The Dead. HE who hath bent him o'er the dead (Before Decay's effacing fingers Hath swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And marked the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, Mortua. Qualis inhaeret amans qui lumina clausit amatae, cum trahitur damno prima recente dies, prima dies tenebrarum, orbati prima silenti, summa laborantis speque metuque precis, ante resolvendae quam signa morantia formae tabida Persephones audet obire manus: ora velut placidae cernit clementia divae non enarrandum pacis habere iubar; The fix'd yet tender traits that streak That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! LORD BYRON, purpureae cernit vestigia mollia lucis tingere languentes, nec maculare, genas. quin nisi quod maerens oculis obducitur umbra, qui face, qui fletu blanditiisque carent; nescius humano nisi quod mollescere luctu ille rigor durae marmora frontis habet, unde reformidans gelidae contagia mortis horret, et horrescens, quod timet, orbus amat ; cetera paulisper possitve beatus in horam credere Plutonis non domuisse minas: tanta quies, tam dulce silens componit honestas quod suprema dies fertque rapitque decus. non alius decor hac etiam spectatur in ora: Graecia, sed non iam Graecia viva, manes. THE DREAM. A CHANGE came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects: he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer ; There was a mass of many images |