Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!

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-
A charmèd fountain, swift,

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,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky,
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh, guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight called unto household mirth,
By the fairy tale or the legend old

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,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray
From the pure first loves of its youth away—

When the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home-
Think thou again of the woody glade,

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
Spreads kindling fast and far;

And yet that splendour wins thee not-
Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark distant spot
Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee! o'er the slumbering deep
A solemn glory broods;

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,
And all the golden woods;

A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn with the amber light!-
What spell from that rich pageantry
Chains down thy gazing sight?

"A softening thought of human cares,
A feeling linked to earth!

Is not yon speck a bark which bears
The loved of many a hearth?

Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear
Crowd her frail world even now,
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear
Follow her venturous prow?

"Bright are the floating clouds above,
The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love
To kindred weal and woe.
Therefore, amidst this wide array

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
O'er each fair sleeping brow:
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where Southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee;

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!