And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel?

Who, call'd and sever'd from the countless dead,

Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell,

And listen to the swell

Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale

The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nation's feasts, went round!

They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,

And in all regions found Their echoes 'midst the mountains! and become

In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied; Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought

The soul's far birth-place-but without a guide!

Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysteri

ous dreams,

Born, 'midst the olive-woods by Grecian

streams.

But they, of whose abode 'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd

no trace,

Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,

A shade of sadness on some kindred face,

A void and silent place

In some sweet home; thou hadst no wreaths for these,

Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant, at his door Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread,

dear,

The child at rest before its mother lay; E'en so to pass away,

With its bright smile! - Elysium! what wert thou,

To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone,

With life's first flowers just opening in her hand,

And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,

Which in its clear eye shone Like the spring's wakening! - but that light was past —

- Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds play'd, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!

Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of

visions, fade!

From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,