Felicia Hemans

“ Still tend their garden-bower,
And call them back, the holy Dead,
To each lone hour!
The holy Dead!—oh! blest we are,
That we may name them so,
And to their spirits look afar,
Through all our woe! ”

“ To the gladness of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain-solitudes!
IX.
—But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own free air,
There are young sweet voices borne—
Oh! should not thine be there? ”

“ Be but a mournful sound,
Tho' by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.
Tho' for their sakes this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never marked before,
Brood o'er each tree ”

“ That waits thee with immortal air—
Lift, lift those anxious eyes!
VIII.
Oh! how like thee, thou trembler!
Man's spirit fondly clings,
With timid love, to this, its world
Of old familiar things! ”

“ ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.
Byron.
I.
Io! they come, they come!
Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home ”