Ah, only on the minstrel's magic shore, Can we the footstep of sweet fable trace! The meadows mourn for the old hallowing life; Vainly we search the earth of gods bereft; Where once the warm and living shapes were rife, Shadows alone are left! Cold, from the north, has gone Over the flowers the blast that killed their May; And, to enrich the worship of the one, A universe of gods must pass away! Mourning, I search on yonder starry steeps, But thee no more, Selene, there I see! And through the woods I call, and o'er the deeps, And—Echo answers me! Deaf to the joys she gives—     Blind to the pomp of which she is possessed—    Unconscious of the spiritual power that lives Around, and rules her—by our bliss unblessed—    Dull to the art that colors or creates, Like the dead timepiece, godless nature creeps Her plodding round, and, by the leaden weights, The slavish motion keeps. To-morrow to receive New life, she digs her proper grave to-day; And icy moons with weary sameness weave From their own light their fulness and decay. Home to the poet's land the gods are flown, Light use in them that later world discerns, Which, the diviner leading-strings outgrown, On its own axle turns. Home! and with them are gone The hues they gazed on and the tones they heard; Life's beauty and life's melody:—alone Broods o'er the desolate void, the lifeless word; Yet rescued from time's deluge, still they throng Unseen the Pindus they were wont to cherish:    All, that which gains immortal life in song, To mortal life must perish! 

  

       RESIGNATION.     

    Yes! even I was in Arcadia born, And, in mine infant ears, A vow of rapture was by Nature sworn;—    Yes! even I was in Arcadia born, And yet my short spring gave me only—tears! Once blooms, and only once, life's youthful May; For me its bloom hath gone. The silent God—O brethren, weep to-day—    The silent God hath quenched my torch's ray, And the vain dream hath flown. Upon thy darksome bridge, Eternity, I stand e'en now, dread thought! Take, then, these joy-credentials back from me! Unopened I return them now to thee, Of happiness, alas, know naught! Before Thy throne my mournful cries I vent, Thou Judge, concealed from view! To yonder star a joyous saying went With judgment's scales to rule us thou art sent, And call'st thyself Requiter, too! Here,—say they,—terrors on the bad alight, And joys to greet the virtuous spring. The bosom's windings thou'lt expose to sight,  

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