ELYSIUM. "In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions." Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme. FAIR Wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, Along the mountains !—but thy golden day And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death! And the transparent sky Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain And dim remembrances, that still draw birth And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round! On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, 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; Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought The soul's far birth-place-but without a guide! And left the world their high mysterious dreams, But they, of whose abode 'Midst her green valleys earth retain❜d no trace, In some sweet home;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees! The peasant, at his door Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind!-From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head, Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell! The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years, -He might not be thy guest! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of nature to decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, E'en so to pass away, With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou, To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow? Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, Like the spring's wakening!—but that light was past -Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast? Not where thy soft winds play'd, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!- Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove, For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice Around their steps!-till silently they die, And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- |