Those ribs that held the mighty heart, For he was fresher from the hand In nearer kindred than our race. In many a flood to madness tossed, But met them, and defied their wrath. Then they were kind-the forests here, A tribute to the net and spear Of the red ruler of the shade. Fruits on the woodland branches lay, Roots in the shaded soil below, The stars looked forth to teach his way, The still earth warned him of the foe. A noble race! but they are gone, Fields where their generations sleep. Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, Upon their fields our harvest waves, Our lovers woo beneath their moon Then let us spare at least their graves ! MIDSUMMER. A SONNET. A POWER is on the earth and in the air, Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird hath sought his tree, the snake his den, The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town: As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. THE GREEK PARTISAN. OUR free flag is dancing In the free mountain air, And fearless is the little train Whose gallant bosoms shield it ; The blood that warms their hearts shall stain Where those stern men are meeting. |