Elysium

Fair wert thou in the dreamsOf elder time, thou land of glorious flowersAnd summer winds and low-toned silvery streams,Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,Where, as they pass’d, bright hoursLeft no faint sense of parting, such as clingsTo earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the lightOn thy blue hills and sleepy waters castFrom purple skies ne’er deep’ning into night,Yet soft, as if each moment were their lastOf glory, fading fastAlong the mountains!--but thy golden dayWas not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,A swell of deep Æolian sound went byFrom fountain-voices in their secret glades,And low reed-whispers, making sweet replyTo summer’s breezy sigh,And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath,Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death!

And the transparent skyRang as a dome, all thrilling to the strainOf harps that midst the woods made harmony,Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brainWith dreams and yearnings vain,And dim remembrances, that still draw birthFrom the bewildering music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,Moved o’er the plains of waving asphodel?Call’d from the dim procession of the dead,Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,And listen to the swellOf those majestic hymn-notes, and inhaleThe spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise,With the bright wine, at nations’ feasts went round!They of the lyre, whose unforgotten laysForth on the winds had sent their mighty sound,And in all regions foundTheir echoes midst the mountains!--and becomeIn man’s deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied--Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had soughtThe soul’s far birthplace--but without a guide!Sages and seers, who died,And left the world their high mysterious dreams,born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams.

But the most loved are theyOf whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice,In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way;The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,And gentle hearts rejoiceAround their steps; till silently they die,As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And these--of whose abode,Midst her green valleys, earth retain’d no trace,Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,A shade of sadness on some kindred face,A dim and vacant placeIn some sweet home;--thou hadst no wreaths for these,Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant at his doorMight sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread,And songs on every wind! From thy bright shoreNo lovelier vision floated round his head--Thou wert for nobler dead!He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tearsWere a forbidden luxury, and whose breastKept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,As embers in a burial-urn compress’d;He might not be thy guest!No gentle breathings from thy distant skyCame o’er his path, and whisper’d “Liberty!”

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,The child at rest before the mother lay,E’en so to pass away,With its bright smile!--Elysium! what wert thouTo her, who wept o’er that young slumb’rer’s brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land!For the fair creature from her bosom gone,With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand,And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,Which in its clear eye shoneLike spring’s first wakening! but that light was past--Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds play’d,Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade!From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep,And bade man cease to weep!Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove,Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!

For the most loved are theyOf whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice,In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way;The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,And gentle hearts rejoiceAround their steps; till silently they die,As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And the world knows not then,Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!Yet these are they, who on the souls of menCome back, when night her folding veil hath spread,The long-remember’d dead!But not with thee might aught save glory dwell--Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!