Concord Register

The following elegant thing I lately found in one of Campbell's Magazines. It is one of my favorites, and by inserting it in your paper, you will highly gratify an amateur.

ELIZABETH

ODE TO THE STATUE OF A FUNERAL GENIUS.

Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls,
Through the blue stillness of the summer air;
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls-
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare-
And thou, thy rest, the soft, the lovely seems,
To ask light steps that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow, for so the dead
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like these;
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk, yet softly shed.
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze;
And the pine boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom,
Which from the grove seems gather'd, not the tomb.
They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee;
They, who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head beneath the forest tree,
Like that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood violets lull'd to deep repose-
They fear'd not death; yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or can he leave as much
Of shaded beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower, on whose young eyes,
So soft a night, a night of summer lies!
Had they seen aught like thee? did some fair boy,
Thus with his graceful hair, before them rest-
His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping as with heavy dews opprest?
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white rose tinge?
Oh happy, if to them the one dread hour
Had given its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power,
Came by a look thus tranquilly divine!
Let him who thus hath seen young life depart,
Hold well that lesson to his youthful heart.
And thou, fair slumberer! was there less of wo,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old.
That men pour'd out their gladden'd spirits' flow,
Like sunshine o'er the desolate and cold.
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy King,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we-for loftier hopes are ours-
Their gems were lost in ashes, yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths and purple boughs array'd,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for us a deeper gloom to shed,
O'er its dim precincts? do we not intrust,
But for a time, its chambers with the dead.
And strew immortal seed upon their dust?
Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch'd the brow of death?