THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.

189

VI.

No echoes that will blend
A sadness with the rustlings of the

groye;
No memory of a friend
Far off, or dead, or chang'd to thee, thou Dove !

VIL

Oh! to some cool recess
Take, take me with thee on the summer-wind!

Leaving the weariness,
And all the fever of this life behind :

VIII.

The aching and the void
Within the heart whereunto none reply,

The early hopes destroyed
Bird! bear me with thee thro' the sunny sky.

IX

Wild wish, and longing vain,
And brief upspringing to be glad and free!

Go to thy woodland reign!
My soul is bound and held—I may not flee.

X'

For even by all the fears
And thoughts that haunt my dreams—untold, unknown,

And by the woman's tears
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ;

XI.

Had I thy wings, thou Dove !
High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,

Soon the strong cords of love
Would draw me earthwards--homewardsyet once

THE VOICE OF HOME.

191

O'er the image of the sky

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again

To the gladness of the woods, To the birds' triumphant strain,

To the mountain-solitudes !

But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own free air,
There are young sweet voices borne -

Ob ! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee, And by thy smile restored,

Joy round the hearth shall be. Still bath thy mother's eye,

Thy coming step to greet, A look of days gone by,

Tender, and gravely sweet. Still, when the prayer is said,

For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shed

-Oh! wben wilt thou return

192

ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY

ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.

Byron,

I.

Io! they come, they come!
Garlands for

every

shrine ! Strike lyres to greet them home;

Bring roses, pour ye wine !

II.

Swell, swell the Dorian flute

Thro' the blue, triumphal sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute

The Sons of Victory!

III.

With the offering of bright blood,

They have ransomed hearth and tomb, Vineyard, and field, and flood;

lo! they come, they come!

Breathe not those names to-day !

They shall have their praise ere long,
And a power all hearts to sway,

In ever-burning song.

IX.

But now shed flowers, pour wine,

To bail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine!

lo? they come, they come!

THE BETTER LAND.

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band ;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ?"
"Not there, not there, my child.""'
VOL. II.

17