THE DEPARTED.

Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise-the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre.

AND shrink

ye

from the way

BRYANT.

To the spirit's distant shore ?—

Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array,

Are thither gone before.

The warrior kings, whose banner

Flew far as eagles fly,

They are gone where swords avail them not,

From the feast of victory.

And the seers who sat of yore

By orient palm or wave,

They have pass'd with all their starry lore

We fear! we fear!-the sunshine

Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not of the buried kings,
Nor the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink!-the bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burn,

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise,

For the land whence none return.

They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,

From the love of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng

Of the earth's departed flowers,

And the masters of the mighty song

In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy,

But they vanquish not our fear;

Not from our path those flowers are gone—
We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

As the last leaves on the bough!—

Ye have lov'd the light of many a smile,

That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks that now are still,

There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.

Soft eyes are seen no more,

That made spring-time in your heart;

Kindred and friends are gone before-
And ye still fear to part?

We fear not now, we fear not!

Though the way thro' darkness bends;

Our souls are strong to follow them,

Our own familiar friends!

THE PALM-TREE.*

IT wav'd not thro' an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fann'd by southern breeze

In some green isle of Indian seas,
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exil'd Palm-tree grew
Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Thro' the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

* This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of "Les Jardins."