Felicia Hemans

“ Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!
For the most lov'd are they,
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice
In regal halls!—the shades o'erhang their way,
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps!—till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. ”

“ Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell
Of those majestick hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale?
They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found
Their echoes midst the mountains!—and become
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!
They of the daring thought!
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied ”

“ And the world knows not then,
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,
The long-remember'd dead! ”