Page:Felicia Hemans in the New Monthly Magazine Volume 8 1823.pdf/11



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 soft reeds 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 fresh rose-garlands for their sylvan fanes? —Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades? The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, And the pine-forests, and the olive-shades? —Far in my own bright land!

Where are the haunted grots, the laurel-bowers, The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams? —Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's! I might not languish then by these chill streams, —Far from my own bright land!H.