ELYSIUM.
245
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
A dim and vacant place
In some sweet home;—thou hadst no wreaths for these,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
The peasant at his door
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head—
Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sighed to bid the festal Sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Kept 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 sky
Came o'er his path, and whispered "Liberty!"
