Earth shrouds with burial sod

Her soft eye's blue,

-Now o'er the gifts of God

Fall tears like dew!

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.

KNOW

ye

not when our dead

From sleep to battle sprung?

-When the Persian charger's tread

On their covering greensward rung!

When the trampling march of foes

Had crush'd our vines and flowers,

When jewell'd crests arose
Through the holy laurel-bowers,

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,

When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.

There was one, a leader crown'd,

And arm'd for Greece that day; But the falchions made no sound

On his gleaming war-array.

In the battle's front he stood,

With his tall and shadowy crest;

But the arrows drew no blood,

Though their path was through his breast.

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,

When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.

His sword was seen to flash

Where the boldest deeds were done;

But it smote without a clash

;

The stroke was heard by none !

His voice was not of those

That swell'd the rolling blast,

And his steps fell hush'd like snows-
"Twas the Shade of Theseus pass'd!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,

When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,

As the Shade of Theseus pass'd!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,

When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.

WHERE is the summer, with her golden sun?

-That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth:

For me alone the laughing day is done!

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ?

-Far in my own bright land!

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die

On the green hills?—the founts, from

sparry caves

Through the wild places bearing melody?

The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves?
-Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains?

Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?

-Far in my own bright land!