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I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee
In Vallombrosa's holy shade
Where nobles-born the friars be,

By life's rude changes humbler madeHere Milton framed his Paradise;

I slept within his very cell; And, as I closed my weary eyes,

I thought the cowl would fit me wellThe cloisters breath'd, it seem'd to me, Of heart's-ease-but I thought of thee!

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee In Rome-when, on the Palatine, Night left the Cæsars' palace free

To time's forgetful foot and mineOr, on the Coliseum's wall,

When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone, Reclining, with a dream of all

That o'er this scene has come and goneThe shades of Rome would start and flee Unconsciously-I've thought of thee!

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee
In Venice-on a night in June,
When, through the city of the sea,

Like dust of silver slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,

And, as the black barks glided by, The water, to my list'ning ear,

Bore e'en the passing lover's sigh

It was no place alone to be

I thought of thee-I thought of thee!

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee In the Ionian Isles-when straying

With wise Ulysses by the sea,

Old Homer's songs around me playing;

Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,

That o'er the starlit waters flew,

I listened to the helmsman Greek

Who sung the song that Sappho knew.
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
Departed-as I thought of thee!

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Greece-when rose the Parthenon
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,

And heroes with it, one by one-
When in the grove of Academé,'
Where Lais and Leontium strayed,
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,

I mused at noontide in the shade-
The Egean wind, the whispering tree
Had voices-and I thought of thee!

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Asia-on the Dardanelles,
When, swiftly as the waters flee,

Each wave some sweet old story tells-
And seated by the marble tank

That lies by Ilium's ruins old-(The fount where peerless Helen drank, Where Venus laved her locks of gold-)

I joy'd such haunts of song to see,

Yet even here-I thought of thee !

I thought of thee-I thought of thee Where glide the Bosphor's peerless waters

All palace-lined from sea to sea

And ever on its shores the daughters

Of the delicious east are seen,

Printing the brink with slipper'd feet, And on the veil's white folds between,

What eyes of heaven your glances meet!

Peris of light no fairer be

Yet-in Stamboul-I thought of thee.

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee

Through change that teaches to forget

Thy face looks up from every sea,

In every star thine eyes are set.

Though roving 'neath the orient skies, Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, I envy every bird that flies

Toward the far and clouded west

I think of thee-I think of thee

Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?


He strode within an antique hall,
Where portraits hung against the wall,--
Warriors and sages, saints and dames,
Of glorious deeds and mighty fames;
And armour, too, nor rusted yet,
Hung round like forms of massive jet,
And tattered banners drooping low,
Snatched by his fathers from the foe.
'Mid these, the relics of his race,

He strode along with pensive pace;
His shaded eye, that chisel'd mouth,
Belonged to one still in his youth--
But the broad brow bespoke the sage
Whose mind had passed beyond his age;
That lordly brow, that withering eye,
Which flashed as if he heard the cry
Of battle on the distant field,

And feared his friends might recreant yield.
His was a beauty dark and bright,
Mingling of storm and flashing light ;-

He paused-and from the mantle took
A small but worn and ragged book;
Leaf after leaf he turned-at length
To one he came of iron strength.

He gazed upon the page awhile,
And o'er his mouth a withering smile
Passed like the lightning o'er a shroud,
Where lieth a dead heart, once too proud.
His bright eye blazed, but soon was dim-
What was that little book to him?
It was the Constitution of his land!
The writing writ with Glory's hand-
The words that freedom's self had spoken !
And her strong pledges had been broken;
Tyrants had trode upon the page,
With iron heel and furious rage-
And many a bloody hand had spilt,
O'er its white leaves, a flood of guilt,

By those who should have rather stood
Knee-deep in streams of their own blood,
Than seen that little book defaced--
Its bright and hallowed truths disgraced,

Thus Junius thought, and as his mind
Swept forth like some dark tempest wind,
Pondering o'er deeds of fearful shame,
He cast a shadow o'er his name,

And vowed that none should ever know
The man who was the tyrant's foe.
He wrote and people felt,

Before the throne at which they knelt,
A sudden tremor seize their hearts,
As spells flash through like fiery darts.
They read a language eloquent-
They heard a voice above them sent-
They saw a bright eye on them cast,
And a proud figure hurry past,

An unsheathed sword within his hand-
And on his brow, so pale and grand,
They saw a world of written fire,
And as they gazed, it mounted higher.
'Twas Junius !-not the living man,
But his great writings, better than
A thousand leaping falchions bright,
To wage the war in Freedom's right.
He moved among them like a thing
That travels on untiring wing-
All wizard-like, and mystical,
With magic voice, and musical.
He breathed upon the palaced lord,
And to the monarch spoke one word;
And king and baron stood in awe
Of the great pen of truth and law.
Saint of the free, brave spirit, say,
How did thy heart so nobly stay
The ocean-current nature prest
In lava waves against thy breast,
To win thy pride, to tell thy name,
To link it with eternal fame?
How did thy bosom beat with dread, ̈,
To think, when it was cold and dead,
That many tongues would slander thee,
Thou soul of Truth and Liberty?
Locked in thy heart the secreet died.
And when the tear was o'er thee dried-
When the black velvet on thee swept-
When wife, a father, children wept-
When cold thy brow, and still thy blood,
And friends around thy coffin stood,
Did any know that he, then cold,
Once had a heart so bright and bold?
Who knew the secret, mighty shade?
None-neither to father, wife, nor maid,
Did thy tongue syllable the story;
No scrap can break the mystic glory!
Thy bones have mingled with the sod,
Thy soul is with the hosts of God;
But oh! thy writings, they have spread
Like sunbeams o'er the mountains head.

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