Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 29 1831.pdf/5



Could we but keep our spirits to that height, We might be happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal. .

, my thoughts, come home! Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? And wherefore thus th' Abyss of Time o’ersweep, As bird the ocean-foam?

Swifter than shooting star, Swifter than lances of the northern light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel-boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old Time:

Through southern garden-bowers, Such as young Juliet look'd from, when her eye, Fill'd with the fervid soul of Italy, Watch'd for the starry hours:

Through the North's ancient halls, Where banners thrill'd of yore, where harp-strings rung, But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung— Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim, Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood, And sometimes on the haunted solitude, Rises the pilgrim's hymn: