218 CAPE COLONNA. Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill, Stirring its depths with love. O, in the calm, still hours, The holy Sabbath hours, when sleeps the air, And heaven and earth, decked with her beauteous flowers, Lie hushed in breathless prayer,— Pass ye the proud fane by, The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, CAPE COLONNA. BY GEORGE HILL. 'Tis summer's eve. The winds are still; Their summits veil! where sinks the sun, A monarch to his couch of gold. From them I turn; from isles, along Whose wild and lofty summits driven, The rosy twilight lingers, till They seem to melt and blend with Heaven: Turn to the ruin, lone and dim, That bears the name, and should have crowned The dust of him,* the spirit of Whose song, though mute, is breathed around. Minstrel the thrilling summons of Whose lyre the men of Greece obeyedSoldier! whose charge had freed them, ere His hand had sheathed her battle-blade! Here should his relics rest, beside This time-worn column, gray and rent; His name, his epitaph; the stone, Whereon 'tis graved, his monument. * Byron, whose name is inscribed on one of the columns. W⚫ TO A MOONBEAM BY MARGARET MILLER DAVIDS Aн, whither art straying, thou spirit of lig From thy home in the boundless sky? Why lookest thou down from the empire With that silent and sorrowful eye? Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf, But oh, what pictures of joy or grief, Thou art glancing down on the ocean wave 1 art lighting the prince to his stately couch, d the monk to his midnight prayer. art casting a fretwork of silver rays 222 TO A MOONBEAM. Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade, Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, Thou art looking on those I love! oh, wake And perchance thou art casting this mystic spell On the beautiful land of the blest, Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell, Where the weary have fled to their rest. Oh yes! with that soft and ethereal beam, 'Tis a mission of love, for no threatening shade Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues, And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, And while raising it, melts and subdues. And it whispers compassion; for lo, on thy brow Is the sadness of angels enshrined, |