Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old, -Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play! Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown, Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! BRING FLOWERS. BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path- Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers! Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear! They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride! Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst, Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, They are nature's offering, their place is there! They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers! THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. "Alas! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair, MARMION. REST, pilgrim, rest!-thou 'rt from the Syrian land, Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. Thou 'rt faint-stay, rest thee from thy toils at last, The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is pass'd, The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. Thou 'rt faint and worn-hear'st thou the fountain welling By the grey pillars of yon ruin'd shrine ? Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling? -He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine! He was a child when thus the bower he wove, With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, If I could hear that laughing voice again, But once again!—how oft it wanders by, In the still hours, like some remember'd strain, Troubling the heart with its wild melody! -Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen In that far land, the chosen land of yore, |