The Graves of Martyrs.

Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;

The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no fountain unto Fame;

No-not a tree the record bears

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strewed
The ashes of that multitude:

It may be that each day we tread

Where thus devoted hearts have bled;

And the young flowers our children sow,
Take root in holy dust below.

Oh, that the many-rustling leaves,

Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,

Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be stilled,
With knowledge of their presence filled,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
-But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be! Like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret,-but their sod,
Unknown to man, is marked of God!

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260

The Voice of Home to the Prodigal.

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.

"Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern,

Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;

Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind!"
-LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

The summer birds are calling

Thy household porch around,

And the merry waters falling

With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-veined flowers,
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours-

But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wandered long
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song

In thine altered heart hath died.

Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring;
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.

The Voice of Home to the Prodigal.

But when wilt thou return ?

Sweet dews may freshen soon The flower, within whose urn Too fiercely gazed the noon.

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 freedom of the woods,
To the bird's triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!

But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own pure air
There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! 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 hath 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! when wilt thou return?

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262

The Boon of Memory.

I

66

THE BOON OF MEMORY.

Many things answered me."-MANFRED.

GO, I go!—and must mine image fade

Must

From the green spots wherein my childhood played,
By my own streams?

my life part from each familiar place,

As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace
Of its lone themes?

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met
In grief or glee?

All the sweet counsel, the communion high,
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by,
Poured full and free?

A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give,

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live
For evermore!

Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt,
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt,
A thought restore!

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well,
In the dim brooding violet of the dell,

Set deep that thought;

And let the sunset's melancholy glow,

And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low,
With me be fraught!

The Boon of Memory.

263

And Memory answered me :-" Wild wish and vain! I have no hues the loveliest to detain

In the heart's core.

The place they held in bosoms all their own,

Soon with new shadows filled, new flowers o'ergrown, Is theirs no more."

Hast thou such power, O Love? And Love replied :"It is not mine! Pour out thy soul's full tide

Of hope and trust,

Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain-'Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, Wild words on dust!"

Song, is the gift with thee? I ask a lay,
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away
From the still breast;

Filled with a tone-oh! not for deathless fame,
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name,

Where it would rest.

And Song made answer :—

"It is not in me,

Though called immortal; though my gifts may be

All but divine.

A place of lonely brightness I can give :

A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst liveThis is not mine!"

Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil?
And Death, the Strong One, spoke :-"I can but still

Each vain regret.

What if forgotten ?-All thy soul would crave,

Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave,

Wilt soon forget."