# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/Elysium

ELYSIUM.
"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions." Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme.
Fair wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers! Where as they passed, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!
Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains!—but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay.
And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by, From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer's breezy sigh! And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death!
And the transparent sky Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewildering music of the earth.
And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? Called from the dim procession of the Dead, Who, midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The 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 lays Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found Their echoes midst the mountains!—and become In man's deep heart as voices of his home!
They of the daring thought! During and powerful, yet to dust allied— Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought The soul's far birthplace—but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Horn midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.
But the most lov'd are they Of 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 rejoice Around their steps; till, silently, they die, As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.
And these—of whose abode, Midst her green vallies, earth retained no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
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!"
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 thou To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer'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, shone Like spring's first wakening! but that light was past— Where went the dew-drop 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!
This poem, written some years ago, is re-published from a volume now out of print; the train of thought it suggests appearing not unsuitable to the spirit of the present work.
THE END.
EDINBURGH: PETER BROWN, PRINTER, LADY STAIR'S CLOSE.