194

CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.

Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall
Upon each other, and in all their bounds
The wailing of the childless shall not cease.
Thine is a war for liberty, and thou
Must fight it single-handed. The old world
Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race,
And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,-
I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale
Of fraud and lust of gain;-thy treasury drained,
And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs

Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand,
And God and thy good sword shall yet work out,
For thee, a terrible deliverance.

JUNE.

I GAZED upon the glorious sky

And the green mountains round; And thought, that when I came to lie Within the silent ground,

'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks sent up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,

The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,

A coffin borne through sleet,

And icy clods above it rolled,

While fierce the tempests beat

Away! I will not think of these-
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,

And be the damp mould gently pressed

Into my narrow place of rest.

There, through the long, long summer hours,

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by.

196

JUNE.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale, close beside my

The idle butterfly

cell;

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife-bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,
Come from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see

The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,

The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;

JUNE.

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,

Is that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear, again, his living voice.

17*

197

THE TWO GRAVES.

'Tis a bleak wild hill,-but green and bright In the summer warmth, and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren, And the dash of the brook from the alder glen; There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, And fresh from the west is the free wind's breathThere is nothing here that speaks of death.

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie,
And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die.
They are born, they die, and are buried near,
Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier;
For strict and close are the ties that bind
In death, the children of human kind;
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,-
'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife.
They are noiselessly gathered-friend and foe--
To the still and dark assemblies below:
Without a frown or a smile they meet,
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet;
In that sullen home of peace and gloom,
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.