THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

GATHER him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part—
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image, let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impressed.

For he was fresher from the hand

That formed of earth the human face,

And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

In many a flood to madness tossed,

In many a storm has been his path; He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind-the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters paid

A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded soil below,
The stars looked forth to teach his way,
The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvest waves,
Our lovers woo beneath their moon-
Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves!
15*

173

THE GREEK BOY.

GONE are the glorious Greeks of old,
Glorious in mien and mind;

Their bones are mingled with the mould,
Their dust is on the wind;

The forms they hewed from living stone,
Survive the waste of years, alone,

And scattered with their ashes, show
What greatness perished long ago.

Yet fresh the myrtles there-the springs Gush brightly as of yore;

Flowers blossom from the dust of kings,
As many an age before.

There nature moulds as nobly now,
As e'er of old, the human brow;

And copies still the martial form

That braved Platea's battle storm.

Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek Their Heaven in Hellas' skies;

Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek,

Her sunshine lit thine eyes;

THE GREEK BOY.

Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains

Heard by old poets, and thy veins
Swell with the blood of demigods,

That slumber in thy country's sods.

Now is thy nation free-though late→→
Thy elder brethren broke-

Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight,
The intolerable yoke.

And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see
Her youth renewed in such as thee;
A shoot of that old vine that made

The nations silent in its shade.

175

"UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD."

UPON the mountain's distant head,

With trackless snows forever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day's departing light.

But far below those icy rocks,

The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,

Are dim with mist and dark with shade.

'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,

But lingers with the cold and stern.