Now pillowed near loved Hylas’ lowly bed,
Beneath our aged oaks and sighing pines,
Pale Ion rests awhile his laureled head;
(How sweet his slumber as he there reclines!)
Why weep for Ion here? He is not dead,
Nought of him Personal that mound confines;
The hues ethereal of the morning red
This clod embraces never, nor enshrines.
Away the mourning multitude hath sped,
And round us closes fast the gathering night,
As from the drowsy dell the sun declines,
Ion hath vanished from our clouded sight,—
But on the morrow, with the budding May,
A field goes Ion, at first flush of day,
Across the pastures on his dewy way.
[Illustration: MR. ALCOTT’S STUDY.]