And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

;

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

MRS. ALEXANDER.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;

And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever pass'd on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth-
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain's crown,
The great procession swept.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land,
We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honour'd place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword;

This, the most gifted poet

That ever breath'd a word; And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen,

On the deathless page truths half so sage

As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honour,—
The hill side for a pall,

To lie in state, while angels wait

With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand in that lonely land

To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffin'd clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the Judgment day,

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heav'n's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.

The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the raven from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.