are there." THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD THEY grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee;Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. 169 The same fond mother bent at night One, midst the forests of the West, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- One sleeps where Southern vines are drest He wrapt his colours round his breast And one-o'er her the myrtle showers And parted thus they rest, who played They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth!— Alas, for love! if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth! |