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THE 


FOREST  SANCTUARY; 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 


LONDON : 
JOHN  MURRAY,  ALBEMARLE-STREET. 

MDCCCXXV. 


4^\ 


C  O  N  T  E  N  T  S. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY 

Notes 


Page 

1 

91 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

flloorish  Bridal  Song  .  .  .  . 

The  Bird's  Release  .... 

The  Sword  of  the  Tomb, — A  Northern  Legend 

Valkyriur  Song         ..... 

The  Cavern  of  the  Three  Tells, — Swiss  Tradition 

Swiss  Song, — on  the  Anniversary  of  an  ancient  Battle 

The  Messenger  Bird 

The  Stranger  in  Louisiana 

The  Isle  of  Founts, — an  Indian  Tradition 

The  bended  Bow 

He  never  smiled  again 

Coeur  de  Lion  at  the  Bier  of  his  Father 

The  Vassal's  Lament  for  the  fallen  Tree 

The  Wild  Huntsman  .  ; 

Brandenburgh  Harvest-Song, — from  the  German  of  La  IMotte 

The  Shade  of  Theseus, — Ancient  Greek  Tradition 

Ancient  Greek  Song  of  Exile 

Greek  Funeral  Chant  or  Myriologue 

The  Parting  Song 

The  Suliotc  Mother 

The  Farewell  to  the  Dead 


Fouqu( 


107 

109 
112 
120 
124 
128 
131 
134 
137 
142 
145 
148 
154 
158 
IGl 
103 
166 
168 
173 
179 
182 


CONTENTS. 


Piige 
MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep  .-           .             .             .             .187 

Bring  Flowers          .             .  .             .             .             .             .189 

The  Crusader's  Return         .  .         -    .             .             .             .191 

Thckla's  Song;  or,  The  Voice  of  a  Spirit, — from  the  German  of 

SchiUer          .             .  .             .             .             .             .195 

The  Revellers           .            .  ...             .             .             .197 

The  Conqueror's  Sleep         .  .             .             .             .             .201 

Our  Lady's  Well    .             .  .             .             .             .             .203 


THE 

FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Ihr  Pliitze  aller  meiner  stillen  freuden, 
Euch  lass'  ich  hinter  mir  auf  imraerdar  I 

So  ist  des  gerstes  ruf  an  mich  ergangen, 
Mich  treibt  nicht  cities,  irdisches  verlangen. 

Die  Jungfran  von  Orleans, 

Long  time  against  oppression  have  I  fought. 
And  for  the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled  and  suffer'd  bonds. 

Remorse,  a  Tragedy. 


The  following  Poem  is  intended  to  describe  the  mental  conflicts, 
as  well  as  outward  suff*eringSj  of  a  Spaniard,  who,  flying  from 
the  religious  persecutions  of  his  own  country  in  the  16th 
century,  takes  refuge  with  his  child  in  a  North  American 
forest.  The  story  is  supposed  to  be  related  by  himself  amidst 
the  wilderness  which  has  aflbrded  him  an  asylum. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


I. 

The  voices  of  my  home  ! — I  hear  them  still ! 
They  have  been  with  me  through  the  dreamy  night— 
The  blessed  household  voices,  wont  to  fill 
My  heart's  clear  depths  with  unalloy'd  delight ! 
I  hear  them  still,  unchang'd : — though  some  from  earth 
Are  music  parted,  and  the  tones  of  mirth — 
Wild,  silvery  tones,  that  rang  through  days  more  bright ! 
Have  died  in  others, — yet  to  me  they  come. 
Singing  of  boyhood  back — the  voices  of  my  home ! 

b2 


4  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

II. 

They  call  me  through  this  hush  of  woods,  reposing 
In  the  grey  stillness  of  the  summer  morn, 
They  wander  by  when  heavy  flowers  are  closing, 
And  thoughts  grow  deep,  and  winds  and  stars  are  born ; 
Ev  n  as  a  fount's  remember'd  gushings  burst 
On  the  parch'd  traveller  in  his  hour  of  thirst. 
E'en  thus  they  haunt  me  with  sweet  sounds,  till  worn 
By  quenchless  longings,  to  my  soul  I  say — 
Oh  !  for  the  dove's  swift  wings,  that  I  might  flee  away. 


III. 

And  find  mine  ark  ! — yet  whither? — I  must  bear 
A  yearning  heart  within  me  to  the  grave. 
I  am  of  those  o'er  whom  a  breath  of  air — 
Just  darkening  in  its  course  the  lake's  bright  wave. 
And  sighing  through  the  feathery  canes' — hath  power 
To  call  up  shadows,  in  the  silent  hour. 
From  the  dim  past,  as  from  a  wizard's  cave  ! — 
So  must  it  be  ! — These  skies  above  me  spread. 
Are  they  my  own  soft  skies  ? — Ye  rest  not  here,  my  dead  ! 


THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 
IV. 

Ye  far  amidst  the  southern  flowers  lie  sleeping, 
Your  graves  all  smiling  in  the  sunshine  clear. 
Save  one  ! — a  blue,  lone,  distant  main  is  sweeping 
High  o'er  one  gentle  head — ye  rest  not  here ! — 
'Tis  not  the  olive,  with  a  whisper  swaying. 
Not  thy  low  ripplings,  glassy  water,  playing 
Through  my  own  chesnut  groves,  which  fill  mine  ear  ; 
But  the  faint  echoes  in  my  breast  that  dwell. 
And  for  their  birth-place  moan,  as  moans  the  ocean-shell®. 


V. 

Peace  ! — I  will  dash  these  fond  regrets  to  earth, 
Ev'n  as  an  eagle  shakes  the  cumbering  rain 
From  his  strong  pinion.     Thou  that  gav'st  me  birth, 
And  lineage,  and  once  home, — my  native  Spain  ! 
My  own  bright  land — my  father's  land — my  child's ! 
What  hath  thy  son  brought  from  thee  to  the  wilds? 
He  hath  brought  marks  of  torture  and  the  chain. 
Traces  of  things  which  pass  not  as  a  breeze, 
A  blighted  name,  dark  thoughts,  wrath,  woe — thy  gifts  are  these. 


6  THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 

VI. 

A  blighted  name ! — I  hear  the  winds  of  morn — 
Their  sounds  are  not  of  this ! — I  hear  the  shiver 
Of  the  green  reeds,  and  all  the  rustlings,  borne 
From  the  high  forest,  when  the  light  leaves  quiver : 
Their  sounds  are  not  of  this ! — the  cedars,  waving. 
Lend  it  no  tone :  His  wide  savannahs  laving, 
It  is  not  murmur'd  by  the  joyous  river  ! 
What  part  hath  mortal  name,  where  God  alone 
Speaks  to  the  mighty  waste,  and  through  its  heart  is  known  ? 


VII. 
Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  worship  Him, 
With  nought  my  spirit's  breathings  to  control. 
And  feel  His  presence  in  the  vast,  and  dim. 
And  whispery  woods,  where  dying  thunders  roll 
From  the  far  cataracts  ? — Shall  I  not  rejoice 
That  I  have  learn'd  at  last  to  know  His  voice 
From  man's  ? — I  will  rejoice  ! — my  soaring  soul 
Now  hath  redeem'd  her  birth-right  of  the  day. 
And  won^  through  clouds,  to  Him,  her  own  unfetter'd  way ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

VIII. 

And  thou,  my  boy  !  that  silent  at  my  knee 
Dost  lift  to  mine  thy  soft,  dark,  earnest  eyes, 
Fill'd  with  the  love  of  childhood,  which  I  see 
Pure  through  its  depths,  a  thing  without  disguise ; 
Thou  that  hast  breath'd  in  slumber  on  my  breast. 
When  I  have  checked  its  throbs  to  give  thee  rest, 
Mine  own !  whose  young  thoughts  fresh  before  me  rise ! 
Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  guide  thy  prayer. 
And  circle  thy  glad  soul  with  free  and  healthful  air? 


IX. 

Why  should  I  weep  on  thy  bright  head,  ray  boy  ? 
Within  thy  fathers*  halls  thou  wilt  not  dwell. 
Nor  lift  their  banner,  with  a  warrior's  joy. 
Amidst  the  sons  of  mountain  chiefs,  who  fell 
For  Spain  of  old — Yet  what  if  rolling  waves 
Have  borne  us  far  from  our  ancestral  graves  ? 
Thou  shalt  not  feel  thy  bursting  heart  rebel 
As  mine  hath  done  j  nor  bear  what  I  have  borne. 
Casting  in  falsehood's  mould  th'  indignant  brow  of  scorn. 


O  THE   FOEEST   SANCTUARY. 

X. 

This  shall  not  be  thy  lot,  my  blessed  child! 
I  have  not  sorrow'd,  struggled,  liv'd  in  vain — 
Hear  me !  magnificent  and  ancient  wild ; 
And  mighty  rivers,  ye  that  meet  the  main. 
As  deep  meets  deep ;  and  forests,  whose  dim  shade 
The  flood's  voice,  and  the  wind's,  by  swells  pervade ; 
Hear  me ! — 'tis  well  to  die,  and  not  complain, 
Yet  there  are  hours  when  the  charg'd  heart  must  speak, 
Ev*n  in  the  desert's  ear  to  pour  itself,  or  break ! 


XI. 

I  see  an  oak  before  me  ^,  it  hath  been 
The  crown'd  one  of  the  woods ;  and  might  have  flung 
Its  hundred  arms  to  Heaven,  still  freshly  green. 
But  a  wild  vine  around  the  stem  hath  clung. 
From  branch  to  branch  close  wreaths  of  bondage  throwing. 
Till  the  proud  tree,  before  no  tempest  bowing. 
Hath  shrunk  and  died,  those  serpent-folds  among, 
Alas !  alas  I — what  is  it  that  I  see  ? 
An  image  of  man's  mind,  land  of  my  sires,  with  thee  I 


THE   FOltKST    SANCTUARY. 

XII. 

Yet  art  thou  lovely  ! — Song  is  on  thy  hills — 
Oh  sweet  and  mournful  melodies  of  Spain, 
That  luird  my  boyhood,  how  your  memory  thrills 
The  exile's  heart  with  sudden-wakening  pain ! — 
Your  sounds  are  on  the  rocks — that  I  might  hear 
Once  more  the  music  of  the  mountaineer ! — 
And  from  the  sunny  vales  the  shepherd's  strain 
Floats  out,  and  fills  the  solitary  place 
With  the  old  tuneful  names  of  Spain's  heroic  race. 


XIII. 

But  there  was  silence  one  bright,  golden  day, 
Through  my  own  pine-hung  mountains.     Clear,  yet  lone, 
In  the  rich  autumn  light  the  vineyards  lay. 
And  from  the  fields  the  peasant's  voice  was  gone ; 
And  the  red  grapes  untrodden  strew'd  the  ground. 
And  the  free  flocks  untended  roam'd  around : 
Where  was  the  pastor  ? — where  the  pipe's  wild  tone  ? 
Music  and  mirth  were  hush'd  the  hills  among, 
While  to  the  city's  gates  each  hamlet  pour'd  its  throng. 


10  THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 

XIV. 

Silence  upon  the  mountains  ! — But  within 
The  city's  gates  a  rush — a  press — a  swell 
Of  multitudes  their  torrent  way  to  win ; 
And  heavy  boomings  of  a  dull  deep  bell, 
A  dead  pause  following  each — like  that  which  parts 
The  dash  of  billows,  holding  breathless  hearts 
Fast  in  the  hush  of  fear — knell  after  knell ; 
And  sounds  of  thickening  steps,  like  thunder-rain. 
That  plashes  on  the  roof  of  some  vast  echoing  fane  ! 


XV. 

What  pageant's  hour  approach'd  ? — The  sullen  gate 
Of  a  strong  ancient  prison-house  was  thrown 
Back  to  the  day.     And  who,  in  mournful  state. 
Came  forth,  led  slowly  o'er  its  threshold-stone  ? 
They  that  had  learn'd,  in  cells  of  secret  gloom. 
How  sunshine  is  forgotten ! — They,  to  whom 
The  very  features  of  mankind  were  grown 
Things  that  bewilder'd  ! — O'er  their  dazzled  sight, 
They  lifted  their  wan  hands,  and  cower'd  before  the  light ! 


THE  FOREST   SANCTUARY.  '  11 

XVI. 

To  this  man  brings  his  brother ! — Some  were  there. 
Who  with  their  desolation  had  entwin'd 
Fierce  strength,  and  girt  the  sternness  of  despair 
Fast  round  their  bosoms,  ev'n  as  warriors  bind 
The  breast-plate  on  for  fight :  but  brow  and  cheek 
Seem'd  theirs  a  torturing  panoply  to  speak ! 
And  there  were  some,  from  whom  the  very  mind 
Had  been  wrung  out :  they  smil'd — oh  !  startling  smile 
Whence  man's  high  soul  is  fled  ! — where  doth  it  sleep  the  while  ? 


XVII. 

But  onward  moved  the  melancholy  train. 
For  their  false  creeds  in  fiery  pangs  to  die. 
This  was  the  solemn  sacrifice  of  Spain — 
Heaven's  ofiTering  from  the  land  of  chivalry ! 
Through  thousands,  thousands  of  their  race  they  mov'd— 
Oh  !  how  unlike  all  others ! — the  belov'd. 
The  free,  the  proud,  the  beautiful !  whose  eye 
Grew  fix'd  before  them,  while  a  people's  breath 
Was  hush'd,  and  its  one  soul  bound  in  the  thought  of  death ! 


12  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XVIII. 

It  might  be  that  amidst  the  countless  throng, 
There  swell'd  some  heart  with  Pity's  weight  oppress'd. 
For  the  wide  stream  of  human  love  is  strong  ; 
And  woman,  on  whose  fond  and  faithful  breast 
Childhood  is  rear'd,  and  at  whose  knee  the  sigh 
Of  its  first  prayer  is  breath 'd,  she,  too,  was  nigh. 
— But  life  is  dear,  and  the  free  footstep  bless'd. 
And  home  a  sunny  place,  where  each  may  fill 
Some  eye  with  glistening  smiles, — and  therefore  all  were  still- 


XIX. 

All  still — youth,  courage,  strength  ! — a  winter  laid, 
A  chain  of  palsy,  cast  on  might  and  mind ! 
Still,  as  at  noon  a  southern  forest*s  shade. 
They  stood,  those  breathless  masses  of  mankind  3 
Still,  as  a  frozen  torrent ! — but  the  wave 
Soon  leaps  to  foaming  freedom — they,  the  brave, 
Endur'd — they  saw  the  martyr's  place  assign'd 
In  the  red  flames — whence  is  the  withering  spell 
That  numbs  each  human  pulse  ? — they  saw,  and  thought  it  well. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY,  13 

XX. 

And  I,  too,  thought  it  well !     That  very  morn 
From  a  far  land  I  came,  yet  round  me  clung 
The  spirit  of  my  own.     No  hand  had  torn 
With  a  strong  grasp  away  the  veil  which  hung 
Between  mine  eyes  and  truth.     I  gaz'd,  I  saw. 
Dimly,  as  through  a  glass.     In  silent  awe  * 

1  watch'd  the  fearful  rites ;  and  if  there  sprung 
One  rebel  feeling  from  its  deep  founts  up. 
Shuddering,  I  flung  it  back,  as  guilt's  own  poison-cup. 


XXI. 

But  I  was  waken'd  as  the  dreamers  waken 
Whom  the  shrill  trumpet  and  the  shriek  of  dread 
Rouse  up  at  midnight,  when  their  walls  are  taken. 
And  they  must  battle  till  their  blood  is  shed 
On  their  own  threshold-floor.     A  path  for  light 
Through  my  torn  breast  was  shatter'd  by  the  might 
Of  the  swift  thunder-stroke — and  Freedom's  tread 
Came  in  through  ruins,  late,  yet  not  in  vain. 
Making  the  blighted  place  all  green  with  life  again. 


14  THE    FOREST    SANOTUART. 

XXII. 

Still  darkly,  slowly,  as  a  sullen  mass 
Of  cloud,  o'ersweeping,  without  wind,  the  sky. 
Dream-like  I  saw  the  sad  procession  pass. 
And  mark'd  its  victims  with  a  tearless  eye. 
They  mov'd  before  me  but  as  pictures,  wrought 
Each  to  reveal  some  secret  of  man's  thought. 
On  the  sharp  edge  of  sad  mortality. 
Till  in  his  place  came  one — oh  !  could  it  be  ? 
— My  friend,  my  heart's  first  friend ! — and  did  I  gaze  on  thee  ? 


XXIII. 

On  thee !  with  whom  in  boyhood  I  had  play'd. 
At  the  grape-gatherings,  by  my  native  streams  ; 
And  to  whose  eye  my  youthful  soul  had  laid 
Bare,  as  to  Heaven's,  its  glowing  world  of  dreams ; 
And  by  whose  side  midst  warriors  I  had  stood. 
And  in  whose  helm  was  brought — oh  !  earn'd  with  blood ! — 
The  fresh  wave  to  my  lips,  when  tropic  beams 
Smote  on  my  fever'd  brow ! — Ay,  years  had  pass'd. 
Severing  our  paths,  brave  friend ! — and  thus  we  met  at  last ! 


THE  FOREST   SANCTUARY.  15 

XXIV. 

I  see  it  still — the  lofty  mien  thou  borest— . 
On  thy  pale  forehead  sat  a  sense  of  power ! 
The  very  look  that  once  thou  brightly  worest, 
Cheering  me  onward  through  a  fearful  hour. 
When  we  were  girt  by  Indian  bow  and  spear. 
Midst  the  white  Andes— ev'n  as  mountain  deer, 
Hemm'd  in  our  camp — but  thro'  the  javelin  shower 
We  rent  our  way,  a  tempest  of  despair ! 
-And  thou — hadst  thou  but  died  with  thy  true  brethren  there  .* 


XXV. 

I  call  the  fond  wish  back — for  thou  hast  perish'd 
More  nobly  far,  my  Alvar  ! — making  known 
The  might  of  truth  * ;  and  be  thy  memory  cherish'd 
With  theirs,  the  thousands,  that  around  her  throne 
Have  pour'd  their  lives  out  smiling,  in  that  doom 
Finding  a  triumph,  if  denied  a  tomb ! 
— Ay,  with  their  ashes  hath  the  wind  been  sown. 
And  with  the  wind  their  spirit  shall  be  spread. 
Filling  man*s  heart  and  home  with  records  of  the  dead. 


16  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXVI. 

Thou  Searcher  of  the  Soul !  in  whose  dread  sight 
Not  the  bold  guilt  alone,  that  mocks  the  skies. 
But  the  scarce-own 'd,  unwhisper'd  thought  of  night. 
As  a  thing  written  with  the  sunbeam  lies ; 
Thou  know'st — whose  eye  through  shade  and  depth  can  see. 
That  this  man's  crime  was  but  to  worship  thee. 
Like  those  that  made  their  hearts  thy  sacrifice. 
The  call'd  of  yore ;  wont  by  the  Saviour's  side. 
On  the  dim  Olive-Mount  to  pray  at  eventide. 


XXVII. 

For  the  strong  spirit  will  at  times  awake. 
Piercing  the  mists  that  wrap  her  clay-abode  ; 
And,  born  of  thee,  she  may  not  always  take 
Earth's  accents  for  the  oracles  of  God  ; 
And  ev'n  for  this — O  dust,  whose  mask  is  power  1 
Reed,  that  wouldst  be  a  scourge  thy  little  hour! 
Spark,  whereon  yet  the  mighty  hath  not  trod. 
And  therefore  thou  destroyest ! — where  m  ere  flown 
Our  hope,  if  man  were  left  to  man's  decree  alone  ? 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY^  17 

XXVIII. 

But  this  I  felt  not  yet.     I  could  but  gaze 
On  him,  my  friend ;  while  that  swift  moment  threw 
A  sudden  freshness  back  on  vanish'd  days. 
Like  water-drops  on  some  dim  picture's  hue  ; 
Calling  the  proud  time  up,  when  first  I  stood 
Where  banners  floated,  and  my  heart's  quick  blood 
Sprang  to  a  torrent  as  the  clarion  blew. 
And  he — his  sword  was  like  a  brother's  worn. 
That  watches  through  the  field  his  mother's  youngest  born. 


XXIX. 

But  a  lance  met  me  in  that  day's  career. 
Senseless  I  lay  amidst  th'  o'ersweeping  fight, 
Wakening  at  last — how  full,  how  strangely  clear. 
That  scene  on  memory  flash'd ! — the  shivery  light. 
Moonlight,  on  broken  shields — the  plain  of  slaughter,. 
The  fountain-side — the  low  sweet  sound  of  water — 
And  Alvar  bending  o'er  me — from  the  night 
Covering  me  with  his  mantle ! — all  the  past 
Flow'd  back — my  soul's  far  chords  all  answer'd  to  the  blast. 

c 


IS  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXX. 

Till,  in  that  rush  of  visions,  I  became 
As  one  that  by  the  bands  of  slumber  wound. 
Lies  with  a  powerless,  but  all-thrilling  frame, 
Intense  in  consciousness  of  sight  and  sound. 
Yet  buried  in  a  wildering  dream  which  brings 
Lov'd  faces  round  him,  girt  with  fearful  things ! 
Troubled  ev'n  thus  I  stood,  but  chain'd  and  bound 
On  that  familiar  form  mine  eye  to  keep — 
— Alas !  I  might  not  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep ! 


XXXL 

He  pass'd  me— and  what  next  ? — I  look'd  on  two. 
Following  his  footsteps  to  the  same  dread  place. 
For  the  same  guilt — his  sisters  ^ ! — Well  I  knew 
The  beauty  on  those  brows,  though  each  young  face 
Was  chang'd — so  deeply  chang'd ! — a  dungeon's  air 
Is  hard  for  lov'd  and  lovely  things  to  bear. 
And  ye,  O  daughters  of  a  lofty  race. 
Queen-like  Theresa !  radiant  Inez !— flowers 
So  cherish'd !  were  ye  then  but  reared  for  those  dark  hours  ? 


THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY.  19 

XXXII. 

A  mournful  home,  young  sisters !  had  ye  left, 
With  your  lutes  hanging  hush'd  upon  the  wall, 
And  silence  round  the  aged  man,  bereft 
Of  each  glad  voice,  once  answering  to  his  call. 
Alas,  that  lonely  father !  doom'd  to  pine 
For  sounds  departed  in  his  life's  decline. 
And,  midst  the  shadowing  banners  of  his  hall. 
With  his  white  hair  to  sit,  and  deem  the  name 
A  hundred  chiefs  had  borne,  cast  down  by  you  to  shame  * ! 


XXXIII. 

And  woe  for  you,  midst  looks  and  words  of  love. 
And  gentle  hearts  and  faces,  nurs'd  so  long ! 
How  had  I  seen  you  in  your  beauty  move. 
Wearing  the  wreath,  and  listening  to  the  song! 
— Yet  sat,  ev'n  then,  what  seem'd  the  crowd  to  shun. 
Half  veil'd  upon  the  clear  pale  brow  of  one, 
And  deeper  thoughts  than  oft  to  youth  belong, 
Thoughts,  such  as  wake  to  evening's  vvhispery  sway. 
Within  the  drooping  shade  of  her  sweet  eyelids  lay. 

c2 


20  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXXIV. 

And  if  she  mingled  with  the  festive  train. 
It  was  but  as  some  melancholy  star 
Beholds  the  dance  of  shepherds  on  the  plain. 
In  its  bright  stillness  present,  though  afar. 
Yet  would  she  smile — and  that,  too,  hath  its  smile- 
Circled  with  joy  which  reach'd  her  not  the  while. 
And  bearing  a  lone  spirit,  not  at  war 
With  earthly  things,  but  o'er  their  form  and  hue 
Shedding  too  clear  a  light,  too  sorrowfully  true. 


XXXV. 

But  the  dark  hours  wring  forth  the  hidden  might 
Which  hath  lain  bedded  in  the  silent  soul, 
A  treasure  all  undreamt  of; — as  the  night 
Calls  out  the  harmonies  of  streams  that  roll 
Unheard  by  day.     It  seem'd  as  if  her  breast 
Had  hoarded  energies,  till  then  suppressed 
Almost  with  pain,  and  bursting  from  control. 
And  finding  first  that  hour  their  pathway  free : 
— Could  -a  rose  brave  the  storm,  such  might  her  emblem  be  ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  21 

XXXVI. 

For  the  soft  gloom  whose  shadow  still  had  hung 
On  her  fair  brow,  beneath  its  garlands  worn. 
Was  fled ;  and  fire,  like  prophecy's  had  sprung 
Clear  to  her  kindled  eye.     It  might  be  scorn — 
Pride — sense  of  wrong — ay,  the  frail  heart  is  bound 
By  these  at  times,  ev'n  as  with  adamant  round. 
Kept  so  from  breaking!— yet  not  thus  upborne 
She  mov'd,  though  some  sustaining  passion's  wave 
Lifted  her  fervent  soul — a  sister  for  the  brave ! 


XXXVII. 

And  yet,  alas !  to  see  the  strength  which  clings 
Round  woman  in  such  hours ! — a  mournful  sight, 
Though  lovely  ! — an  o'erflowing  of  the  springs. 
The  full  springs  of  affection,  deep  as  bright ! 
And  she,  because  her  life  is  ever  twin'd 
With  other  lives,  and  by  no  stormy  wind 
May  thence  be  shaken,  and  because  the  light 
Of  tenderness  is  round  her,  and  her  eye 
Doth  weep  such  passionate  tears — therefore  she  thus  can  die. 


22  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXXVIII. 

Therefore  didst  thou,  through  that  heart-shaking  scene. 
As  through  a  triumph  move;  and  cast  aside 
Thine  own  sweet  thoughtfulness  for  victory's  mien, 
O  faithful  sister !  cheering  thus  the  guide, 
And  friend,  and  brother  of  thy  sainted  youth. 
Whose  hand  had  led  thee  to  the  source  of  truth. 
Where  thy  glad  soul  from  earth  was  purified ; 
Nor  wouldst  thou,  following  him  through  all  the  past, 
That  he  should  see  thy  step  grow  tremulous  at  last. 


XXXIX. 

For  thou  hadst  made  no  deeper  love  a  guest 
Midst  thy  young  spirit's  dreams,  than  that  which  grows 
Between  the  nurtur'd  of  the  same  fond  breast. 
The  shelter'd  of  one  roof  j  and  thus  it  rose 
Twin'd  in  with  life. — How  is  it,  that  the  hours 
Of  the  same  sport,  the  gathering  early  flowers 
Round  the  same  tree,  the  sharing  one  repose. 
And  mingling  one  first  prayer  in  murmurs  soft. 
From  the  heart's  memory  fade,  in  this  world's  breath,  so  oft } 


THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY.  23 

XL. 

But  thee  that  breath  had  touched  not;  thee,  nor  him. 
The  true  in  all  things  found ! — and  thou  vvert  blest 
Ev'n  then,  that  no  remember'd  change  could  dim 
The  perfect  image  of  affection,  press'd 
Like  armour  to  thy  bosom  ! — thou  hadst  kept 
Watch  by  that  brother's  couch  of  pain,  and  wept, 
Thy  sweet  face  covering  with  thy  robe,  vv^hen  rest 
Fled  from  the  sufferer ;   thou  hadst  bound  his  faith 
Unto  thy  soul — one  light,  one  hope  ye  chose — one  death. 


XLL 

So  didst  thou  pass  on  brightly  ! — but  for  her, 
Next  in  that  path,  how  may  her  doom  be  spoken ! 
— All-merciful !  to  think  that  such  things  were. 
And  are,  and  seen  by  men  with  hearts  unbroken ! 
To  think  of  that  fair  girl,  whose  path  had  been 
So  strew'd  with  rose-leaves,  all  one  fairy  scene ! 
And  whose  quick  glance  came  ever  as  a  token 
Of  hope  to  drooping  thought,  and  her  glad  voice 
As  a  free  bird's  in  spring,  that  makes  the  woods  rejoice ! 


24  THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 

XLIL 

And  she  to  die  ! — she  lov'd  the  laughing  earth 
With  such  deep  joy  in  its  fresh  leaves  and  flowers ! 
-—Was  not  her  smile  even  as  the  sudden  birth 
Of  a  young  rainbow,  colouring  vernal  showers  ? 
Yes !  but  to  meetf  her  fawn-like  step,  to  hear 
The  gushes  of  wild  song,  so  silvery  clear. 
Which,  oft  unconsciously,  in  happier  hours 
Flow'd  from  her  lips,  was  to  forget  the  sway 
Of  Time  and  Death  below, — blight,  shadow,  dull  decay  ! 


XLIII. 

Could  this  change  be  ? — the  hour,  the  scene,  where  last 
I  saw  that  form,  came  floating  o'er  my  mind : 
—A  golden  vintage-eve ; — the  heats  were  pass'd, 
And,  in  the  freshness  of  the  fanning  wind, 
Her  father  sat,  where  gleam'd  the  first  faint  star 
Through  the  lime-boughs  j  and  with  her  light  guitar, 
She,  on  the  greensward  at  his  feet  reclin'd. 
In  his  calm  face  laugh'd  up ;  some  shepherd-lay 
Singing,  as  childhood  sings  on  the  lone  hills  at  play. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY-  25 

XLIV. 

And  now— oh  God ! — the  bitter  fear  of  death, 
The  sore  amaze,  the  faint  o'ershadowing  dread, 
Had  grasp'd  her! — panting  in  her  quick-drawn  breath. 
And  in  her  white  lips  quivering ; —onward  led. 
She  look'd  up  with  her  dim  bewilder'd  eyes^ 
And  there  smil'd  out  her  own  soft  brilliant  skies. 
Far  in  their  sultry  southern  azure  spread. 
Glowing  with  joy,  but  silent ! — still  they  smil'd, 
Yet  sent  down  n6  reprieve  for  earth's  poor  trembling  child. 


XLV. 

\las  !  that  earth  had  all  too  strong  a  hold. 
Too  fast,  sweet  Inez  !  on  thy  heart,  whose  bloom 
Was  given  to  early  love,  nor  knew  how  cold 
The  hours  which  follow.     There  was  one,  with  whom. 
Young  as  thou  wert,  and  gentle,  and  untried. 
Thou  might'st,  perchance,  unshrinkingly  have  died ; 
But  he  was  far  away ; — and  with  thy  doom 
Thus  gathering,  life  grew  so  intensely  dear. 
That  all  thy  slight  frame  shook  with  its  cold  mortal  fear  I 


2^  THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 

XLVI. 

No  aid ! — thou  too  didst  pass ! — and  all  had  pass'd. 
The  fearful — and  the  desperate — and  the  strong ! 
Some  like  the  bark  that  rushes  with  the  blast. 
Some  like  the  leaf  swept  shivering! y  along, 
And  some  as  men,  that  have  but  one  more  field 
To  fight,  and  then  may  slumber  on  their  shield. 
Therefore  they  arm  in  hope.     But  now  the  throng 
Roll'd  on,  and  bore  me  with  their  living  tide, 
Ev'n  as  a  bark  wherein  is  left  no  power  to  guide. 


XLVII. 
Wave  swept  on  wave.     We  reach 'd  a  stately  square, 
Deck'd  for  the  rites.     An  altar  stood  on  high, 
And  gorgeous,  in  the  midst.     A  place  for  prayer. 
And  praise,  and  offering.     Could  the  earth  supply 
No  fruits,  no  flowers  for  sacrifice,  of  all 
Which  on  her  sunny  lap  unheeded  fall  ? 
No  fair  young  firstling  of  the  flock  to  die. 
As  when  before  their  God  the  Patriarchs  stood  .'* 
-Look  down !  man  brings  thee.  Heaven !  his  brother's  guiltless 
blood ! 


THE  FOREST   SANCTUAEY.  27 

XLVIII. 
Hear  its  voice,  hear  ! — a  cry  goes  up  to  thee. 
From  the  stain'd  sod ; — make  thou  thy  judgment  known 
On  him,  the  shedder !— let  his  portion  be 
The  fear  that  walks  at  midnight — give  the  moan 
In  the  wind  haunting  him  a  power  to  say 
"  Where  is  thy  brother  ?" — and  the  stars  a  ray 
To  search  and  shake  his  spirit,  when  alone 
With  the  dread  splendor  of  their  burning  eyes ! 
-So  shall  earth  own  thy  will — mercy,  not  sacrifice  I 


XLIX. 

Sounds  of  triumphant  praise  ! — the  mass  was  sung — 
— Voices  £hat  die  not  might  have  pour'd  such  strains  ! 
Thro'  Salem's  towers  might  that  proud  chant  have  rung, 
When  the  Most  High,  on  Syria's  palmy  plains. 
Had  quell'd  her  foes ! — so  full  it  swept,  a  sea 
Of  loud  waves  jubilant,  and  rolling  free ! 
— Oft  when  the  wind,  as  thro'  resounding  fanes. 
Hath  fill'd  the  choral  forests  with  its  power. 
Some  deep  tone  brings  me  back  the  music  of  that  hour. 


26  THE   FOREST    SANCTUAKV. 

L. 

It  died  away ; — the  incense-cloud  was  driven 
Before  the  breeze — the  words  of  doom  were  said ; 
And  the  sun  faded  mournfully  from  Heaven, 
— He  faded  mournfully !  and  dimly  red. 
Parting  in  clouds  from  those  that  look'd  their  last, 
And  sigh'd — "  farewell,  thou  sun  !" — Eve  glow'd  and  pass'd- 
Night — midnight  and  the  moon — came  forth  and  shed 
Sleep,  even  as  dew,  on  glen,  wood,  peopled  spot — 
Save  one — a  place  of  death — and  there  men  sliimber'd  not. 


LI. 
'Twas  not  within  the  city' — but  in  sight 
Of  the  snow-crown'd  sierras,  freely  sweeping. 
With  many  an  eagle's  eyrie  on  the  height. 
And  hunter's  cabin,  by  the  torrent  peeping 
Far  off:  and  vales  between,  and  vineyards  lay, 
With  sound  and  gleam  of  waters  on  their  way. 
And  chesnut-wood^,  that  girt  the  happy  sleeping. 
In  many  a  peasant-home ! — the  midnight  sky 
Brought  softly  that  rich  world  round  those  who  came  to  die. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  29 

LII. 

The  darkly-glorious  midnight  sky  of  Spain, 
Burning  with  stars ! — What  had  the  torches'  glare 
To  do  beneath  that  Temple,  and  profane 
Its  holy  radiance  ? — By  their  wavering  flare, 
I  saw  beside  the  pyres — I  see  thee  now,    , 
O  bright  Theresa !  with  thy  lifted  brow. 
And  thy  clasp'd  hands,  and  dark  eyes  fill'd  with  prayer ! 
And  thee,  sad  Inez  !  bowing  thy  fair  head. 
And  mantling  up  thy  face,  all  colourless  with  dread  ! 


LIII. 

And  Alvar,  Alvar ! — I  beheld  thee  too, 
PaJe,  stedfast,  kingly ;  till  thy  clear  glance  fell 
On  that  young  sister ;  then  perturb'd  it  grew, 
And  all  thy  labouring  bosom  seem'd  to  swell 
With  painful  tenderness.     Why  came  I  there. 
That  troubled  image  of  my  friend  to  bear. 
Thence,  for  my  after-years  } — a  thing  to  dwell 
In  my  heart's  core,  and  on  the  darkness  rise. 
Disquieting  my  dreams  with  its  bright  mournful  eyes  ? 


30  THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 

LIV. 

Why  came  I  ?  oh  !  the  heart's  deep  mystery ! — Why 
In  man's  last  hour  doth  vain  affection's  gaze 
Fix  itself  down  on  struggling  agony. 
To  the  dimm'd  eye-balls  freezing,  as  they  glaze  ? 
It  might  be — yet  ,the  power  to  will  seem'd  o'er — 
That  my  soul  yearn'd  to  hear  his  voice  once  more  ! 
But  mine  was  fetter'd ! — mute  in  strong  amaze, 
I  watch'd  his  features  as  the  night-wind  blew. 
And  torch-light  or  the  moon's  pass'd  o'er  their  marble  hue. 


LV. 

The  trampling  of  a  steed !  — a  tall  white  steed. 
Rending  his  fiery  way  the  crowds  among — 
A  storm's  way  through  a  forest — came  at  speed. 
And  a  wild  voice  cried  "  Inez  !"  Swift  she  flung 
The  mantle  from  her  face,  and  gaz'd  around. 
With  a  faint  shriek  at  that  familiar  sound, 
And  from  his  seat  a  breathless  rider  sprung. 
And  dash'd  off  fiercely  those  who  came  to  part. 
And  rush'd  to  that  pale  girl,  and  clasp'd  her  to  his  heart. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  31 

LVI. 

And  for  a  moment  all  around  gave  way 
To  that  full  burst  of  passion !  — on  his  breast. 
Like  a  bird  panting  yet  from  fear  she  lay. 
But  blest — in  misery's  very  lap — yet  blest ! — 
Oh  love,  love,  strong  as  death  ! — from  such  an  hour 
Pressing  out  joy  by  thine  immortal  power. 
Holy  and  fervent  love  !  had  earth  but  rest 
Fot  thee  and  thine,  this  world  were  all  too  fair ! 
How  could  we  thence  be  wean'd  to  die  without  despair? 


Lvn. 

But  she — as  falls  a  willow  from  the  storm. 
O'er  its  own  river  streaming — thus  reclin'd 
On  the  youth's  bosom  hung  her  fragile  form. 
And  clasping  arms,  so  passionately  twin'd 
Around  his  neck — with  such  a  trusting  fold, 
A  full  deep  sense  of  safety  in  their  hold. 
As  if  nought  earthly  might  th'  embrace  unbind  ! 
Alas  !  a  child's  fond  faith,  believing  still 
Its  mother's  breast  beyond  the  lightning's  reach  to  kill ! 


32  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARr. 

LVIII. 

Brief  rest !  upon  the  turning  billow's  height, 
A  strange  sweet  moment  of  some  heavenly  strain. 
Floating  between  the  savage  gusts  of  night. 
That  sweep  the  seas  to  foam !  Soon  dark  again 
The  hour — the  scene — th*  intensely  present,  rush'd 
Back  on  her  spirit,  and  her  large  tears  gush'd 
Like  blood-drops  from  a  victim ;  with  swift  rain 
Bathing  the  bosom  where  she  lean'd  that  hour, 
As  if  her  life  would  melt  into  th'  o'erswelling  shower. 


LIX. 
But  he,  whose  arm  sustained  her ! — oh  !  I  knew 
'Twas  vain,  and  yet  he  hop'd  ! — he  fondly  strove 
Back  from  her  faith  her  sinking  soul  to  woo. 
As  life  might  yet  be  hers  ! — A  dream  of  love 
Which  could  not  look  upon  so  fair  a  thing. 
Remembering  how  like  hope,  like  joy,  like  spring. 
Her  smile  was  wont  to  glance,  her  step  to  move. 
And  deem  that  men  indeed,  in  very  truth, 
Could  mean  the  sting  of  death  for  her  soft  flowering  youth  ! 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  33 

LX. 

He  woo'd  her  back  to  life. — "  Sweet  Inez,  live ! 
My  blessed  Inez  ! — visions  have  beguil'd 
Thy  heart — abjure  them  ! — thou  wert  form'd  to  give. 
And  to  find,  joy ;  and  hath  not  sunshine  smil'd 
Around  thee  ever  ?  Leave  me  not,  mine  own ! 
Or  earth  will  grow  too  dark  ! — for  thee  alone, 
Thee  have  I  lov'd,  thou  gentlest !  from  a  child. 
And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul — speak  ! — ^Oh !  yet  live  for  me  !" 


LXI. 

She  look'd  up  wildly ;  these  were  anxious  eyes 
Waiting  that  look — sad  eyes  of  troubled  thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's ! — Did  her  childhood  rise, 
With  all  its  pure  and  home-affections  fraught. 
In  the  brief  glance  ? — She  clasp'd  her  hands — the  strife 
Of  love,  faith,  fear,  and  that  vain  dream  of  life. 
Within  her  woman's  breast  so  deeply  wrought. 
It  seem'd  as  if  a  reed  so  slight  and  weak 
Must,  in  the  rending  storm  not  quiver  only — break  ! 


3i4  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXII. 

And  thus  it  was— the  young  cheek  flush'd  and  faded. 
As  the  swift  blood  in  currents  came  and  went, 
And  hues  of  death  the  marble  brow  o'ershaded. 
And  the  sunk  eye  a  watery  lustre  sent 
Thro'  its  white  fluttering  lids.     Then  tremblings  pass'd 
O'er  the  frail  form,  that  shook  it,  as  the  blast 
Shakes  the  sere  leaf,  until  the  spirit  rent- 
Its  way  to  peace— the  fearful  way  unknown — 
Pale  in  love's  arms  she  lay — .9^^/ — what  had  lov'd  was  gone ! 


LXIII. 

Joy  for  thee,  trembler !— thou  redeem'd  one,  joy ! 
Young  dove  set  free !  earth,  ashes,  soulless  clay, 
Remain'd  for  baffled  vengeance  to  destroy ; 
— Thy  chain  was  riven !— nor  hadst  thou  cast  away 
Thy  hope  in  thy  last  hour ! — though  love  was  there 
Striving  to  wring  thy  troubled  soul  from  prayer. 
And  life  seem'd  robed  in  beautiful  array. 
Too  fair  to  leave ! — but  this  might  be  forgiven. 
Thou  wert  so  richly  crown'd  with  precious  gifts  of  Heaven  ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  35 

LXIV. 

But  woe  for  him  who  felt  the  heart  grow  still. 

Which,  with  its  weight  of  agony,  had  lain 

Breaking  on  his ! — Scarce  could  the  mortal  chill 

Of  the  hush'd  bosom,  ne'er  to  heave  ag^ain. 

And  all  the  silence  curdling  round  the  eye. 

Bring  home  the  stern  belief  that  she  could  die^ 

That  she  indeed  could  die ! — for  wild  and  yain 

As  hope  might  be — his  soul  had  hoped — 'twas  o'er — 

■Slowly  his  failing  arms  dropped  from  the  form  they  bore. 


LXV. 

They  forc'd  hini  from  that  spot. — It  might  be  well. 
That  the  fierce,  reckless  words  by  anguish  wrung 
From  his  torn  breast,  all  aimless  as  they  fell. 
Like  spray-drops  from  the  strife  of  torrents  flung. 
Were  mark'd  as  guilt. — There  are,  who  note  these  things 
Against  the  smitten  heart ;  its  breaking  strings 
— On  whose  low  thrills  once  gentle  music  hung — 
With  a  rude  hand  of  touch  unholy  trying. 
And  numbering  then  as  crimes,  the  deep,  strange  tones  replying. 

d2 


36  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXVI. 

But  ye  in  solemn  joy,  O  faithful  pair ! 
Stood  gazing  on  your  parted  sister's  dust; 
I  saw  your  features  by  the  torch's  glare. 
And  they  were  brightening  with  a  heavenward  trust ! 
I  saw  the  doubt,  the  anguish,  the  dismay. 
Melt  from  my  Alvar's  glorious  mien  away, 
And  peace  was  there — the  calmness  of  the  just ! 
And,  bending  down  the  slumberer's  brow  to  kiss, 
"  Thy  rest  is  won,"  he  said ; — "  sweet  sister !  praise  for  this  I' 


LXVII. 

I  started  as  from  sleep ; — yes  I  he  had  spoken — 
A  breeze  had  troubled  memory's  hidden  source ! 
At  once  the  torpor  of  my  soul  was  broken — 
Thought,  feeling,  passion,  woke  in  tenfold  force. 
—There  are  soft  breathings  in  the  southern  wind. 
That  so  your  ce-chains,  O  ye  streams !  unbind. 
And  free  the  foaming  swiftness  of  your  course ! 
— I  burst  from  those  that  held  me  back,  and  fell 
Ev'n  on  his  neck,  and  cried — "  Friend,  brother !  fare  thee  well  \' 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  37 

LXVIII. 

Did  he  not  say  "  Farewell  ?" — Alas !  no  breath 
Came  to  mine  ear.     Hoarse  murmurs  from  the  throng 
Told  that  the  mysteries  in  the  face  of  death 
Had  from  their  eager  sight  been  veil'd  too  long. 
And  we  were  parted  as  the  surge  might  part 
Those  that  would  die  together,  true  of  heart. 
— His  hour  was  come — but  in  mine  anguish  strong. 
Like  a  fierce  swimmer  through  the  midnight  sea. 
Blindly  I  rush'd  away  from  that  which  was  to  be. 


LXIX. 

Away — away  I  rush'd; — but  swift  and  high 
The  arrowy  pillars  of  the  firelight  grew. 
Till  the  transparent  darkness  of  the  sky 
Flush'd  to  a  blood -red  mantle  in  their  hue  / 
And,  phantom-like,  the  kindling  city  seem'd 
To  spread,  float,  wave,  as  on  the  wind  they  stream'd. 
With  their  wild  splendour  chasing  me ! — I  knew 
The  death-work  was  begun — I  veil'd  mine  eyes. 
Yet  stopp'd  in  spell-bound  fear  to  catch  the  victims'  cries. 


38  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  ^ 

LXX. 

What  heard  I  then  ? — a  ringing  shriek  of  pain. 
Such  as  for  ever  haunts  the  tortur'd  ear  ? 
— I  heard  a  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  strain 
Piercing  the  flames,  untremulous  and  clear !  * 

— The  rich,  triumphal  tones ! — I  knew  them  well. 
As  they  came  floating  with  a  breezy  swell ! 
Man's  voice  was  there — a  clarion  voice  to  cheer 
In  the  mid-battle — ay,  to  turn  the  flying — 
Woman's — ^that  might  have  sung  of  Heaven  beside  the  dying! 


LXXI. 

It  was  a  fearful,  yet  a  glorious  thing. 
To  hear  that  hymn  of  martyrdom,  and  know 
That  its  glad  stream  of  melody  could  spring 
Up  from  th'  unsqunded  gulfs  of  human  woe ! 
Alvar !  Theresa ! — what  is  deep  ?  what  strong  ? 
— God's  breath  within  the  soul ! — It  fill'd  that  song 
From  your  victorious  voices ! — but  the  glow 
On  the  hot  air  and  lurid  skies  increased — 
— Faint  grew  the  sounds— more  faint — I  listen'd — they  had 
ceas  d ! 


THE   FOllEST    SANCTUABY.  39 

LXXII. 

And  thou  indeed  hadst  perish'd,  my  soul's  friend  ! 
I  might  form  other  ties — but  thou  alone 
Couldst  with  a  glance  the  veil  of  dimness  rend. 
By  other  years  o'er  boyhood's  memory  thrown  ! 
Others  might  aid  me  onward  : — Thou  and  I 
Had  mingled  the  fresh  thoughts  that  early  die. 
Once  flowering — never  more  !^And  thou  wert  gone ! 
Who  could  give  back  my  youth,  my  spirit  free. 
Or  be  in  aught  again  what  thou  hadst  been  to  me  ? 


LXXIII. 
And  yet  I  wept  thee  not,  thou  true  and  brave ! 
I  could  not  weep ! — there  gather'd  round  thy  name 
Too  deep  a  passion ! — thou  denied  a  grave ! 
Thou,  with  the  blight  flung  on  thy  soldier's  fame  ! 
Had  I  not  known  thy  heart  from  childhood's  time? 
Thy  heart  of  hearts  ? — and  couldst  thou  die  for  crime  ? 
—No !  had  all  earth  decreed  that  death  of  shame, 
I  would  have  set,  against  all  earth's  decree, 
Th'  inalienable  trust  of  my  firm  soul  in  thee ! 


40  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXXIV. 

There  are  swift  hours  iii  life — strong,  rushing  hours. 
That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their  might ! 
They  shake  down  things  that  stood  as  rocks  and  toweri 
Unto  th'  undoubting  mind ; — they  pour  in  light 
Where  it  but  startles — like  a  burst  of  day 
For  which  th'  uprooting  of  an  oak  makes  way ; — 
They  sweep  the  colouring  mists  from  off  our  sight. 
They  touch  with  fire,  thought's  graven  page,  the  roll 
Stamp'd  with  past  years — and  lo !  it  shrivels  as  a  scroll ! 


LXXV. 

And  this  was  of  such  hours ! — the  sudden  flow 
Of  my  soul's  tide  seem'd  whelming  me ;  the  glare 
Of  the  red  flames,  yet  rocking  to  and  fro, 
Scorch'd  up  my  heart  with  breathless  thirst  for  air. 
And  solitude,  and  freedom.     It  had  been 
Well  with  me  then,  in  some  vast  desert  scene. 
To  pour  my  voice  out,  for  the  winds  to  bear 
On  with  them,  wildly  questioning  the  sky. 
Fiercely  th'  untroubled  stars,  of  man's  dim  destiny. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY-  41 

^^   '  LXXVI. 

I  would  have  call'd,  adjuring  the  dark  cloud ; 
To  the  most  ancient  Heavens  I  would  have  said 
— "  Speak  to  me  !  show  me  truth  ^ !" — through  night  aloud 
I  would  have  cried  to  him,  the  newly  dead, 
"  -Come  back  !  and  show  me  truth !" — My  spirit  seem'd 
Gasping  for  some  free  burst,  its  darkness  teem'd 
With  such  pent  storms  of  thought ! — again  I  fled — 
I  fled,  a  refuge  from  man's  face  to  gain. 
Scarce  conscious  when  I  paus'd,  entering  a  lonely  fane. 


LXXVII. 
A  mighty  minster,  dim,  and  proud,  and  vast ! 
Silence  was  round  the  sleepers,  whom  its  floor 
Shut  in  the  grave ;  a  shadow  of  the  past, 
A  memory  of  the  sainted  steps  that  wore 
Erewhile  its  gorgeous  pavement,  seem'd  to  brood 
Like  mist  upon  the  stately  solitude, 
A  halo  of  sad  fame  to  mantle  o'er 
Its  white  sepulchral  forms  of  hiail-clad  men. 
And  all  was  hush'd  as  night  in  some  deep  Alpine  glen. 


4^  THE    FOUEST    SANCTUAlliT. 

LXXVIII. 
More  liush'd,  far  more ! — for  tliere  the  wind  sweeps  by. 
Or  the  woods  tremble  to  tlie  streams'  loud  play  ! 
Here  a  strange  echo  made  my  very  sigh 
Seem  for  the  place  too  much  a  sound  of  day  ! 
Too  much  my  footstep  broke  the  moonlight,  fading. 
Yet  arch  through  arch  in  one  soft  flow  pervading ; 
And  I  stood  still : — prayer,  chant,  had  died  away. 
Yet  past  me  floated  a  funereal  breath 
Of  incense. — I  stood  still — as  before  God  and  death  ! 


LXXIX. 
For  thick  ye  girt  me  round,  ye  long-departed » ! 
Dust — imaged  form — with  cross,  and  shield,  and  crest ; 
It  seem'd  as  if  your  ashes  would  have  started. 
Had  a  wild  voice  burst  forth  above  your  rest ! 
Yet  ne'er,  perchance,  did  worshipper  of  yore 
Bear  to  your  thrilling  presence  what  /  bore 
Of  wrath — doubt — anguish — battling  in  the  breast ! 
I  could  have  pour'd  out  words,  on  that  pale  air. 
To  make  your  proud  tombs  ring : — no,  no !  I  could  not  there  ! 


THK   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  43 

LXXX. 

Not  midst  those  aisles,  through  which  a  thousand  years 
Mutely  as  clouds  and  reverently  had  swept  ; 
Not  by  those  shrines,  which  yet  the  trace  of  tears 
And  kneeling  votaries  on  their  marble  kept ! 
Ye  were  too  mighty  in  your  pomp  of  gloom 
And  trophied  age,  O  temple,  altar,  tomb ! 
And  you,  ye  dead  ! — for  in  that  faith  ye  slept. 
Whose  weight  had  grown  9.  mountain's  on  my  heart. 
Which  could  not  there  be  loos'd.~I  turn'd  me  to  depart. 


LXXXI. 
I  turn'd — what  glimmer'd  faintly  on  my  sight. 
Faintly,  yet  brightening,  as  a  wreath  of  snow 
Seen  through  dissolving  haze  ? — The  moon,  the  night. 
Had  waned,  and  dawn  pour'd  in; — grey,  shadowy,  slow. 
Yet  day-spring  still ! — a  solemn  hue  it  caught, 
Piercing  the  storied  windows,  darkly  fi'aught 
With  stoles  and  draperies  of  imperial  glow ; 
And  soft,  and  sad,  that  colouring  gleam  was  thrown. 
Where,  pale,  a  pictur'd  form  above  the  altai-  shone. 


44 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 


LXXXII. 

Thy  form,  thou  Son  of  God ! — a  wrathful  deep, 
With  foam,  and  cloud,  and  tempest,  round  thee  spread. 
And  such  a  weight  of  night ! — a  night,  when  sleep 
From  the  fierce  rocking  of  the  billows  fled. 
A  bark  show'd  dim  beyond  thee,  with  its  mast 
Bow'd,  and  its  rent  sail  shivering  to  the  blast ; 
But,  like  a  spirit  in  thy  gliding  tread. 
Thou,  as  o'er  glass,  didst  walk  that  stormy  sea 
Through  rushing  winds,  which  left  a  silent  path  for  thee 


LXXXIII.    - 
So  still  thy  white  robes  fell ! — no  breath  of  air 
Within  their  long  and  slumberous  folds  had  sway ! 
So  still  the  waves  of  parted,  shadowy  hair 
From  thy  clear  brow  flow'd  droopingly  away ! 
Dark  were  the  Heavens  above  thee.  Saviour ! — dark 
The  gulfs.  Deliverer !  round  the  straining  bark ! 
But  thou ! — o'er  all  thine  aspect  and  array 
Was  pour'd  one  stream  of  pale,  broad,  silvery  light — 
-Thou  wert  the  single  star  of  that  all-shrouding  night ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  45 

LXXXIV. 

Aid  for  one  sinking ! — Thy  lone  brightness  gleam'd 
On  his  wild  face,  just  lifted  o'er  the  wave. 
With  its  worn,  fearful,  human  look  that  seem'd 
To  cry  through  surge  and  blast — "  I  perish— save !" 
Not  to  the  winds — not  vainly  ! — thou  wert  nigh. 
Thy  hand  was  stretch'd  to  fainting  agony. 
Even  in  the  portals  of  th'  unquiet  grave ! 
O  thou  that  art  the  life !  and  yet  didst  bear 
Too  much  of  mortal  woe  to  turn  from  mortal  prayer ! 


LXXXV. 

But  was  it  not  a  thing  to  rise  on  death. 
With  its  remember'd  light,  that  face  of  thine. 
Redeemer  !  dimm'd  by  this  world's  misty  breath. 
Yet  mournfully,  mysteriously  divine  ? 
— Oh  !  that  calm,  sorrowful,  prophetic  eye, 
With  its  dark  depths  of  grief,  love,  majesty ! 
And  the  pale  glory  of  the  brow ! — a  shrine 
Where  Power  sat  veil'd,  yet  shedding  softly  round 
What  told  that  thou  couldst  be  but  for  a  time  uncrown'd ! 


46  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXXXVI. 

And  more  than  all,  the  Heaven  of  that  sad  smile  ! 
The  lip  of  mercy,  our  immortal  trust ! 
Did  not  that  look,  that  very  look,  erewhile. 
Pour  its  o'ershadow'd  beauty  on  the  dust  ? 
Wert  thou  not  such  when  earth's  dark  cloud  hung  o'er  thee  ? 
— Surely  thou  wert ! — my  heart  grew  hush'd  before  thee. 
Sinking  with  all  its  passions,  as  the  gust 
Sank  at  thy  voice,  along  its  billowy  way : — 
— What  had  I  there  to  do,  but  kneel,  and  weep,  and  pray  ? 


LXXXVII. 

Amidst  the  stillness  rose  my  spirit's  cry 
Amidst  the  dead — *'  By  that  full  cup  of  woe, 
Press'd  from  the  fruitage  of  mortality, 
Saviour !  for  thee — give  light !  that  I  may  know 
If  by  thy  will,  in  thine  all-healing  name. 
Men  cast  down  human  hearts  to  blighting  shame, 
And  early  death — and  say,  if  this  be  so. 
Where  then  is  mercy  ? — whither  shall  we  flee. 
So  unallied  to  hope,  save  by  our  hold  on  thee  ? 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  47 

LXXXVIII. 

"  But  didst  thou  not,  the  deep  sea  brightly  treading, 
Lift  from  despair  that  struggler  with  the  wave  ? 
And  wert  thou  not,  sad  tears,  yet  awful,  shedding, 
Beheld,  a  weeper  at  a  mortal's  grave  ? 
And  is  this  weight  of  anguish,  which  they  bind 
On  life,  this  searing  to  the  quick  of  mind. 
That  but  to  God  its  own  free  path  would  crave. 
This  crushing  out  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth, 
Thi/  will  indeed  ? — Give  light !  that  I  may  know  the  truth  ! 


LXXXIX. 

*'  For  my  sick  soul  is  darkened  unto  death. 
With  shadows  from  the  suffering  it  hath  seen 
The  strong  foundations  of  mine  ancient  faith 
Sink  from  beneath  me — ^whereon  shall  I  lean  ? 
— Oh  !  if  from  thy  pure  lips  was  wrung  the  sigh 
Of  the  dust's  anguish  !  if  like  man  to  die, 
— And  earth  round  Mm  shuts  heavily — hath  been 
Even  to  thee  bitter,  aid  me  ! — guide  me ! — turn 
My  wild  and  wandering  thoughts  back  from  their  starless  bourne ! 


48  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

xc. 

And  calm'd  I  rose  :-^but  how  the  while  had  risen 
Morn's  orient  sun,  dissolving  mist  and  shade  ! 
— Could  there  indeed  be  wrong,  or  chain,  or  prison, 
In  the  bright  world  such  radiance  might  pervade  ? 
It  fill'd  the  fane,  it  mantled  the  pale  form 
Which  rose  before  me  through  the  pictured  storm, 
Even  the  grey  tombs  it  kindled,  and  array'd 
With  life ! — how  hard  to  see  thy  race  begun. 
And  think  man  wakes  to  grief,  wakening  to  thee,  O  sun  ! 


XCI. 

I  sought  my  home  again ; — and  thou,  my  child. 
There  at  thy  play  beneath  yon  ancient  pine. 
With  eyes,  whose  lightning  laughter  ^o  hath  beguil'd 
A  thousand  pangs,  thence  flashing  joy  to  mine ; 
Thou  in  thy  mother's  arms,  a  babe,  didst  meet 
My  coming  with  young  smiles,  which  yet,  though  sweet, 
Seem'd  on  my  soul  all  mournfully  to  shine. 
And  ask  a  happier  heritage  for  thee. 
Than  but  in  turn  the  blight  of  human  hope  to  see. 


THE    lOKEST    SANCTUARY. 

XCII. 
Now  sport,  for  thou  ai-e  free — the  bright  birds  chasing, 
Whose  wings  waft  star-like  gleams  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
Or  with  the  fawn,  thy  swift  wood-playmate  racing, 
Sport  on,  my  joyous  child !  for  thou  art  free  ! 
Yes,^  on  that  day  I  took  thee  to  my  heart. 
And  inly  vow'd,  for  thee  a  better  part 
To  choose ;  that  so  thy  sunny  bursts  of  glee 
Should  wake  no  more  dim  thoughts  of  far-seen  woe. 
But,  gladdening  fearless  eyes,  flow  on — as  now  they  flow. 


49 


XCIII. 

Thou  hast  a  rich  world  round  thee': — Mighty  shades 
Weaving  their  gorgeous  tracery  o'er  thy  head, 
With  the  light  melting  through  their  high  arcades. 
As  through  a  pillar'd  cloister's  "  :  but  the  dead 
Sleep  not  beneath ;  nor  doth  the  sunbeam  pass 
To  marble  shrines  through  rainbow-tinted  glass ; 
Yet  thou,  by  fount  and  forest-murmur  led 
To  worship,  thou  art  blest !— to  thee  is  shown 
Earth  in  her  holy  pomp,  deck'd  for  her  God  alone. 


ir  (j<if{ 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 

PART  SECOND. 


Wie  diese  treue  liebe  seele 

Von  ihrem  Glauben  Voll, 

Der  ganz  allein 
Ihr  selig  machend  ist,  sich  heilig  quale, 
Das  sie  den  liebsten  Mann  verloren  hidten  soil ! 

I  never  shall  smile  more — but  all  my  days 
Walk  with  still  footsteps  and  with  humble  eyes, 
An  everlasting  hymn  within  my  soul. 


Faust. 


Wilson. 


I 

Bring  me  the  sounding  of  the  torrent-water, 
With  yet  a  nearer  swell — fresh  breeze,  awake  ^^ ! 
And  river,  darkening  ne'er  with  hues  of  slaughter 
Thy  wave's  pure  silvery  green, — and  shining  lake, 
Spread  far  before  my  cabin,  with  thy  zone 
Of  ancient  woods,  ye  chainless  things  and  lone ! 
Send  voices  through  the  forest  aisles,  and  make 
Glad  music  round  me,  that  my  soul  may  dare, 
Cheer'd  by  such  tones,  to  look  back  on  a  dungeon's  air ! 

e2 


52  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY^. 

II. 

Oh,  Indian  hunter  of  the  desert's  race  ! 
That  with  the  spear  at  times,  or  bended  bow. 
Dost  cross  my  footsteps  in  thy  fiery  chase 
Of  the  swift  elk  or  blue  hill's  flying  roe ; 
Thou  that  beside  the  red  night-fire  thou  heapest. 
Beneath  the  cedars  and  the  star-light  sleepest. 
Thou  know'st  not,  wanderer — never  may*st  thou  know  !■ 
Of  the  dark  holds  wherewith  man  cumbers  earth. 
To  shut  from  human  eyes  the  dancing  seasons'  mirth. 


There,  fetter'd  down  from  day,  to  think  the  while 
How  bright  in  Heaven  the  festal  sun  is  glowing. 
Making  earth's  loneliest  places,  with  his  smile. 
Flush  like  the  rose ;  and  how  the  streams  are  flowing 
With  sudden  sparkles  through  the  shadowy  grass. 
And  water-flowers,  all  trembling  as  they  pass ; 
And  how  the  rich  dark  summer-trees  are  bowing 
With  their  full  foliage ; — this  to  know,  and  pine 
Bound  unto  midnight's  heart,  seems  a  stern  lot — 'twas  mine. 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  -  53 

IV. 

Wherefore  was  this  ? — Because  my  soul  had  drawn 
Light  from  the  book  whose  words  are  grav'd  in  light ! 
There,  at  its  well-head,  had  I  found  the  dawn. 
And  day,  and  noon  of  freedom  : — but  too  bright 
It  shines  on  that  which  man  to  nnan  hath  given. 
And  caird  the  truth — the  very  truth,  from  Heaven ! 
And  therefore  seeks  he,  in  his  brother's  sight. 
To  cast  the  mote ;  and  therefore  strives  to  bind 
With  his  strong  chains  to  earth,  what  is  not  earth's — the  mind! 


V. 

It  is  a  weary  and  a  bitter  task 
Back  from  the  lip  the  burning  word  to  keep. 
And  to  shut  out  Heaven's  air  with  falsehood's  mask. 
And  in  the  dark  urn  of  the  soul  to  heap 
Indignant  feelings — making  even  of  thought 
A  buried  treasure,  which  may  but  be  sought 
When  shadows  are  abroad — and  night — and  sleep. 
I  might  not  brook  it  long — and  thus  was  thrown 
Into  that  grave-like  cell,  to  wither  there  alone. 


54  TlfTE    FOREST    SANCTTJAIIY. 

VI. 

And  I  a  child  of  danger^  whose  delights 
Were  on  dark  hills  and  many-sounding  seas — 
I,  that  amidst  the  Cordillera  heights 
Had  given  Castilian  banners  to  the  breeze. 
And  the  full  circle  of  the  rainbow  seen 
There,  on  the  snows  ^^ ;  and  in  my  countiy  been 
A  mountain  wanderer,  from  the  Pyrenees 
To  the  Morena  crags — how  left  I  not 
Life,  or  the  soul's  life  quench'd,  on  that  sepulchral  spot  ? 


VII. 

Because  Thou  didst  not  leave  me,  oh,  my  God ! 
Thou  wert  with  those  that  bore  the  truth  of  old 
Into  the  deserts  from  the  oppressor's  rod. 
And  made  the  caverns  of  the  rock  their  fold, 
And  in  the  hidden  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Our  guiding  lamp  with  fire  immortal  fed. 
And  met  when  stars  met,  by  their  beams  to  hold 
The  free  heart's  communing  with  Thee,^ — and  Thou 
Wert  in  the  midst,  felt,  own'd-~the  strengthener  then  as  now  ! 


THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY.  55 

VIII. 

Yet  once  I  sank.    Alas !  man's  wavering  mind  ! 
Wherefore  and  whence  the  gusts  that  o'er  it  blow  ? 
How  they  bear  with  them,  floating  uncombin'd. 
The  shadows  of  the  past,  that  come  and  go. 
As  o'er  the  deep  the  old  long-buried  things, 
Which  a  storm's  working  to  the  surface  brings ! 
Is  the  reed  shaken,  and  must  we  be  so. 
With  every  wind  ? — So,  Father !  must  we  be. 
Till  we  can  fix  undimm'd  our  stedfast  eyes  on  Thee. 


IX. 

Once  my  soul  died  within  me.     What  had  thrown 
That  sickness  o'er  it  ? — Even  a  passing  thought 
Of  a  clear  spring,  whose  side,  with  flowers  o'ergrown. 
Fondly  and  oft  my  boyish  steps  had  sought ! 
Perchance  the  damp  roof's  water-drops,  that  fell 
Just  then,  low  tinkling  through  my  vaulted  cell. 
Intensely  heard  amidst  the  stillness,  caught 
Some  tone  from  memory,  of  the  music,  welling 
Ever  with  that  fresh  rill,  from  its  deep  rocky  dwelling. 


.56  THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 

X. 

But  so  my  spirit's  fever'd  longings  wrought, 
Wakening,  it  might  be,  to  the  faint  sad  sound. 
That  from  the  darkness  of  the  walls  they  brought 
A  lov'd  scene  round  me,  visibly  around  i*. 
Yes!  kindling,  spreading,  brightening,  hue  by  hue, 
Like  stars  from  midnight,  through  the  gloom  it  grew. 
That  haunt  of  youth,  hope,  manhood  ! — till  the  bound 
Of  my  shut  cavern  seem'd  dissolv'd,  and  I 
Girt  by  the  solemn  hills  and  burning  pomp  of  sky. 


XI. 

I  look'd — and  lo !  the  clear  broad  river  flowing. 
Past  the  old  Moorish  ruin  on  the  steep. 
The  lone  tower  dark  against  a  Heaven  all  glowing. 
Like  seas  of  glass  and  fire  ! — I  saw  the  sweep 
Of  glorious  woods  far  down  the  mountain  side. 
And  their  still  shadows  in  the  gleaming  tide. 
And  the  red  evening  on  its  waves  asleep  j 
And  midst  the  scene — oh  !  more  than  all — there  smil'd 
My  child's  fair  face,  and  hers,  the  mother  of  my  child ! 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  57 

XII.  • 

With  their  soft  eyes  of  love  and  gladness  rais'd 
Up  to  the  flushing  sky,  as  when  we  stood 
Last  by  that  river,  and  in  silence  gaz'd 
On  the  rich  world  of  sunset : — but  a  flood 
Of  sudden  tenderness  my  soul  oppress'd. 
And  I  rush'd  forward  with  a  yearning  breast. 
To  clasp — alas !  a  vision  ! — Wave  and  wood. 
And  gentle  faces,  lifted  in  the  light 
Of  day's  last  hectic  blush,  all  melted  from  my  sight. 


XIII. 

Then  darkness  ! — oh  !  th'  unutterable  gloom 
That  seem'd  as  narrowing  round  me,  making  less 
And  less  my  dungeon,  when,  with  all  its  bloom, 
That  bright  dream  vanish'd  from  my  loneliness ! 
It  floated  off,  the  beautiful ! — yet  left 
Such  deep  thirst  in  my  soul,  that  thus  bereft, 
I  lay  down,  sick  with  passion's  vain  excess. 
And  pray'd  to  die. — How  oft  would  sorrow  weep 
Her  weariness  to  death,  if  he  might  come  like  sleep ! 


68  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

•  XIV. 
But  I  was  rous'd — and  how  ?— It  is  no  tale 
Even  midst  thy  shades,  thou  wilderness,  to  tell ! 
I  would  not  have  my  boy's  young  cheek  made  pale. 
Nor  haunt  his  sunny  rest  with  what  befel 
In  that  drear  prison-house. — His  eye  must  grow 
More  dark  with  thought,  more  earnest  his  fair  brow. 
More  high  his  heart  in  youthful  strength  must  swell ; 
So  shall  it  fitly  burn  when  all  is  told : — 
Let  childhood's  radiant  mist  the  free  child  yet  enfold  ! 


XV. 

It  is  enough  that  through  such  heavy  hours. 
As  wring  us  by  our  fellowship  of  clay, 
I  liv'd,  and  undegraded.     We  have  powers 
To  snatch  th'  oppressor's  bitter  joy  away ! 
Shall  the  wild  Indian,  for  his  savage  fame. 
Laugh  and  expire,  and  shall  not  truth's  high  name 
Bear  up  her  martyrs  with  all-conquering  sway  ? 
It  is  enough  that  Torture  may  be  vain — 
I  had  seen  Alvar  die — the  strife  was  won  from  Pain. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  '59 

XVI. 

And  faint  not,  heart  of  man  !  though  years  wane  slow ! 
There  have  been  those  that  from  the  deepest  caves> 
And  cells  of  night,  and  fastnesses,  below 
The  stormy  dashing  of  the  ocean-waves, 
Down,  farther  down  than  gold  lies  hid,  have  nurs'd 
A  quenchless  hope,  and  watch'd  their  time,  and  burst 
On  the  bright  day,  like  wakeners  from  the  graves  ! 
I  was  of  such  at  last ! — unchain'd  I  trod 
This  green  earth,  taking  back  my  freedom  from  my  God ! 


XVII. 
That  was  an  hour  to  setid  its  fadeless  trace 
Down  life's  far  sweeping  tide !— A  dim,  wild  night. 
Like  sorrow,  hung  upon  the  soft  moon's  face, 
Yet  how  my  heart  leap'd  in  her  blessed  light ! 
The  shepherd's  light — the  sailor's  on  the  sea — 
The  hunter's  homeward  from  the  mountains  free. 
Where  its  lone  smile  makes  tremulously  bright 
The  thousand  streams ! — I  could  but  gaze  through  tears— 
Oh  !  what  a  sight  is  Heaven,  thus  first  beheld  for  years  ! 


60  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XVIII. 

The  rolling  clouds ! — they  have  the  whole  blue  space 
Above  to  sail  in — all  the  dome  of  sky  ! 
My  soul  shot  with  them  in  their  breezy  race 
O'er  star  and  gloom  ! — but  I  had  yet  to  fly, 
As  flies  the  hunted  wolf.     A  secret  spot. 
And  strange,  I  knew — the  sunbeam  knew  it  not ; — 
Wildest  of  all  the  savage  glens  that  lie 
In  far  sierras,  hiding  their  deep  springs. 
And  travers'd  but  by  storms,  or  sounding  eagles*  wings. 


XIX. 
Ay,  and  I  met  the  storm  there ! — I  had  gain'd 
The  covert's  heart  with  swift  and  stealthy  tread ; 
A  moan  went  past  me,  and  the  dark  trees  rain'd 
Their  autumn  foliage  rustling  on  my  head  ; 
A  moan — a  hollow  gust — and  there  I  stood 
Girt  with  majestic  night,  and  ancient  wood. 
And  foaming  water. — Thither  might  have  fled 
The  mountain  Christian  with  his  faith  of  yore, 
When  Afric's  tambour  shook  the  ringing  western  shore ! 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XX. 

But  through  the  black  ravine  the  storm  came  swelling- 
Mighty  thou  art  amidst  the  hills,  thou  blast ! 
In  thy  lone  course  the  kingly  cedars  felling. 
Like  plumes  upon  the  path  of  battle  cast ! 
A  rent  oak  thunder'd  down  beside  my  cave — 
Booming  it  rush'd,  as  booms  a  deep  sea-wave  ; 
A  falcon  soar'd ;  a  startled  wild-deer  pass'd ; 
A  far-off  bell  toll'd  faintly  through  the  roar — 
How  my  glad  spirit  swept  forth  with  the  winds  once  more ! 


XXI. 

And  with  the  arrowy  lightnings  ! — for  they  flash'd, 
Smiting  the  branches  in  their  fitful  play. 
And  brightly  shivering  where  the  torrents  dash'd 
Up,  even  to  crag  and  eagle's  nest,  their  spray ! 
And  there  to  stand  amidst  the  pealing  strife, 
The  strong  pines  groaning  with  tempestuous  life. 
And  all  the  mountain-voices  on  their  way, — 
Was  it  not  joy  ? — 'twas  joy  in  rushing  might. 
After  those  years  that  wove  but  one  long  dead  of  night ! 


62  THE    fOREST    SANCTU^AEY. 

XXll. 

There  came  a  softer  hour,  a  lovelier  moon. 
And  lit  me  to  my  home  of  youth  again. 
Through  the  dim  chesnut  shade,  where  oft  at  noon, 
By  the  fount's  flashing  burst,  my  head  had  lain. 
In  gentle  sleep :  but  now  I  pass'd  as  one 
That  may  not  pause  where  wood-streams  whispering  run. 
Or  light  sprays  tremble  to  a  bird's  wild  strain, 
Because  th'  avenger's  voice  is  in  the  wind. 
The  foe's  quick  rustling  step  close  on  the  leaves  behind. 


XXIII. 

My  home  of  youth  !-^oh  !  if  indeed  to  part 
With  the  soul's  lov'd  ones  be  a  mournful  thing, 
When  we  go  forth  in  buoyancy  of  heart. 
And  bearing  all  the  glories  of  our  spring 
For  life  to  breathe  on,— is  it  less  to  meet, 
When  these  are  faded  ?— who  shall  call  it  sweet  ? 
— Even  though  love's  mingling  tears  may  haply  bring 
Balm  as  they  fall,  too  well  their  heavy  showers 
Teach  us  how  much  is  lost  of  all  that  once  was  ours ! 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUAEY.  63 

XXIV. 

Not  by  the  sunshine,  with  its  golden  glow. 
Nor  the  green  earth,  nor  yet  the  laughing  sky, 
Nor  the  faint  flower-scents  *^  as  they  come  and  go 
In  the  soft  air,  like  music  wandering  by ; 
— Oh  I  not  by  these,  th'  unfailing,  are  we  taught 
How  time  and  sorrow  on  our  frames  have  wrought. 
But  by  the  sadden'd  eye,  the  darken'd  brow. 
Of  kindred  aspects,  and  the  long  dim  gaze. 
Which  tells  us  ive  are  chang'd, — how  chang'd  from  other  days  ! 


XXV. 

Before  my  father — in  my  place  of  birth, 
I  stood  an  alien.     On  the  very  floor 
Which  oft  had  trembled  to  my  boyish  mirth. 
The  love  that  rear'd  me,  knew  my  face  no  more  ! 
There  hung  the  antique  armour,  helm  and  crest, 
Whose  every  stain  woke  childhood  in  my  breast. 
There  droop'd  the  banner,  with  the  marks  it  bore 
Of  Paynim  spears ;  and  I,  the  worn  in  frame 
And  heart,  what  there  was  I? — another  and  the  same! 


64  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXVI. 
Then  bounded  in  a  boy,  with  clear  dark  eye — 
—How  should  he  know  his  father  ? — when  we  parted. 
From  the  soft  cloud  which  mantles  infancy, 
His  soul,  just  wakening  into  wonder,  darted 
Its  first  looks  round.     Him  follow'd  one,  the  bride 
Of  my  young  days,  the  wife  how  lov'd  and  tried ! 
Her  glance  met  mine — I  could  not  speak — she  started 
With  a  bewilder'd  gaze ; — until  there  came 
Tears  to  my  burning  eyes,  and  from  my  lips  her  name. 


XXVII. 

She  knew  me  then  ! — I  murmur'd  "  Leonor!" 
And  her  heart  answer'd  ! — oh!  the  voice  is  known 
First  from  all  else,  and  swiftest  to  restore 
Love's  buried  images  with  one  low  tone. 
That  strikes  like  lightning,  when  the  cheek  is  faded, 
And  the  brow  heavily  with  thought  o'ershaded. 
And  all  the  brightness  from  the  aspect  gone  ! 
— Upon  my  breast  she  sunk,  when  doubt  was  fled. 
Weeping  as  those  may  weep,  that  meet  in  woe  and  dread. 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  .^ 

XXVIII. 

For  there  we  might  not  rest.     Alas !  to  leave 
Those  native  tovi^ers,  and  know  that  they  must  fall 
By  slow  decay,  and  none  remain  to  grieve 
When  the  weeds  cluster'd  on  the  lonely  wall ! 
We  were  the  last — my  boy  and  I — the  last 
Of  a  long  line  which  brightly  thence  had  pass'd  \ 
My  father  bless'd  me  as  I  left  his  hall — 
— With  his  deep  tones  and  sweet,  tho'  full  of  years. 
He  bless'd  me  there,  and  bath'd  my  child's  young  head  with  tears. 


XXIX. 

I  had  brought  sorrow  on  his  grey  hairs  down. 
And  cast  the  darkness  of  my  branded  name 
(For  so  he  deem'd  it)  on  the  clear  renown. 
My  own  ancestral  heritage  of  fame. 
And  yet  he  bless'd  me ! — Father !  if  the  dust 
Lie  on  those  lips  benign,  my  spirit's  trust 
Is  to  behold  thee  yet,  where  grief  and  shame 
Dim  the  bright  day  no  more;  and  thou  wilt  know 
That  not  thro'  guilt  thy  son  thus  bow'd  thine  age  with  woe ! 


66  ■  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXX. 

And  thou,  my  Leonor!  that  unrepining. 
If  sad  in  soul,  didst  quit  all  else  for  me. 
When  stars — the  stars  that  earliest  rise — are  shining. 
How  their  soft  glance  unseals  each  thought  of  thee ! 
For  on  our  flight  they  smil'd ; — their  dewy  rays. 
Thro'  the  last  olives,  lit  thy  tearful  gaze 
Back  to  the  home  we  never  more  might  see ; 
So  pass'd  we  on,  like  earth's  first  exiles,  turning 
Fond  looks  where  hung  the  sword  above  their  Eden  burning. 


XXXI. 

It  was  a  woe  to  say — "  Farewell,  my  Spain  ! 
The  sunny  and  the  vintage  land,  farewell !" 
— I  could  have  died  upon  the  battle  plain 
For  thee,  my  country !  but  I  might  not  dwell 
In  thy  sweet  vales,  at  peace. — The  voice  of  song 
Breathes,  with  the  myrtle  scent,  thy  hills  along; 
The  citron's  glow  is  caught  from  shade  and  dell  ; 
But  what  are  these  ? — upon  thy  flowery  sod 
1  might  not  kneel,  and  pour  my  free  thoughts  out  to  God ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  ^1 

XXXII. 
O'er  the  blue  deep  I  fled,  the  chainless  deep ! 
— Strange  heart  of  man !  that  ev'n  midst  woe  swells  high. 
When  tliro'  the  foam  he  sees  his  proud  bark  sweep, 
Flinging  out  joyous  gleams  to  wave  and  sky ! 
Yes  !  it  swells  high,  whate'er  he  leaves  behind ; 
His  spirit  rises  with  the  rising  wind  ; 
For,  wedded  to  the  far  futurity. 
On,  on,  it  bears  him  ever,  and  the  main 
Seems  rushing,  like  his  hope,  some  happier  shore  to  gain. 


XXXIII. 

Not  thus  is  woman.     Closely  her  still  heart 
Doth  twine  itself  with  ev'n  each  lifeless  thing. 
Which,  long  remember'd,  seem'd  to  bear  its  part 
In  her  calm  joys.     For  ever  would  she  cling, 
A  brooding  dove,  to  that  sole  spot  of  earth 
,  Where  she  hath  loved,  and  given  her  children  birth, 
I  And  heard  their  first  sweet  voices.     There  may  Spring 

Array  no  path,  renew  no  flower,  no  leaf. 
But  hath  its  breath  of  home,  its  claim  to  farewell  grief. 

F  2 


§8  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXXIV. 

I  look'd  on  Leonor,  and  if  there  seem'd 
A  cloud  of  more  than  pensiveness  to  rise, 
In  the  faint  smiles  that  o'er  her  features  gleam'd. 
And  the  soft  darkness  of  her  serious  eyes. 
Misty  with  tender  gloom ;  I  call'd  it  nought 
But  the  fond  exile's  pang,  a  lingering  thought 
Of  her  own  vale,  with  all  its  melodies 
And  living  light  of  streams.     Her  soul  would  rest 
Beneath  your  shades,  I  said,  bowers  of  the  gorgeous  west 


XXXV. 

Oh !  could  we  live  in  visions !  could  we  hold 
Delusion  faster,  longer,  to  our  breast. 
When  it  shuts  from  us,  with  its  mantle's  fold. 
That  which  we  see  not,  and  are  therefore  blest  f 
But  they,  our  lov'd  and  loving,  they  to  whom 
We  have  spread  out  our  souls  in  joy  and  gloom. 
Their  looks  and  accents,  unto  ours  address'd. 
Have  been  a  language  of  familiar  tone 
Too  long  to  breathe,  at  last,  dark  sayings  and  unknown. 


THE    FOREST    SANt^TUAltY.  69 

XXXVI. 

I  told  my  heart  'twas  but  the  exile's  woe 
Which  press'd  on  that  sweet  bosom  j — I  deceiv'd 
My  heart  but  half: — a  whisper  faint  and  low. 
Haunting  it  ever,  and  at  times  believ'd. 
Spoke  of  some  deeper  cause.     How  oft  we  seem 
Like  those  that  dream,  and  knoxjo  the  while  they  dream. 
Midst  the  soft  falls  of  airy  voices  griev'd. 
And  troubled,  while  bright  phantoms  round  them  play, 
By  a  dim  sense  that  all  will  float  and  fade  away ! 


XXXVII. 

Yet,  as  if  chasing  joy,  I  woo'd  the.  breeze. 
To  speed  me  onward  with  the  wings  of  morn. 
— Oh !  far  amidst  the  solitary  seas, 
Which  were  not  made  for  man,  what  man  hath  borne. 
Answering  their  moan  with  his ! — what  thou  didst  bear. 
My  lost  and  loveliest !  while  that  secret  care 
Grew  terror,  and  thy  gentle  spirit,  worn 
By  its  dull  brooding  weight,  gave  way  at  last. 
Beholding  me  as  one  from  hope  for  ever  cast ! 


70  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XXXVIII. 

For  unto  thee,  as  thro'  all  change,  reveal'd 
Mine  inward  being  lay.     In  other  eyes 
I  had  to  bow  me  yet,  and  make  a  shield. 
To  fence  my  burning  bosom,  of  disguise ; 
By  the  still  hope  sustained,  ere  long  to  win 
Some  sanctuary,  whose  green  retreats  within. 
My  thoughts  unfetter'd  to  their  source  might  rise. 
Like  songs  and  scents  of  morn. — But  thou  didst  look 
Thro*  all  my  sotil,  and  thine  even  unto  fainting  shook. 


XXXIX. 

Fall'n,  fall'n,  I  seem'd — yet,  oh !  not  less  belov'd, 
Tho'  from  thy  love  was  pluck'd  the  early  pride. 
And  harshly,  by  a  gloomy  faith  reproved. 
And  sear'd  with  shame ! — tho'  each  young  flower  had  died. 
There  was  the  root, — strong,  living,  not  the  less 
That  all  it  yielded  now  was  bitterness ; 
Yet  still  such  love  as  quits  not  misery's  side. 
Nor  drops  from  guilt  its  ivy-like  embrace. 
Nor  turns  away  from  death's  its  pale  heroic  face. 


THE    FOUES'i;    SANCTUARY.  71 

XL. 

Yes !  thou  Iiadst  follow'd  me  thro'  fear  and  flight ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  follow'd  had  my  pathway  led 
Even  to  the  scaffold  j  had  the  flashing  light 
Of  the  rais'd  axe  made  strong  men  shrink  with  dread. 
Thou,  midst  the  hush  of  thousands,  wouldst  have  been 
With  thy  clasp'd  hands  beside  me  kneeling  seen, 
And  meekly  bowing  to  the  shame  thy  head — 
— The  shame ! — oh .'  making  beautiful  to  view 
The  might  of  human  love — fair  thing !  so  bravely  true  ! 


XU. 

There  was  thine  agony — to  love  so  well 
Where  fear  made  love  life's  chastener. — Heretofore 
Whate'er  of  earth's  disquiet  round  thee  fell. 
Thy  soul,  o'erpassing  its  dim  bounds,  could  soar 
Away  to  sunshine,  and  thy  clear  eye  speak 
Most  of  the  skies  when  grief  most  touch'd  thy  cheek. 
Now,  that  far  brightness  faded !  never  more 
Couldst  thou  lift  heavenwards  for  its  hope  thy  heart. 
Since  at  Heaven's  gate  it  seem'd  that  thou  and  I  must  part. 


fO;  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XLII. 

Alas !  and  life  hath  moments  when  a  glance 
(If  thought  to  sudden  watchfulness  be  stirr'd,) 
A  flush — a  fading  of  the  cheek  perchance, 
A  word— less,  less — the  cadence  of  a  word, 
Lets  in  our  gaze  the  mind's  dim  veil  beneath. 
Thence  to  bring  haply  knowledge  fraught  with  death  ! 
— Even  thus,  what  never  from  thy  lip  was  heard 
Broke  on  my  soul. — I  knew  that  in  thy  sight 
I  stood — howe'er  belov'd — a  recreant  from' the  light ! 


XLIII. 
Thy  sad  sweet  hymn,  at  eve,  the  seas  along, — 
— Oh  !  thie  deep  soul  it  breath 'd ! — the  love,  the  woe, 
The  fervor,  pour'd  in  that  full  gush  of  song. 
As  it  went  floating  through  the  fiery  glow 
Of  the  rich  sunset ! — bringing  thoughts  of  Spain, 
With  all  her  vesper-voices,  o'er  the  main. 
Which  seem'd  responsive  in  its  murmuring  flow. 
— "  A'oe  sanctissima  r' — how  oft  that  lay 
Hath  melted  from  my  heart  the  martyr-strength  away  ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  73 

Ave,  sanctissima ! 
'Tis  night-fall  on  the  sea ; 

Ora  pro  nobis ! 
Our  souls  rise  to  thee ! 


Watch  us,  while  shadows  lie 

O'er  the  dim  water  spread ; 

Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh, 
— Thlncy  too,  hath  bled ! 


Thou  that  hast  look'd  on  death. 
Aid  us  when  death  is  near ! 

Whisper  of  Heaven  to  faith  ; 
Sweet  mother,  hear  I 


Ora  pro  nobis ! 
The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep, 

Ora,  mater,  ora! 
Thou  star  of  the  deep  ! 


74  THE   FOREST    SANCTUAIIY. 

XLIV. 

"  Ora  pro  nobis,  mater  !" — What  a  spell 
Was  in  those  notes,  with  day's  last  glory  dying 
On  the  flush'd  waters  ! — seem'd  they  not  to  swell 
From  the  far  dust^  wherein  my  sires  were  lying 
With  crucifix  and  sword  ? — Oh  !  yet  how  clear 
Comes  their  reproachful  sweetness  to  mine  ear ! 
"  Ora  I" — with  all  the  purple  waves  replying, 
All  ray  youth's  visions  rising  in  the  strain — 
— And  I  had  thought  it  much  to  bear  the  rack  and  chain  ! 


XLV. 

Torture ! — the  sorrow  of  affection's  eye. 
Fixing  its  meekness  on  the  spirit's  core. 
Deeper,  and  teaching  more  of  agony. 
May  pierce  than  many  swords ! — and  this  I  bore 
With  a  mute  pang.     Since  I  had  vainly  striven 
From  its  free  springs  to  pour  the  truth  of  Heaven 
Into  thy  trembling  soul,  my  Leonor ! 
Silence  rose  up  where  hearts  no  hope  could  share : 
— Alas  !  for  those  that  love,  and  may  not  blend  in  prayer  ! 


THE   FOKEST    SANCTUARY.  75 

XLVI. 

We  could  not  pray  together  midst  the  deep. 
Which,  like  a  floor  of  sapphire,  round  us  lay. 
Through  days  of  splendour,  nights  too  bright  for  sleep. 
Soft,  solemn,  holy  ! — We  were  on  our  way 
Unto  the  mighty  Cordillera-land, 
With  men  whom  tales  of  that  world's  golden  strand 
Had  lur'd  to  leave  their  vines. — Oh  !  who  shall  say 
What  thoughts  rose  in  us,  when  the  tropic  sky 
Touch 'd  all  its  molten  seas  with  sunset's  alchemy  ? 


XLVII. 

Thoughts  no  more  mingled  ! — Then  came  night — th'  intense 
Dark  blue — the  burning  stars  ! — I  saw  thee  shine 
Once  more,  in  thy  serene  magnificence, 

0  Southern  Cross  *^ !  as  when  thy  radiant  sign 
First  drew  my  gaze  of  youth. — No,  not  as  then  j 

1  had  been  stricken  by  the  darts  of  men 

Since  those  fresh  days,  and  now  thy  light  divine 
Look'd  on  mine  anguish,  while  within  me  strove 
The  still  small  voice  against  the  might  of  suffering  love. 


76  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

XL  VII  I. 

But  thou,  the  clear,  the  glorious  !  thou  wert  pouring 
Brilliance  and  joy  upon  the  crystal  vrave, 
While  she  that  met  thy  ray  with  eyes  adoring, 
Stood  in  the  lengthening  shadow  of  the  grave ! 
— Alas  !   I  watch 'd  her  dark  religious  glance. 
As  it  still  sought  thee  through  the  Heaven's  expanse. 
Bright  Cross  ! — and  knew  not  that  I  watch'd  what  gave 
But  passing  lustre — shrouded  soon  to  be — 
A  soft  light  found  no  more — no  more  on  earth  or  sea  ! 


XLIX. 

I  knew  not  all — yet  something  of  unrest 
Sat  on  my  heart.     Wake,  ocean -wind  !   I  said ; 
Waft  us  to  land,  in  leafy  freshness  drest. 
Where  through  rich  clouds  of  foliage  o'er  her  head. 
Sweet  day  may  steal,  and  rills  unseen  go  by. 
Like  singing  voices,  and  the  green  earth  lie 
Starry  with  flowers,  beneath  her  graceful  tread  ! 
— But  the  calm  bound  us  midst  the  glassy  main  ; 
Ne'er  was  her  step  to  bend  earth's  living  flowers  again. 


THE    FOREST    S ANOTUARY^  11 

L. 
Yes  I  as  if  Heaven  upon  the  waves  were  sleeping, 
Vexing  my  soul  with  quiet,  there  they  lay, 
All  moveless  through  their  blue  transparence  keeping. 
The  shadows  of  our  sails,  from  day^to  day ; 
While  she — oh  !  strongest  is  the  strong  heart's  woe — 
And  yet  I  live  !   I  feel  the  sunshine's  glow — 
And  I  am  he  that  look'd,  and  saw  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  fair  of  earth,  th'  ador'd  too  much  ! 
-It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  love  what  death  may  touch. 


LI. 

A  fearful  thing  that  love  and  death  may  dwell 
In  the  same  world  ! — She  faded  on — and  I — 
Blind  to  the  last,  there  needed  death  to  tell 
My  trusting  soul  that  she  could  fade  to  die  ! 
Yet,  ere  she  parted,  I  had  mark'd  a  change, 
— But  it  breath'd  hope — 'twas  beautiful,  though  strange  : 
Something  of  gladness  in  the  melody 
Of  her  low  voice,  and  in  her  words  a  flight 
Of  airy  thought — alas  !   too  perilously  bright ! 


78  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LIT. 

And  a  clear  sparkle  in  her  glance,  yet  wild, 
And  quick,  and  eager,  like  the  flashing  gaze 
Of  some  all  wondering  and  awakening  child. 
That  first  the  glories  of  the  earth  surveys. 
— How  could  it  thus  deceive  me  ? — she  had  worn 
Around  her,  like  the  dewy  mists  of  morn, 
A  pensive  tenderness  through  happiest  days, 
And  a  soft  world  of  dreams  had  seem'd  to  He 
Still  in  her  dark,  and  deep,  and  spiritual  eye. 


LIII. 
And  I  could  hope  in  that  strange  fire ! — she  died. 
She  died,  with  all  its  lustre  on  her  mien  ! 
— The  day  was  melting  from  the  waters  wide, 
And  through  its  long  bright  hours  her  thoughts  had  been. 
It  seem'd,  with  restless  and  unwonted  yearning. 
To  Spain's  blue  skies  and  dark  sierras  turning  j 
For  her  fond  words  were  all  of  vintage-scene. 
And  flowering  myrtle,  and  sweet  citrwi's  breath — 
— Oh  !  with  what  vivid  hues  life  comes  back  oft  on  death  ! 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  79 

LIV. 
And  from  her  lips  the  mountain-songs  of  old, 
In  wild  faint  snatches,  fitfully  had  sprung  ; 
Songs  of  the  orange  bower,  the  Moorish  hold, 
The  "  Rio  verde  ^7,"  on  her  soul  that  hung, 
And  thence  flow'd  forth. — But  now  the  sun  was  low. 
And  watching  by  my  side  its  last  red  glow. 
That  ever  stills  the  heart,  once  more  she  sung 
Her  own  soft  "  Ora,  mater  !" — and  the  sound 
Was  even  like  love's  farewell — so  mournfully  profound. 


LV. 
The  boy  had  dropp'd  to  slumber  at  our  feet ; — 
— "  And  I  have  lull'd  him  to  his  smiling  rest 
Once  more !"  she  said  :-^I  rais'd  him — it  was  sweet. 
Yet  sad,  to  see  the  perfect  calm  which  bless'd 
His  look  that  hour ; — for  now  her  voice  grew  weak ; 
And  on  the  flowery  crimson  of  his  cheek. 
With  her  white  lips  a  long,  long  kiss  she  press'd, 
Yet  light,  to  wake  him  not. — Then  sank  her  head 
Against  my  bursting  heart — What  did  I  clasp  ? — the  dead  ! 


so  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LVI. 

I  call'd — to  call  what  answers  not  our  cries — 
By  that  we  lov'd  to  stand  unseen,  unheard. 
With  the  loud  passion  of  our  tears  and  sighs 
To  see  but  some  cold  glistering  ringlet  stirr'd. 
And  in  the  quench 'd  eye's  fixedness  to  gaze. 
All  vainly  searching  for  the  parted  rays; 
This  is  what  waits  us ! — Dead  !— with  that  chill  word 
To  link  our  bosom-names ! — For  this  we  pour 
Our  souls  upon  the  dust^ — nor  tremble  to  adore ! 


LVII. 

But  the  true  parting  came ! — I  look'd  my  last 
On  the  sad  beauty  of  that  slumbering  face  ; 
How  could  1  think  the  lovely  spirit  pass'd. 
Which  there  had  left  so  tenderly  its  trace  ? 
Yet  a  dim  awfulness  was  on  the  brow — 
No !  not  like  sleep  to  look  upon  art  Thou, 
Death,  death ! — She  lay,  a  thing  for  earth's  embrace. 
To  cover  with  spring-wreaths. — For  earth's? — the  wave 
That  gives  the  bier  no  flowers — makes  moan  above  her  grave ! 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY.  81 

LVIII. 

On  the  mid-seas  a  knell ! — for  man  was  there, 
Anguish  and  love — the  mourner  with  his  dead  ! 
A  long  low-rolling  knell — a  voice  of  prayer — 
Dark  glassy  waters,  like  a  desert  spread, — 
And  the  pale-shining  Southern  Cross  on  high. 
Its  faint  stars  fading  from  a  solemn  sky. 
Where  mighty  clouds  before  the  dawn  grew  red  j — 
Were  these  things  round  me  ? — Such  o'er  memory  sweep 
Wildly  when  aught  brings  back  that  burial  of  the  deep. 


LIX. 

Then  the  broad  lonely  sunrise  ! — and  the  plash 
Into  the  sounding  waves  ** ! — around  her  head 
They  parted,  with  a  glancing  moment's  flash. 
Then  shut — and  all  was  still.     And  now  thy  bed 
Is  of  their  secrets,  gentlest  Leonor  ! 
Once  fairest  of  young  brides  ! — and  never  more, 
Lov*d  as  thou  wert,  may  human  tear  be  shed 
Above  thy  rest ! — No  mark  the  proud  seas  keep. 
To  show  where  he  that  wept  may  pause  again  to  weep. 


82  THE    FOREST    SAXCTTJARY. 

LX. 

So  the  depths  took  thee ! — Oh  !  the  sullen  sense 
Of  desolation  in  that  hour  compress'd  ! 
Dust  going  down,  a  speck,  amidst  th'  immense 
And  gloomy  waters,  leaving  on  their  breast 
The  trace  a  weed  might  leave  there ! — Dust ! — the  thing 
Which  to  the  heart  was  as  a  living  spring 
Of  joy,  with  fearfulness  of  love  possess'd. 
Thus  sinking ! — Love,  joy,  fear,  all  crush 'd  to  this— - 
And  the  wide  Heaven  so  far — so  fathomless  th'  abyss  ! 


LXI. 
Where  the  line  sounds  not,  where  the  wrecks  lie  low. 
What  shall  wake  thence  the  dead  ? — Blest,  blest  are  they 
That  earth  to  earth  entrust ;  for  they  may  know 
And  tend  the  dwelling  whence  the  slumberer's  clay 
Shall  rise  at  last,  and  bid  the  young  flowers  bloom. 
That  waft  a  breath  of  hope  around  the  tomb. 
And  kneel  upon  the  dewy  turf  to  pray ! 
But  thou,  what  cave  hath  dimly  chambered  thee  ? 
Vain  dreams  !^ — oh  !  art  thou  not  where  there  is  no  more  sea  '^  ? 


THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY.  gS 

LXII. 

The  wind  rose  free  and  singing: — when  for  ever. 
O'er  that  sole  spot  of  all  the  watery  plain, 
I  could  have  bent  my  sight  with  fond  endeavour 
Down,  where  its  treasure  was,  its  glance  to  strain  ; 
Then  rose  the  reckless  wind ! — Before  our  prow 
The  white  foam  flash'd — ^ay,  joyously — and  thou 
Wert  left  with  all  the  solitary  main 
Around  thee — and  thy  beauty  in  my  heart. 
And  thy  meek  sorrowing  love — oh  !  where  could  that  depart  ? 


LXIII. 
I  will  not  speak  of  woe  ;  I  may  not  tell — 
Friend  tells  not  such  to  friend — the  thoughts  which  rent 
My  fainting  spirit,  when  its  wild  farewell 
Across  the  billows  to  thy  grave  was  sent. 
Thou,  there  most  lonely ! — He  that  sits  above. 
In  his  calm  glory,  will  forgive  the  love 
His  creatures  bear  each  other,  ev*n  if  blent 
With  a  vain  worship  ;  for  its  close  is  dim 
Ever  with  grief,  which  leads  the  wrung  soul  back  to  Him  ! 

g2 


f4  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXIV. 

And  with  a  milder  pang  if  now  I  bear 
To  think  of  thee  in  thy  forsaken  rest. 
If  from  my  heart  be  lifted  the  despair. 
The  sharp  remorse  with  healing  influence  press'd. 
If  the  soft  eyes  that  visit  me  in  sleep 
Look  not  reproach,  though  still  they  seem  to  weep; 
It  is  that  He  my  sacrifice  hath  bless'd, 
And  fiird  my  bosom,  through  its  inmost  cell. 
With  a  deep  chastening  sense  that  all  at  last  is  well. 


LXV. 

Yes !  thou  art  now — Oh  !  wherefore  doth  the  thought 
Of  the  wave  dashing  o'er  thy  long  bright  hair. 
The  sea-weed  into  its  dark  tresses  wrought. 
The  sand  thy  pillow — thou  that  wert  so  fair ! 
Come  o'er  me  still? — Earth,  earth  ! — it  is  the  hold 
Earth  ever  keeps  on  that  of  earthy  mould  ! 
But  thou  art  breathing  now  in  purer  air, 
I  well  believe,  and  freed  from  all  of  error. 
Which  blighted  here  the  root  of  thy  sweet  life  with  terror. 


THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY-  85 

LXVI. 

And  if  the  love  which  here  was  passing  light 
Went  with  what  died  not — Oh  !  that  this  we  knew. 
But  this! — that  through  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Some  voice,  of  all  the  lost  ones  and  the  true, 
Would  speak,  and  say,  if  in  their  far  repose. 
We  are  yet  aught  of  what  we  were  to  those 
We  call  the  dead  ! — their  passionate  adieu. 
Was  it  but  breath,  to  perish  ? — Holier  trust 
Be  mine ! — thy  love  is  there,  but  purified  from  dust ! 


LXVII. 

A  thing  all  heavenly ! — clear'd  from  that  which  hung 
As  a  dim  cloud  between  us,  heart  and  mind ! 
Loos'd  from  the  fear,  the  grief,  whose  tendrils  flung 
A  chain,  so  darkly  with  its  growth  entwin'd. 
This  is  my  hope ! — though  when  the  sunset  fades, 
When  forests  rock  the  midnight  on  their  shades. 
When  tones  of  wail  are  in  the  rising  wind. 
Across  my  spirit  some  faint  doubt  may  sigh  ; 
For  the  strong  hours  xuill  sway  this  frail  mortality  \ 


8#  THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXVIII. 

We  have  been  wanderers  since  those  days  of  woe. 
Thy  boy  and  I ! — As  wild  birds  tend  their  young. 
So  have  I  tended  him — ray  bounding  roe  ! 
The  high  Peruvian  solitudes  among ; 
And  o'er  the  Andes-torrents  borne  his  form, 
Where  our  frail  bridge  hath  quiver'd  midst  the  storm 
— But  there  the  war-notes  of  my  country  rung, 
And,  smitten  deep  of  Heaven  and  man,  I  fled 
To  hide  in  shades  unpierc'd  a  mark'd  and  weary  head. 


LXIX. 

But  be  went  on  in  gladness — that  fair  child ! 
Save  when  at  times  his  bright  eye  seem'd  to  dream^ 
And  his  young  lips,  which  then  no  longer  smii'd, 
Ask'd  of  his  mother ! — that  was  but  a  gleam 
Of  Memory,  fleeting  fast ;  and  then  his  play 
Through  the  wide  Llanos®^  cheer'd  again  our  way, 
And  by  the  mighty  Oronoco  stream. 
On  whose  lone  margin  we  have  heard  at  morn. 
From  the  mysterious  rocks,  the  sunrise-music  borne®®. 


THE   FOREST    SANCTUARY.  87 

LXX. 

So  like  a  spirit's  voice  !  a  harping  tone, 
Lovely,  yet  ominous  to  mortal  ear. 
Such  as  might  reach  us  from  a  world  unknown. 
Troubling  man's  heart  with  thrills  of  joy  and  fear  ! 

'    'Twas  sweet ! — yet  those  deep  southern  shades  oppress'd 
My  soul  with  stillness,  like  the  calms  that  rest 
On  melancholy  waves  ^ :  I  sigh'd  to  hear 
Once  more  earth's  breezy  sounds,  her  foliage  fann'd. 

And  turn'd  to  seek  the  wilds  of  the  red  hunter's  land. 


LXXI. 

And  we  have  won  a  bower  of  refuge  now. 
In  this  fresh  waste,  the  breath  of  whose  repose 
Hath  cool'd,  like  dew,  the  fever  of  my  brow. 
And  whose  green  oaks  and  cedars  round  me  close. 
As  temple-walls  and  pillars,  that  exclude 
Earth's  haunted  dreams  from  their  free  solitude ; 
All,  save  the  image  and  the  thought  of  those 
Before  us  gone ;  our  lov'd  of  early  years. 
Gone  where  affection's  cup  hath  lost  the  taste  of  tears. 


88  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXXII. 

I  see  a  star — eve's  first-born  ! — in  whose  train 
Past  scenes,  words,  looks,  come  back.     The  arrowy  spire 
Of  the  lone  cypress,  as  of  wood-girt  fane. 
Rests  dark  and  still  amidst  a  heaven  of  fire ; 
The  pine  gives  forth  its  odours,  and  the  lake 
Gleams  like  one  ruby,  and  the  soft  winds  wake, 
Till  every  string  of  nature's  solemn  lyre 
Is  touch'd  to  answer ;  its  most  secret  tone 
Drawn  from  each  tree,  for  each  hath  whispers  all  its  own. 


LXXIII. 
And  hark  !  another  murmur  on  the  air, 
Not  of  the  hidden  rills,  or  quivering  shades  ! 
•—-That  is  the  cataract's,  which  the  breezes  bear. 
Filling  the  leafy  twilight  of  the  glades 
With  hollow  surge-like  sounds,  as  from  the  bed 
Of  the  blue  mournful  seas,  that  keep  the  dead : 
But  they  are  far ! — the  low  sun  here  pervades 
Dim  forest-arches,  bathing  with  red  gold 
Their  stems,  till  each  is  made  a  marvel  to  behold, 


THE  FOREST    SANCTUARY.  89 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous,  yet  full  of  gloom  ! — In  such  an  hour, 
The  vesper-melody  of  dying  bells 

Wanders  through  Spain,  from  each  grey  convent's  tower 
O'er  shining  rivers  pour'd,  and  olive-dells. 
By  every  peasant  heard,  and  muleteer. 
And  hamlet,  round  my  home  : — and  I  am  here. 
Living  again  through  all  my  life's  farewells. 
In  these  vast  woods,  where  farewell  ne'er  was  spoken, 
And  sole  I  lift  to  Heaven  a  sad  heart — vet  unbroken  ! 


LXXV.     ' 

In  such  an  hour  are  told  the  hermit's  beads ; 
With  the  white  sail  the  seaman's  hymn  floats  by : 
Peace  be  with  all  I  whate'er  their  varying  creeds. 
With  all  that  send  up  holy  thoughts  on  high  ! 
Come  to  me,  boy  ! — by  Guadalquivir's  vines. 
By  every  stream  of  Spain,  as  day  declines, 
Man's  prayers  are  mingled  in  the  rosy  sky. 
— We,  too,  will  pray ;  nor  yet  unheard,  my  child  ! 
Of  Him  whose  voice  tie  hear  at  eve  amidst  the  wild. 


so  THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

LXXVI. 

At  eve  ? — oh  !  through  all  hours ! — From  dark  dreams  oft 
Awakening,  I  look  forth,  and  learn  the  might 
Of  solitude,  while  thou  art  breathing  soft. 
And  low,  my  lov'd  one  !  on  the  breast  of  night : 
I  look  forth  on  the  stars — the  shadowy  sleep 
Of  forests — and  the  lake,  whose  gloomy  deep 
Sends  up  red  sparkles  to  the  fire-flies*  light. 
A  lonely  world  ! — ev'n  fearful  to  man's  thought, 
But  for  His  presence  felt,  whom  here  my  soul  hath  sought. 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  4,  line  14. 
And  sighing  through  the  feathery  canes,  Sfc. 

The  canes  in  some  parts  of  the  American  forests  form  a  thick 
undergrowth  for  many  hundred  miles. — See  Hodgson's  Letters 
from  North  America,  vol.  i.  p.  242. 

Note  2j  page  5,  line  9. 
And  for  their  birth-place  moan,  as  moans  the  ocean-shell. 

Such  a  shell  as  Wordsworth  has  beautifully  described. 

"  I  have  seen 
A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipp'd  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hush'd,  his  very  soul 
Listen'd  intently,  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy ;  for  murmurings  from  within 
Were  heard — sonorous  cadences !  whereby. 
To  his  belief,  the  monitor  express'd 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
— Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith." — The  Excursion. 


92  NOTES. 

Note  3,  page  8,  line  10. 
/  see  an  oak  before  me,  Sfc. 

*'  I  recollect  hearing  a  traveller,  of  poetical  temperament,  ex- 
pressing the  kind  of  horror  which  he  felt  on  beholding,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size,  which  had  been 
in  a  manner  overpowered  by  an  enormous  wild  grape-vine.  The 
vine  had  clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the  trunk,  and  from  thence 
had  wound  about  every  branch  and  twig,  until  the  mighty  tree 
had  withered  in  its  embrace.  It  seemed  like  Laocoon  struggling 
ineffectually  in  the  hideous  coils  of  the  monster  Python." — 
Bracebridge  Hall.     Chapter  on  Forest  Trees. 

Note  4,  page  15,  lines  10,  11,  12. 
Thou  hast  perish' d 
More  Jioblyfar,  my  Alvar  ! — making  known 
The  might  of  truth. 
For  a  most  interesting  account  of  the  Spanish  Protestants,  and 
the  heroic  devotion  m  ith  which  they  met  the  s})irit  of  persecution 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  see  the  Quarterly  Review,  No.  57, 
art.  Quin's  Visit  to  Spain. 

Note  5,  page  18,  lines  10,  11,  12. 
I  look'd  on  tvoo, 
Following  his  footsteps  to  the  same  dread  place, 
For  the  same  guilt — his  sisters  ! — 

•'  A  priest,  named  Gonzalez,  had,  among  other  proselytes, 
gained  over  two  young  females,  his  sisters,  to  the  protestant 
faith.    All  three  were  confined  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition. 


NOTES.  93 

• 

The  torture,  repeatedly  applied,  could  not  draM  from  them  the 
least  evidence  against  their  religions  associates.  Every  artifice 
was  employed  to  obtain  a  recantation  from  the  two  sisters,  since 
the  constancy  and  learning  of  Gonzalez  precluded  all  hopes  of 
a  theological  victory.  Their  answer,  if  not  exactly  logical,  is 
wonderfully  simple  and  affecting.  '  We  will  die  in  the  faith  of 
our  brother :  he  is  too  wise  to  be  wrong,  and  too  good  to  deceive 
us.' — The  three  stakes  on  which  they  died  were  near  each  other. 
The  priest  had  been  gagged  till  the  moment  of  lighting  up  the 
wood.  ,  The  few  minutes  that  he  was  allowed  to  speak  he  em- 
ployed in  comforting  his  sisters,  with  whom  he  sung  the  109th 
Psalm,  till  the  flames  smothered  their  voices." — Ibid. 

Note  6,  page  19,  lines  8  and  9. 
And  deem  the  name 
A  hundred  chiefs  had  borne,  cast  down  hy  you  to  shame-. 

The  names,  not  only  of  the  immediate  victims  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, were  devoted  to  infamy,  but  those  of  all  their  relations  were 
branded  with  the  same  indelible  stain,  which  was  likewise  to 
descend  as  an  inheritance  to  their  latest  posterity. 

Note  7,  page  28,  lines  10  and  1 1. 
'  Twas  not  tuithin  the  city — but  in  sight 
Of  the  snow-crown  d  sierras. 

The  piles  erected  for  these  executions  were  without  the  towns, 
and  the  final  scene  of  an  Auto  da  Fe  was  sometimes,  from  the 
length  of  the  preceding  ceremonies,  delayed  till  midnight. 


94  '  NOTES. 

Note  8,  page  41,  lines  1,  2,  3. 
/  would  have  called,  adjuring  the  dark  cloud : 
To  the  most  ancient  Heavens  I  would  have  said, 
"  Speak  to  me  !  shotv  me  truth  /" 

For  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  impressive  pictures  perhaps 
ever  drawn,  of  a  young  mind  struggling  against  habit  and  su- 
perstition in  its  first  aspirations  after  truth,  see  the  admirable 
Letters  from  Spain  by  Don  Leucadio  Doblado. 

Note  9,  page  42,  lines  10  and  11. 
For  thick  1/e  girt  me  round,  ye  long- departed  I 
Dust — imaged  form — xvith  cross,  and  shield,  and  crest. 

'  "  You  walk  from  end  to  end  over  a  floor  of  tombstones,  inlaid 
in  brass  with  the  forms  of  the  departed,  mitres,  and  croziers,  and 
spears,  and  shields,  and  helmets,  all  mingled  together — all  worn 
into  glass-like  smoothness  by  the  feet  and  the  knees  of  long- 
departed  worshippers.  Around,  on  every  side,  each  in  their 
separate  chapel,  sleep  undisturbed  from  age  to  age  the  venerable 
ashes  of  the  holiest  or  the  loftiest  that  of  old  came  thither  to 
worship — their  images  and  their  dying  prayers  sculptured  among 
the  resting-places  of  their  remains." — From  a  beautiful  descrip- 
tion of  ancient  Spanish  Cathedrals,  in  Peter's  Letters  to  his 
Kinsfolk. 

Note  10,  page  48,  lines  12  and  13. 
With  eyes,  vohose  lightning  laughter  hath  heguiVd 
A  thousand  pangs. 

"  E  '1  lampeggiar  de  1'  angelico  riso.*' — Petrarch. 


NOTES.  95 

Note  1 1,  page  49,  lines  10,  11,  12,  13. 

Mighty  shades 
fFeaving  their  gorgeous  tracery  o'er  thy  head. 
With  the  light  melting  through  their  high  arcades, 
As  through  a  pillar  d  cloister'' s. 

"  Sometimes  their  discourse  was  held  in  the  deep  shades  of 
moss-grown  forests,  whose  gloom  and  interlaced  boughs  first 
suggested  that  Gothic  architecture,  beneath  whose  pointed 
arches,  where  they  had  studied  and  prayed,  the  parti-coloured 
windows  shed  a  tinged  light  -,  scenes,  which  the  gleams  of  sun- 
shine, penetrating  the  deep  foliage,  and  flickering  on  the  va- 
riegated turf  below,  might  have  recalled  to  their  memory." — 
Webster's  Oration  on  the  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  ii^ 
New  England. — See  Hodgson's  Letters  from  North  America, 
vol.  ii.  p.  305. 


Note  12,  page  51,  lines  1  and  2. 
Bring  me  the  sounding  of  the  toi'rent-wateVj 
With  yet  a  nearer  svoell—Jresh  breeze,  awake  I 

The  varying  sounds  of  waterfalls  are  thus  alluded  to  in  an 
interesting  work  of  Mrs.  Grant's.  "  On  the  opposite  side  the, 
view  w^as  bounded  by  steep  hills,  covered  with  lofty  pines,  from 
which  a  waterfall  descended,  which  not  only  gave  animation  to 
the  sylvan  scene,  but  was  the  best  barometer  imaginable ;  fore- 
telling by  its  varied  and  intelligible  sounds  every  approaching 
change,  not  only  of  the  weather  but  of  the  wind." — Memoirs  of 
an  American  Lady,  vol.  i.  p.  143. 


9^  NOTES. 

,   Note  13.  page  54,  lines  5  and  6. 
And  the  full  circle  of  the  rainbow  seen 
There.}  on  the  snows. 

The  circular  rainbuws,  occasionally  seen  amongst  the  Andes, 
are  described  by  Ulloa. 

Note  14,  page  56,  lines  1,  2,  3,  4. 
But  so  my  spirit' sjeverd  longings  wrought, 
i     Wakening,  it  might  be,  to  the  faint  sad  sound, 
That  from  the  darkness  of  the  walls  they  brought 
A  lov'd  scene  round  me,  visibly  around. 

Many  striking  instances  of  the  vividness  with  vrhich  the  mind, 
when  strongly  excited,  has  been  known  to  renovate  past  im- 
pressions, and  embody  them  into  visible  imagery,  are  noticed  and 
accounted  for  in  Dr.  Hibbert's  Philosophy  of  Apparitions.  The 
following  illustrative  passage  is  quoted  in  the  same  work,  from 
the  writings  of  the  late  Dr.  Ferriar.  "  I  remember  that,  about 
the  age  of  fourteen,  it  was  a  source  of  great  amusement  to  myself, 
if  I  had  been  viewing  any  interesting  object  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  such  as  a  romantic  ruin,  a  fine  seat,  or  a  review  of  a  body  of 
troops,  as  soon  as  evening  came  on,  if  I  had  occasion  to  go  into  a 
dark  room,  the  whole  scene  uas  brought  before  my  eyes  with  a 
brilliancy  equal  to  what  it  had  possessed  in  daylight,  and  re- 
mained visible  for  several  minutes.  I  have  no  doubt  that  dismal 
and  frightful  images  have  been  thus  presented  to  young  persons 
after  scenes  of  domestic  affliction  or  public  horror." 

The  following  passage  from  the  "  Alcazar  of  Seville,"  a  tale, 
or  historical  sketch,  bv  the  author  of  Doblado's  letters,  affords  a 


\ 


NOTES.  97 

further  illustration  of  this  subject.  "  When,  descending  fast 
into  the  vale  of  years,  I  strongly  fix  my  mind's  eye  on  those 
narrow,  shady,  silent  streets,  where  I  breathed  the  scented  air 
which  came  rustling  through  the  surrounding  groves ;  where  the 
footsteps  re-echoed  from  the  clean  watered  porches  of  the  houses, 

and  where  every  object  spoke  of  quiet  and  contentment; 

the  objects  around  me  begin  to  fade  into  a  mere  delusion, 

and  not  only  the  thoughts,  but  the  external  sensations,  which  I 
then  experience,  revive  with  a  reality  that  ahnost  makes  me 
shudder — it  has  so  much  the  character  of  a  trance,  or  vision." 

Note  15,  p.  63,  lines  3  and  4. 
Nor  the  faint  Jlotuer -scents,  as  they  come  and  go 
In  the  soft  air,  like  music  xvandering  hy. 
"  For  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  farre  sweeter  in  the  aire 
(where  it  comes  and  goes  like  the  warbling  of  musick)  than  in 
the  hand,  therefore  nothing  is  more  fit  for  that  delight  than  to 
know  what  be  the  flowers  and  plants  which  doe  best  perfume  the 
aire." — Lord  Bacon's  Essay  on  Gardens. 

Note  16,  page  75,  lines  11,  12,  13. 
/  satv  thee  shme 
Once  more,  in  thy  serene  magnificence, 
0  Southern  Cross ! 
"  The  pleasure  we  felt  on  discovering  the  Southern  Cross  was 
warmly  shared  by  such  of  the  crew  as  had  lived  in  the  colonies. 
In  the  solitude  of  the  seas,  we  hail  a  star  as  a  friend  from  whom 


/ 


98  NOTES. 

we  have  long  been  separated.  Among  the  Portugiieze  and  the 
Spaniards,  peculiar  motives  seem  to  increase  this  feeling ;  a  reli- 
gious sentiment  attaches  them  to  a  constellation,  the  form  of 
which  recals  the  sign  of  the  faith  planted  by  their  ancestors  in 
the  deserts  of  the  New  World It  has  been  ob- 
served at  what  hour  of  the  night,  in  different  seasons,  the  Cross 
of  the  South  is  erect  or  inclined.  It  is  a  time-piece  that  ad- 
vances very  regularly  near  four  minutes  a  day,  and  no  other 
group  of  stars  exhibits  to  the  naked  eye  an  observation  of  time 
so  easily  made.  How  often  have  we  heard  our  guides  exclaim, 
in  the  savannahs  of  Venezuela,  or  in  the  desert  extending  from 
Lima  to  Truxillo,  *f  Midnight  is  past,  the  cross  begins  to  bend  !'* 
How  often  these  words  reminded  us  of  that  affecting  scene  where 
Paul  and  Virginia,  seated  near  the  source  of  the  river  of  Lataniers, 
conversed  together  for  the  last  time,  and  where  the  old  man,  at 
the  sight  of  the  Southern  Cross,  warns  them  that  it  is  time  to 
separate  !" — De  Humboldt's  Travels. 

Note  1 7,  page  79,  lines  3  and  4. 
Songs  of  the  orange  botver,  the  Moorish  hold, 
The  "  Rio  Verde." 

"  Rio  verde,  rio  verde,"  the  popular  Spanish  Romance,  known 
to  the  English  reader  in  Percy's  translation. 

"  Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 
Lo,  thy  streams  are  stain'd  with  gore  ! 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willow'd  shore,"  &c.  &c. 


NOTES.  99 

Note  18,  page  81,  lines  10  and  11. 

Then  the  broad  lonely  svn-rise  ! — and  the  plash 
Into  the  sounding  waves  J — 

De  Humboldt,  in  describing  the  burial  of  a  young  Asturian  at 
sea,  mentions  the  entreaty  of  the  officiating  priest,  that  the  body, 
which  had  been  brought  upon  deck  during  the  night,  might  not 
be  committed  to  the  waves  until  after  sun-rise,  in  order  to  pay  it 
the  last  rites  according  to  the  usage  of  the  Romish  church. 


Note  19,  page  82,  line  last. 
Oh  art  thou  not  where  there  is  no  more  sea  ? 
"  And  there  was  no  more  sea." — Rev.  chap.  xxi.  v.  1 . 


Note  20,  page  86,  lines  5  and  6. 

And  o'er  the  Andes-torrents  borne  hisjbrm, 

Where  our  frail  bridge  hath  quiver' d  midst  the  storm. 

The  bridges  over  many  deep  chasms  amongst  the  Andes  are 
pendulous,  and  formed  only  of  the  fibres  of  equinoctial  plants. 
Their  tremulous  motion  has  afforded  a  striking  image  to  one  of 
the  stanzas  in  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming." 

"  Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws. 
Of  nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak ; 
The  loneliness  of  earth,  that  overawes. 
Where,  resting  by  the  tomb  of  old  Cacique, 

h2 


100  NOTES. 

Tlie  lama-driver,  on  Peruvia's  peak, 

Nor  voice  nor  living  motion  marks  around, 

But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek. 

Or  wild-cane  arch,  high  flung  o'er  gulf  profound. 

That  fluctuates  when  the  storms  of  El  Dorado  sound. 


Note  21,  page  86,  lines  14  and  15. 

And  then  his  play 
Through  the  tvlde  Llanos  cheer" d  again  our  way. 

Llanos,  or  savannas,  the  great  plains  in  South  America. 


Note  22,  page  86,  lines  16,  17,  18. 

And  by  the  mighty  Oronoco  stream^ 

On  luhose  lane  margin  we  have  heard  at  morn. 

From  the  mysterious  rocks,  the  sunrise-music  borne. 

De  Humboldt  speaks  of  these  rocks  on  the  shores  of  the  Oro- 
noco. Travellers  have  heard  from  time  to  time  subterraneous 
sounds  proceed  from  them  at  sun-rise,  resembling  those  of  an 
organ.  He  believes  in  the  existence  of  this  mysterious  music, 
although  not  fortunate  enough  to  have  heard  it  himself,  and 
thinks  that  it  may  be  produced  by  currents  of  air  issuing  through 
the  crevices. 


NOTES.  IGl 

Note  23,  page  87,  lines  5  and  6. 

Yet  those  deep  southern  shades  oppress  d 
My  soul  xvith  stillness. 

The  same  distinguished  traveller  frequently  alludes  to  the  ex- 
treme stillness  of  the  air  in  the  equatorial  regions  of  the  new- 
continent,  and  particularly  on  the  thickly  wooded  shores  of  the 
Oronoco.  "  In  this  neighbourhood,"  he  says,  "  no  breath  of 
wind  ever  agitates  the  foliage." 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


The  following  pieces  may  so  far  be  considered  a  series,  as  each  is 
intended  to  be  commemorative  of  some  national  recollection, 
popular  custom,  or  tradition.  The  idea  was  suggested  by 
Herder's  "  Stimmen  der  Volker  in  Liedern ;"  the  execution  is 
however  different,  as  the  poems  in  his  collection  are  chiefly 
translations. 

Most  of  those  forming  the  present  one  have  appeared^  as  well  as 
the  miscellaneous  pieces  attached  to  them,  in  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine. 


LAYS   OF    MANY    LANDS.  iW 


MOORISH  BRIDAL  SONG. 


It  is  a  custom  among  the  Moors,  that  a  female  who  dies  unmarried  is  clothed  for 
interment  in  wedding  apparel,  and  the  bridal  song  is  sung  over  her  remains 
before  they  are  borne  from  her  home. 

See  the  Narrative  of  a  Ten  Years*  Residence  in  Tripoli, 
by  the  sister-in-law  of  Mr.  Tully. 


The  citron  groves  their  fruit  and  flowers  were  strewing 
Around  a  Moorish  palace,  while  the  sigh 
Of  low  sweet  summer-winds^  tlie  branches  wooing, 
'  With  music  through  their  shadowy  bowers  went  by ; 
Music  and  voices,  from  the  marble  halls. 
Through  the  leaves  gleaming,  and  the  fountain-falls. 

A  song  of  joy,  a  bridal  song  came  swelling, 
To  blend  with  fragrance  in  those  southern  shades. 
And  told  of  feasts  within  the  stately  dwelling. 
Bright  lamps,  and  dancing  steps,  and  gem-crown'd  maids  ; 
And  thus  it  flow'd ; — yet  something  in  the  lay 
Belong'd  to  sadness,  as  it  died  away. 


108  LAYS   OF    MANY    LANDS. 

"  The  bride  comes  forth  !  her  tears  no  more  are  falling 
To  leave  the  chamber  of  her  infant  years ; 
Kind  voices  from  a  distant  home  are  calling; 
She  comes  like  day-spring — she  hath  done  with  tears ; 
Now  must  her  dark  eye  shine  on  other  flowers. 
Her  soft  smile  gladden  other  hearts  than  ours ! 

— Pour  the  rich  odours  round  ! 

"  We  haste !  the  chosen  and  the  lovely  bringing ; 
Love  still  goes  with  her  from  her  place  of  birth  ; 
Deep  silent  joy  within  her  soul  is  springing. 
Though  in  her  glance  the  light  no  more  is  mirth ! 
Her  beauty  leaves  us  in  its  rosy  years ; 
Her  sisters  weep — but  she  hath  done  with  tears ! 

— Now  may  the  timbrel  sound !" 

Know'st  thou  for  ivho7n  they  sang  the  bridal  numbers  ? 
— One,  whose  rich  tresses  were  to  wave  no  more ! 
One,  whose  pale  cheek  soft  winds,  nor  gentle  slumbers, 
Nor  Love's  own  sigh,  to  rose-tints  might  restore ! 
Her  graceful  ringlets  o'er  a  bier  Mere  spread. — 
— Weep  for  the  young,  the  beautiful, — the  dead ! 


LAYS   OF   MANY    LANDS  J 09 


THE  BIRD'S  RELEASE. 


The  Indians  of  Bengal  and  of  the  Coast  of  Malabar  bring  cages  filled  with  birds 
to  the  graves  of  their  friends,  over  which  they  set  the  birds  at  liberty. 
This  custom  is  alluded  to  in  the  description  of  Virginia's  funeral. 

See  Paul  and  Virginia. 


Go  forth,  for  she  is  gone ! 
With  the  golden  light  of  her  wavy  hair, 
She  is  gone  to  the  fields  of  the  viewless  air  ; 

She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone ! 

Her  voice  hath  pass'd  away  ! 
It  hath  pass'd  away  like  a  summer  breeze. 
When  it  leaves  the  hills  for  the  far  blue  seas. 

Where  we  may  not  trace  its  way. 

Go  forth,  and  like  her  be  free ! 
With  thy  radiant  wing,  and  thy  glancing  eye, 
Thou  hast  all  the  range  of  the  sunny  sky. 

And  what  is  our  grief  to  thee  ? 


110  LAYS   OF   MANY  LANDS. 

Is  it  aught  ev'n  to  her  we  mourn  ? 
Doth  she  look  on  the  tears  by  her  kindred  shed  ? 
Doth  she  rest  with  the  flowers  o'er  her  gentle  head, 

Or  float  on  the  light  wind  borne  ? 

We  know  not — but  she  is  gone  ! 
Her  step  from  the  dance,  her  voice  from  the  song, 
And  the  smile  of  her  eye  from  the  festal  throng ; — 

— She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone  ! 

When  the  waves  at  sunset  shine. 
We  may  hear  thy  voice,  amidst  thousands  more. 
In  the  scented  woods  of  our  glowing  shore. 

But  we  shall  not  know  'tis  thine ! 

Ev'n  so  with  the  lov'd  one  flown  ! 
Her  smile  in  the  starlight  may  wander  by. 
Her  breath  may  be  near  in  the  wind's  low  sigh. 

Around  us — but  all  unknown. 

Go  forth,  we  have  loos'd  thy  chain  \ 
We  may  deck  thy  cage  with  the  richest  flowers. 
Which  the  bright  day  rears  in  our  eastern  bowers, 

But  thou  wilt  not  be  lur'd  again. 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  Ill 

Ev'n  thus  may  the  summer  pour 
AH  fragrant  things  on  the  land's  green  breast. 
And  the  glorious  earth  like  a  bride  be  dress*d, 

But  it  wins  her  back  no  more ! 


112  LAYS   OF    MANY    LAXDS. 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  TOMB. 

A  NORTHERN  LEGEND.. 


The  idea  of  this  ballad  is  taken  from  a  scene  in  "  Storkother,"  a  tragedy  by  the 
Danish  poet  Ochlenschlager.  The  sepulchral  fire  here  alluded  to,  and  sup- 
posed to  guard  the  ashes  of  deceased  heroes,  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the 
Northern  Sagas.  Severe  sufferings  to  the  departed  spirit  were  supposed  by 
the  Scandinavian  mythologists  to  be  the  consequence  of  any  profanation  of 
the  sepulchre. 

See  Ochlenschlager's  Plays. 


"  Voice  of  the  gifted  elder  time ! 
Voice  of  the  charm  and  the  Runic  rhyme  ! 
Speak  !  from  the  shades  and  the  depths  disclose, 
How  Sigurd  may  vanquish  his  mortal  foes ; 
Voice  of  the  buried  past ! 

"  Voice  of  the  grave  !  'tis  the  mighty  hour. 
When  night  with  her  stars  and  dreams  hath  power. 
And  my  step  hath  been  soundless  on  the  snows. 
And  the  spell  I  have  sung  hath  laid  repose 
On  the  billow  and  the  blast." 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Then  the  torrents  of  the  North, 
r  And  the  forest  pines  were  still. 

While  a  hollow  chant  came  forth 
From  the  dark  sepulchral  hill. 

"  There  shines  no  sun  'midst  the  hidden  dead. 
But  where  the  day  looks  not  the  brave  may  tread : 
There  is  heard  no  song,  and  no  mead  is  pour'd. 
But  the  warrior  may  come  to  the  silent  board 
In  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

'*  There  is  laid  a  sword  in  thy  father's  tomb. 

And  its  edge  is  fraught  with  thy  foeman's  doom  ; 
But  soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep. 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep. 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might !" 

Then  died  the  solemn  lay. 
As  a  trumpet's  musi<;  dies. 
By  the  night-wind  borne  away 
Through  the  wild  and  stormy  skies.. 


113 


114  LAYS   OF   MANy    LANDS. 

The  fir-trees  rock*d  to  the  wailing  blast. 
As  on  through  the  forest  the  warrior  passed,— 
Through  the  forest  of  Odin,  the  dim  and  old. 
The  dark  place  of  visions  and  legends,  told 
By  the  fires  of  Northern  pine. 

The  fir-trees  rock'd,  and  the  frozen  ground 
Gave  back  to  his  footstep  a  hollow  sound ; ' 
And  it  seem'd  that  the  depths  of  those  awful  shades. 
From  the  dreary  gloom  of  their  long  arcades. 
Gave  warning,  with  voice  and  sign. 

But  the  wind  strange  magic  knows 
To  call  wild  shape  and  tone 
From  the  grey  wood's  tossing  boughs 
When  night  is  on  her  throne. 

The  pines  clos'd  o'er  him  with  deeper  gloom. 
As  he  took  the  path  to  the  monarch's  tomb ; 
The  pole-star  shone,  and  the  heavens  were  bright 
With  the  arrowy  streams  of  the  northern  light. 
But  his  road  through  dimness  lay ! 


LAYS   OF    MANY   LANDS.  115 

He  pass'd,  in  the  heart  of  that  ancient  wood. 
The  dark  shrine  stain'd  with  the  victim's  blood  : 
Nor  paus'd,  till  the  rock  where  a  vaulted  bed 
Had  been  hewn  of  old  for  the  kingly  dead, 
Arose  on  his  midnight  way. 

Then  first  a  moment's  chill 
Went  shuddering  through  his  breast. 
And  the  steel-clad  man  stood  still 
Before  that  place  of  rest. 

But  he  cross'd  at  length,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath. 
The  threshold-floor  of  the  hall  of  Death, 
And  look'd  on  the  pale  mysterious  fire 
Which  gleam'd  from  the  urn  of  his  warrior-sire. 
With  a  strange  and  solemn  light. 

Then  darkly  the  words  of  the  boding  strain 
Like  an  omen  rose  on  his  soul  again, 
— "  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep. 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep. 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might !" 

i2 


W-G  LAYS   OF   MAT^Y   LANDS. 

But  the  gleaming  sword  and  shield 
Of  many  a  battle-day 
Hung  o*er  that  urn,  reveal'd 
By  the  tomb-fire's  waveless  ray. 

With  a  faded  wreath  of  oak-leaves  bound. 
They  hung  o'er  the  dust  of  the  far-renown'd. 
Whom  the  bright  Valkyriur's  warning  voice 
Had  call'd  to  the  banquet  where  gods  rejoice. 
And  the  rich  mead  flows  in  light. 

With  a  beating  heart  his  son  drew  near. 
And  still  rang  the  verse  in  his  thrilling  ear, 
— "  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep. 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep. 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might !" 

And  many  a  Saga's  rhyme. 
And  legend  of  the  grave. 
That  shadowy  scene  and  time 
Call'd  back,  to  daunt  the  brave. 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  117 

But  he  rais'd  his  arm — and  the  flame  grew  dim. 
And  the  sword  in  its  light  seem'd  to  wave  and  swim, 
And  his  faltering  hand  could  not  grasp  it  well — 
From  the  pale  oak- wreath,  with  a  clash  it  fell 
Through  the  chamber  of  the  dead  ! 

The  deep  tomb  rang  with  the  heavy  sound. 
And  the  urn  lay  shiver'd  in  fragments  round ; 
And  a  rush,  as  of  tempests,  quench'd  the  fire. 
And  the  scatter'd  dust  of  his  warlike  sire 

Was  strewn  on  the  Champion's  head. 

One  moment — and  all  was  still 
In  the  slumberer's  ancient  hall, 
When  the  rock  had  ceas'd  to  thrill 
With  the  mighty  weapon's  fall. 

The  stars  were  just  fading,  one  by  one. 
The  clouds  were  just  ting'd  by  the  early  sun. 
When  there  stream'd  through  the  cavern  a  torch's  flame. 
And  the  brother  of  Sigurd  the  valiant  came 
To  seek  him  in  the  tomb. 


118  LAYS   OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Stretch'd  on  his  shield,  like  the  steel-girt  slain 
By  moonlight  seen  on  the  battle-plain. 
In  a  speechless  trance  lay  the  warrior  there. 
But  he  wildly  woke  when  the  torch's  glare 
Burst  on  him  through  the  gloom. 

*'  The  morning  wind  blows  free. 
And  the  hour  of  chase  is  near  : 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  me  ! 
What  dost  thou,  Sigurd,  here  ?" 

''  I  have  put  out  the  holy  sepulchral  fire, 
I  have  scatter'd  the  dust  of  my  warrior-sire  ! 
It  burns  on  my  head,  and  it  weighs  down  my  heart ; 
But  the  winds  shall  not  wander  without  their  part 
To  strew  o'er  the  restless  deep ! 

"  In  the  mantle  of  death  he  was  here  with  me  now, — 

There  was  wrath  in  his  eye,  there  was  gloom  on  his  brow  ; 
And  his  cold  still  glance  on  my  spirit  fell 
With  an  icy  ray  and  a  withering  spell — 
Oh !  chill  is  the  house  of  sleep  \" 


LAYS   OF   MANY  LANDS.  119 

"  The  morning  wind  blows  free. 

And  the  reddening  sun  shines  clear ; 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  me ! 
It  is  dark  and  fearful  here !" 

'*  He  is  there,  he  is  there,  with  his  shadowy  frown  ! 
But  gone  from  his  head  is  the  kingly  crown. 
The  crown  from  his  head,  and  the  spear  from  his  hand, — 
They  have  chas'd  him  fiir  from  the  glorious  land 
Where  the  feast  of  the  gods  is  spread ! 

"  He  must  go  forth  alone  on  his  phantom  steed. 

He  must  ride  o'er  the  grave-hills  with  stormy  speed ; 
His  place  is  no  longer  at  Odin's  board, 
He  is  driven  from  Valhalla  without  his  sword  ! 
But  the  slayer  shall  avenge  the  dead !" 

That  sword  its  fame  had  won 
By  the  fall  of  many  a  crest. 
But  its  fiercest  work  was  done 
In  the  tomb,  on  Sigurd's  breast ! 


120  LAYS   OF    MANY   LANDS. 


VALKYRIUR  SONG. 


The  Valkyriur,  or  Fatal  Sisters  of  Northern  mythology,  were  supposed  to  single 
out  the  warriors  who  were  to  die  in  battle,  and  be  received  into  the  halls  of 
Odin. 

When  a  Northern  chief  fell  gloriously  in  war,  his  obsequies  were  honoured  with 
all  possible  magnificence.  His  arms,  gold  and  silver,  war-horse,  domestic 
attendants,  and  whatever  else  he  held  most  dear,  were  placed  with  him  on 
the  pile.  His  dependants  and  friends  frequently  made  it  a  point  of  honour 
to  die  with  their  leader,  in  order  to  attend  on  his  shade  in  Valhalla,  or  the 
Palace  of  Odin.  And  lastly,  his  wife  was  generally  consumed  with  him  on 
the  same  pile. 

See  Mallet's  Northern  Antiquities,  Herbert's  Helga,  &c. 

Tremblingly  flash'd  th'  inconstant  meteor  light, 
Showing  thin  forms  like  virgins  of  this  earth, 
Save  that  all  signs  of  human  joy  or  grief, 
The  flush  of  passion,  smile  or  tear,  had  seem'd 
On  the  fix'd  brightness  of  each  dazzling  cheek 
Strange  and  unnatural. 

MiLMAN. 


The  Sea-king  woke  from  the  troubled  sleep 

Of  a  vision-haunted  night. 
And  he  look'd  from  his  bark  o'er  the  gloomy  deep. 
And  counted  the  streaks  of  light  ; 
For  the  red  sun's  earliest  ray 
Was  to  rouse  his  bands  that  day. 
To  the  stormy  joy  of  fight  1 


LAYS   OF    MANY   LANDS.  121 

But  the  dreams  of  rest  were  still  on  earth. 

And  the  silent  stars  on  high. 
And  there  wav'd  not  the  smoke  of  one  cabin-hearth 
'Midst  the  quiet  of  the  sky ; 
And  along  the  twilight  bay 
In  their  sleep  the  hamlets  lay. 
For  they  knew  not  the  Norse  were  nigh  ! 

The  Sea-king  look'd  o'er  the  brooding  wave : 

He  turn'd  to  the  dusky  shore. 
And  there  seem'd,  through  the  arch  of  a  tide-worn  cave, 
A  gleam,  as  of  snow,  to  pour ; 
And  forth,  in  watery  light, 
Mov'd  phantoms,  dimly  white. 
Which  the  garb  of  woman  bore. 

Slowly  they  mov'd  to  the  billow  side ; 

And  the  forms,  as  they  grew  more  clear, 
Seem'd  each  on  a  tall  pale  steed  to  i»ide,  * 

And  a  shadowy  crest  to  rear. 
And  to  beckon  with  faint  hand 
From  the  dark  and  rocky  strand. 
And  to  point  a  gleaming  spear. 


\'22  LAYS   OF   MANY    LANDS 

Then  a  stillness  on  his  spirit  fell. 

Before  th'  unearthly  train. 
For  he  knew  Valhalla's  daughters  well. 
The  choosers  of  the  slain  ! 
And  a  sudden  rising  breeze 
Bore  across  the  moaning  seas 
To  his  ear  their  thrilling  strain : 

"  There  are  songs  in  Odin's  Hall, 
For  the  brave,  ere  night  to  fall ! 
Doth  the  great  sun  hide  his  ray  ? — 
He  must  bring  a  wrathful  day  ! 
Sleeps  the  falchion  in  its  sheath  ? — 
Swords  must  do  the  work  of  death  ! 
Regner ! — sea-king ! — thee  we  call  !- 
There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall. 

"  At  the  feast  and  in  the  song, 
Thou  shalt  be  remember'd  long ! 
By  the  green  isles  of  the  flood 
Thou  hast  left  thy  track  in  blood ! 
On  the  earth  and  on  the  sea. 
There  are  those  will  speak  of  thiie  ! 
'Tis  enough — the  war-gods  call- 
There  is  mead  in  Odin's  Hall ! 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  123 

"  Regner !  tell  thy  fair-hair'd  bride 
She  must  slumber  at  thy  side  ! 
Tell  the  brother  of  thy  breast 
Ev'n  for  him  thy  grave  hath  rest ! 
Tell  the  raven-steed  which  bore  thee, 
When  the  wild  wolf  fled  before  thee. 
He  too  with  his  lord  must  fall — 
There  is  room  in  Odin's  Hall ! 

*'  Lo !  the  mighty  sun  looks  forth — 
Arm  !  thou  leader  of  the  north  ! 
Lo  !  the  mists  of  twilight  fly — 
We  must  vanish,  thou  must  die  ! 
By  the  sword  and  by  the  spear. 
By  the  hand  that  knows  not  fear, 
Sea-king!  nobly  shalt  thou  fall ! — 
There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall !" 

There  was  arming  heard  on  land  and  wave. 

When  afar  the  sunlight  spread. 
And  the  phantom  forms  of  the  tide- worn  cave  / 

With  the  mists  of  morning  fled. 
But  at  eve,  the  kingly  hand 
Of  the  battle-axe  and  brand, 
Lay  cold  on  a  pile  of  dead ! 


124  LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS. 


THE  CAVERN  OF  THE  THREE  TELLS. 

SWISS  TRADITION. 


The  three  founders  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy  are  thought  to  sleep  in  a  cavern 
near  tlie  Lake  of  Lucerne.  The  herdsmen  call  them  the  Three  Tells ; 
and  say  that  they  lie  there  in  their  antique  garb,  in  quiet  slumber ;  and 
when  Switzerland  is  in  her  utmost  need,  they  will  awaken  and  regain  the 
liberties  of  the  land. 

'  See  Quarterly  Review,  No.  44. 

The  Griltli,  where  the  confederates  held  their  nightly  meetings,  is  a  meadow  on 
the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  or  Lake  of  the  Forest-cantons,  here 
called  the  Forest-sea. 


Oh  !  enter  not  yon  shadowy  cave. 
Seek  not  the  bright  spars  there, 
Though  the  whispering  pines  that  o'er  it  wave. 
With  freshness  fill  the  air : 

For  there  the  Patriot  Three, 
In  the  garb  of  old  array 'd, 
By  their  native  Forest-sea 
On  a  rocky  couch  are  laid. 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  125. 

The  Patriot  Three  that  met  of  yore 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky. 
And  leagued  their  hearts  on  the  Griitli  shore, 
In  the  name  of  liberty ! 

Now  silently  they  sleep 

Amidst  the  hills  they  freed; 
But  their  rest  is  only  deep. 

Till  their  country's  hour  of  need. 

They  start  not  at  the  hunter's  call. 

Nor  the  Lammer-geyer's  cry. 
Nor  the  rush  of  a  sudden  torrent's  fall. 
Nor  the  Lauwine  thundering  by ! 

And  the  Alpine  herdsman's  lay, 
To  a  Switzer's  heart  so  dear ! 
On  the  wild  wind  floats  away. 
No  more  for  them  to  hear. 

But  when  the  battle-horn  is  blown 

Till  the  Schreckhorn's  peaks  reply. 
When  the  Jungfrau's  cliffs  send  back  the  tone 

Through  their  eagles'  lonely  sky ; 


126  LAYS   OF   MANY  LANDS. 

When  spear-heads  light  the  lakes, 
When  trumpets  loose  the  snows. 

When  the  rushing  war-steed  shakes 
The  glacier's  mute  repose ; 

When  Uri's  beechen  woods  wave  red 
In  the  burning  hamlet's  light ; — 
Then  from  the  cavern  of  the  dead. 
Shall  the  sleepers  wake  in  might ! 

With  a  leap,  like  Tell's  proud  leap. 
When  away  the  helm  he  flung  *, 
And  boldly  up  the  steep 

From  the  flashing  billow  sprung  ! 

They  shall  wake  beside  their  Forest-sea, 

In  the  ancient  garb  they  wore 
When  they  link'd  the  hands  that  made  us  free, 
On  the  Griitli's  moonlight  shore  : 

And  their  voices  shall  be  heard. 

And  be  answer'd  with  a  shout, 

Till  the  echoing  Alps  are  stirr'd, 

And  the  signal-flres  blaze  out. 

*  The  point  of  rock  on  which  Tell  leaped  from  the  boat  of  Gessler  is  marked 
by  a  chapel,  and  called  the  Tellensprung. 


LAYS   OF   MANY  LANDS.  127 

And  the  land  shall  see  such  deeds  again 

As  those  of  that  proud  day. 
When  Winkelried,  on  Sempach's  plain. 
Through  the  serried  spears  made  way; 

And  when  the  rocks  came  down 
On  the  dark  Morgarten  dell^ 
And  the  crowned  casques  *,  o'erthrown. 
Before  our  fathers  fell ! 

For  the  Kiihreihen's  t  notes  must  never  sound 

In  a  land  that  wears  the  chain. 
And  the  vines  on  freedom's  holy  ground 
Untrampled  must  remain ! 

And  the  yellow  harvests  wave 

For  no  stranger's  hand  to  reap, 
While  within  their  silent  cave 
,  The  men  of  Griitli  sleep ! 

*  Crowned  helmets,  as  a  distinction  of  rank,  are  mentioned  in  Simond's 
Switzerland. 

•\  The  Kuhreihen,  the  celebrated  Ranz  des  V aches. 


128  LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS. 

SWISS  SONG, 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  AN  ANCIENT  BATTLE. 


The  Swiss,  even  to  our  days,  have  continued  to  celebrate  the  anniversaries  of 
their  ancient  battles  with  much  solemnity ;  assembling  in  the  open  air  on 
the  fields  where  their  ancestors  fought,  to  hear  thanksgivings  offered  up  by 
the  priests,  and  the  names  of  aU  who  shared  in  the  glory  of  the  day 
enumerated.  They  afterwards  walk  in  procession  to  chapels,  always  erected 
in  the  vicinity  of  such  scenes,  where  masses  are  sung  for  the  souls  of  the 
departed. 

See  Planta's  History  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy. 


Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

If  yet  they  gird  a  land 
Where  freedom's  voice  and  step  are  found. 
Forget  ye  not  the  band. 
The  faithful  band,  our  sires,  who  fell 
Here,  in  the  narrow  battle-dell ! 

If  yet,  the  wilds  among. 

Our  silent  hearts  may  burn, 
When  the  deep  mountain-horn  hath  rung, 
And  home  our  steps  may  turn, 
— Home ! — home ! — if  still  that  name  be  dear. 
Praise  to  the  men  who  perish 'd  here  ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS.  129 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

Up  to  their  shining  snows 
That  day  the  stormy  rolling  sound. 
The  sound  of  battle  rose  ! 
Their  caves  prolong'd  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Their  dark  pines  trembled  as  it  pass'd  ! 

They  saw  the  princely  crest, 

They  saw  the  knightly  spear. 
The  banner  and  the  mail-clad  breast 
Borne  down,  and  trampled  here ! 
They  saw — and  glorying  there  they  stand. 
Eternal  records  to  the  land ! 

Praise  to  the  mountain-born. 
The  brethren  of  the  glen  ! 
By  them  no  steel -array  was  worn. 
They  st^pod  as  peasant-men  ! 
They  left  the  vineyard  and  the  field 
To  break  an  empire's  lance  and  shield ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 
If  yet,  along  their  steeps, 


130  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Our  children's  fearless  feet  may  bound. 
Free  as  the  chamois  leaps  : 
Teach  them  in  song  to  bless  the  band 
Amidst  whose  mossy  graves  we  stand  ! 

If,  by  the  wood-fire's  blaze. 

When  winter-stars  gleam  cold. 
The  glorious  tales  of  elder  days 
May  proudly  yet  be  told. 
Forget  not  then  the  shepherd-race. 
Who  made  the  hearth  a  holy  place ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

If  yet  the  sabbath  bell 
Comes  o'er  them  with  a  gladdening  sound, 
Think  on  the  battle-dell  I 
For  blood  first  bath'd  its  flowery  sod. 
That  chainless  hearts  might  worship  God  ! 


LAVS    OF    MAXY    LANDS.  131 


THE  MESSENGER-BIRD. 


Some  of  the  native  Brazilians  pay  great  veneration  to  a  certain  bird  that  sings 
mournfully  in  the  night-time.  They  say  it  is  a  messenger  which  their  de- 
ceased friends  and  relations  have  sent,  and  that  it  brings  them  news  from  the 
other  world. 

See  Picart*s  Ceremonies  and  Religious  Customs. 


Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land,  thou  bird! 

Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land ! 
Through  the  dark  pine-grove  let  thy  voice  be  heard. 

And  tell  of  the  shadowy  band ! 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green  and  fair 

In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore. 
And  we  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost  are  there. 

They  are  there — and  they  weep  no  more ! 

k2 


132  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

And  we  know  they  have  quench'd  their  fever's  thirst 

From  the  Fountain  of  Youtli  ere  now  *, 
For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness  burst. 

Which  none  may  find  below ! 

And  we  knovr  that  they  Mill  not  be  lur'd  to  earth 

From  the  land  of  deathless  flowers. 
By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of  mirth. 

Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours; 

Though  they  sat  with  us  by  the  night-fire's  blaze. 

And  bent  with  us  the  bow. 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  fathers'  days. 

Which  are  told  to  others  now ! 

But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain } 

Can  those  who  have  lov'd  forget  ? 
We  call — and  they  answer  not  again — 

— Do  they  love — do  they  love  us  yet  ? 

*  An  expedition  was  actually  undertaken  by  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon,  in  the 
16th  century,  with  the  view  of  discovering  a  wonderful  fountain,  believed  by  the 
natives  of  Puerto  Rico  to  spring  in  one  of  the  Lucayo  Isles,  and  to  possess  the 
\artue  of  restoring  youth  to  all  who  bathed  in  its  waters.— See  Robertson's  Hi- 
story of  America. 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  133 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there. 

And  the  father  of  his  child  ? 
And  the  chief,  of  those  that  were  wont  to  share 

His  wanderings  through  the  wild  ? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 

And  they  speak  not  from  cave  or  hill ; 
We  know,  thou  bird !  that  their  land  is  bright. 

But  say,  do  they  love  there  still  ? 


134  LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS. 


THE  STRANGER  IN  LOUISIANA. 


An  early  traveller  mentions  a  people  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  who  burst 
into  tears  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger.  The  reason  of  this  is,  that  they  fancy 
their  deceased  friends  and  relations  to  be  only  gone  on  a  journey,  and  being 
in  constant  expectation  of  their  return,  look  for  them  vainly  amongst  these 
foreign  travellers. 

Picart's  Ceremonies  and  Religious  Customs. 

"  J'ai  passe  moi-meme,"  says  Chateaubriand  in  his  Souvenirs  d'Amerique, 
"  chez  une  peuplade  indienne  qui  se  prenalt  a  pleurer  a  la  vue  d'un 
voyageur,  parce  qu'il  lui  rappelait  des  amis  partis  pour  la  Contrcc  dcs 
Amesy  et  depuis  long-tems  en  voyage.'''' 


We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  youth  of  the  sunny  glance. 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or  dance  ! 
The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  joy  to  see. 
The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee ! 
But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore  : 
He  Mas  call'd — he  is  found  'midst  his  tribe  no  more ! 


LAVS   OF    MANY   Li^DS.  135 

He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires  burn, 
But  we  look  for  him  still — he  will  yet  return ! 
— His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 
In  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress  bought 
We  rous'd  him — we  bade  him  no  longer  pine. 
For  we  heard  a  ste})— but  the  step  was  thine. 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  Iook*d  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful  song, 
Mournful,  though  sweet — she  hath  left  us  long  ! 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone. 
And  she  went  forth  to  seek  him — she  pass'd  alone ; 
We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are  still. 
From  the  bower  where  it  sang,  like  a  silvery  rill. 
The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled. 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head. 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds  we  track. 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest — yet  she  comes  not  back  ! 
We  look'd  for  her  eye  on  the  feast  to  shine. 
For  her  breezy  step — but  the  step  was  thine ! 
'■■■*  J  -  ■'"■ 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  chief  who  hath  left  the  spear 
And  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here  ! 


136  LAYS    OF    MANV    LANDS, 

We  look'd  for  the  hunter,  whose  bride's  lament 

On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 

We  look'd  for  the  first-born,  whose  mother's  cry 

Sounds  wild  and  shrill  through  the  midnight  sky ! 

—Where  are  they  ? — thou  'rt  seeking  some  distant  coast- 

Oh,  ask  of  them,  stranger ! — send  back  the  lost ! 

Tell  them  we  mourn  by  the  dark  blue  streams, 

Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams ! 

Tell,  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine, 

And  to  watch  for  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS.  137 

THE  ISLE  OF  FOUNTS. 

AN  INDIAN  TRADITION. 


"  The  River  St  Mary  has  its  source  from  a  vast  lake  or  marsh,  which  lie!» 
between  Flint  and  Oakmulge  rivers,  and  occupies  a  space  of  near  three 
hundred  miles  in  circuit.  This  vast  accumulation  of  waters,  in  the  wet 
season,  appears  as  a  lake,  and  contains  some  large  islands  or  knolls  of  rich 
high  land ;  one  of  which  the  present  generation  of  the  Creek  Indians  repre- 
sent to  be  a  most  blissful  spot  of  earth :  they  say  it  is  inhabited  by  a  pe 
culiar  race  of  Indians,  whose  women  are  incomparably  beautiful.  They  also 
tell  you  that  this  terrestrial  paradise  has  been  ^een  by  some  of  their  enter- 
prising hunters,  when  in  pursuit  of  game ;  but  that  in  their  endeavours  to 
approach  it,  they  were  involved  in  perpetual  labyrinths,  and,  like  enchanted 
land,  still  as  they  imagined  they  had  just  gained  it,  it  seemed  to  fly  before 
them,  alternately  appearing  and  disappearing.  They  resolved,  at  length, 
to  leave  the  delusive  pursuit,  and  to  return,  which,  after  a  number  of  dif- 
ficulties, they  effected.  When  they  reported  their  adventures  to  their 
countrymen,  the  young  warriors  were  inflamed  with  an  irresistible  desire  to 
invade,  and  make  a  conquest  of,  so  charming  a  country ;  but  all  their  at- 
tempts have  hitherto  proved  abortive,  never  having  been  able  again  to  find 
that  enchanting  spot." 

Bartram's  Travels  Through  North  and  South  Carohna,  &c. 

The  additional  circumstances  in  the  "  Isle  of  Founts"  are  merely  imaginary. 


Son  of  the  stranger !  wouldst  thou  take 
O'er  yon  blue  hills  thy  lonely  way. 

To  reach  the  still  and  shining  lake 

Along  whose  banks  the  west-winds  play.^ 


138  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

— Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile. 
Oh  !  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain- Isle ! 

Lull  but  the  mighty  serpent  king  *, 

'Midst  the  grey  rocks,  his  old  domain  ; 
Ward  but  the  cougar's  deadly  spring, 

— Thy  step  that  lake's  green  shore  may  gain ; 
And  the  bright  Isle,  when  all  is  pass'd. 
Shall  vainly  meet  thine  eye  at  last ! 

Yes !  there,  with  all  its  rainbow  streams. 

Clear  as  within  thine  arrow's  flight, 
The  Isle  of  Founts,  the  Isle  of  dreams. 
Floats  on  the  wave  in  golden  light ; 
And  lovely  will  the  shadows  be 
Of  groves  whose  fruit  is  not  for  thee ! 


*  The  Cherokees  believe  that  the  recesses  of  their  mountains,  overgrown  with 
lofty  pines  and  cedars,  and  covered  with  old  niossy  rocks,  are  inhabited  by  the 
kings  or  chiefs  of  the  rattlesnakes,  whom  they  denominate  the  "  bright  old 
inhabitants."  They  represent  them  as  snakes  of  an  enormous  size,  and  which 
possess  the  power  of  drawing  to  them  every  living  creature  that  comes  within  the 
reach  of  their  eyes.  Their  heads  are  said  to  be  crowned  with  a  carbuncle,  of  daz- 
zling brightness. — See  Notes  to  Leyden's  "  Scenes  of  Infancy." 


LAYS   OF    MANY    LANDS.  139 

And  breathings  from  their  sunny  flowers. 

Which  are  not  of  the  things  that  die, 
And  singing  voices  from  their  bowers 
Shall  greet  thee  in  the  purple  sky ; 
Soft  voices,  e*en  like  those  that  dwell 
Far  in  the  green  reed's  hollow  cell. 

Or  hast  thou  heard  the  sounds  that  rise 
From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  earth  ? 
The  wild  and  wondrous  melodies 

To  which  the  ancient  rocks  gave  birth  *  ? 
— Like  that  sweet  song  of  hidden  caves 
Shall  swell  those  wood-notes  o'er  the  waves. 

The  emerald  waves ! — they  take  their  hue 
And  image  from  that  sunbright  shore; 
But  wouldst  thou  launch  thy  light  can^e. 
And  wouldst  thou  ply  thy  rapid  oar, 
Before  thee,  hadst  thou  morning's  speed. 
The  dreamy  land  should  still  recede ! 


*  The  stones  on  the  banks  of  the  Oronoco,  culled  by  the  South  American 
missionaries  Laxas  de  Miisicu,  and  alluded  to  in  a  former  note. 


140  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Yet  on  the  breeze  thou  still  wouldst  hear 

The  music  of  its  flowering  shades. 
And  ever  should  the  sound  be  near 

Of  founts  that  ripple  through  its  glades ; 
The  sound,  and  sight,  and  flashing  ray 
Of  joyous  waters  in  their  play  ! 

But  woe  for  him  who  sees  them  burst 

With  their  bright  spray-showers  to  the  lake! 
Earth  has  no  spring  to  quench  the  thirst 
That  semblance  in  his  soul  shall  wake. 
For  ever  pouring  through  his  dreams. 
The  gush  of  those  untasted  streams ! 

Bright,  bright  in  many  a  rocky  urn. 

The  waters  of  our  deserts  lie. 
Yet  at  their  source  his  lip  shall  burn, 

Parch'd  with  the  fever's  agony ! 

From  the  blue  mountains  to  the  main. 
Our  thousand  floods  may  roll  in  vain. 

E'en  thus  our  hunters  came  of  yore 
Back  from  their  long  and  weary  quest ; 


LAYS   OF   UAVY    LAXDS.  1-41 

— Had  they  not  seen  tli'  untrodden  shore. 
And  could  they  'midst  our  wilds  find  rest  ? 
The  lightning  of  their  glance  was  fled. 
They  dwelt  amongst  us  as  the  dead ! 

They  lay  beside  our  glittering  rills. 

With  visions  in  their  darken'd  eye. 
Their  joy  was  not  amidst  the  hills, 
^^'^lere  elk  and  deer  before  us  fly ; 
Their  s|)ear3  upon  the  cedar  hung. 
Their  javelins  to  the  wind  were  flung. 

They  bent  no  more  the  forest-bow. 

They  arm'd  not  with  the  warrior-band, 
The  moons  wau'd  o'er  them  dim  and  slow — 
— They  left  us  for  the  spirit's  land ! 
Beneath  our  pines  yon  greensward  heap 
Shows  where  the  restless  found  their  sleep. 

Son  of  the  stranger  !  if  at  eve 

Silence  be  'midst  us  in  thy  place. 

Yet  go  not  where  the  mighty  leave 

The  strength  of  battle  and  of  chase ! 

Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile. 

Oh !  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain-Isle  ' 


142  LAYS   OF    MANY   LANDS. 


THE  BENDED  BOW. 


It  is  supposed  that  war  was  anciently  proclaimed  in  Britain  by  sending  mes- 
sengers in  different  directions  through  the  land,  each  bearing  a  bended  hoxv  ; 
and  that  peace  was  in  like  manner  announced  by  a  bow  unstrung,  and  there- 
fore straight. 

See  the  Cambrian  Antiquities. 


There  was  heard  the  sound  of  a  coming  foe. 
There  was  sent  through  Britain  a  bended  Bow, 
And  a  voice  was  pour'd  on  the  free  winds  far. 
As  the  land  rose  up  at  the  sign  of  war. 

"  Heard  ye  not  the  battle-horn  ? 
— Reaper !  leave  thy  golden  corn ! 
Leave  it  for  the  birds  of  Heaven, 
Swords  must  flash,  and  spears  be  riven ! 
Leave  it  for  the  winds  to  shed — 
Arm !  ere  Britain's  turf  grow  red  !" 

And  the  reaper  arm'd,  like  a  freeman's  son. 
And  the  bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 


LAYS   OF    MAXV   LANDS.  143 

*'  Hunter !  leave  the  mountain-chase ! 
Take  the  falchion  from  its  place ! 
Let  the  wolf  go  free  to-day. 
Leave  him  for  a  nobler  prey ! 
Let  the  deer  ungall'd  sweep  by, — 
Arm  thee !  Britain's  foes  are  nigh !" 

And  the  hunter  arm'd  ere  the  chase  was  done. 
And  the  bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on, 

"  Chieftain  !  quit  the  joyous  feast ! 
Stay  not  till  the  song  hath  ceas'd : 
Though  the  mead  be  foaming  bright. 
Though  the  fires  give  ruddy  light. 
Leave  the  hearth  and  leave  the  hall- 
Arm  thee  !  Britain's  foes  must  fall." 

And  the  chieftain  arm'd,  and  the  horn  was  blown. 
And  the  bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Prince  !  thy  father's  deeds  are  told. 
In  the  bower  and  in  the  hold ! 


144  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Where  the  goatherd's  lay  is  sung, 
Where  the  minstrel's  harp  is  strung ! 
— Foes  are  on  thy  native  sea — 
Give  our  bards  a  tale  of  thee !" 

And  the  prince  came  arm'd^  like  a  leader's  son, 
And  the  bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Mother !  stay  thou  not  thy  boy ! 
He  must  learn  the  battle's  joy. 
Sister !  bring  the  sword  and  spear, 
Give  thy  brother  words  of  cheer  ! 
Maiden  !  bid  thy  lover  part, 
Britain  calls  the  strong  in  heart !' 

And  the  bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 
And  the  bards  made  song  for  a  battle  won. 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS.  145 


HE  NEVER  SMILED  AGAIN  *. 


It  is  recorded  of  Henry  the  First,  that  after  the  death  of  his  son,  Prince  William, 
who  perished  in  a  shipwreck  off  the  coast  of  Normandy,  he  was  never  seen 
to  smile. 


The  bark  that  held  a  prince  went  down. 

The  sweeping  waves  roll'd  on ; 
And  what  was  England's  glorious  crown 
To  him  that  wept  a  son  ? 
(  He  lived — for  life  may  long  be  borne 
'  Ere  sorrow  break  its  chain ; — 

Why  comes  not  death  to  those  who  mourn  ? 
—He  never  smiled  again ! 

*  Originally  published  in  the  Literary  Gazette. 


146  LAYS  OF  ma:ny  lands. 

There  stood  proud  forms  around  his  throne. 

The  stately  and  the  brave, 
But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one. 

That  one  beneath  the  wave  ? 
Before  him  pass'd  the  young  and  fair. 

In  pleasure's  reckless  train. 
But  seas  dash'd  o'er  his  son's  bright  hair — 

— He  never  smiled  again  ! 

He  sat  where  festal  bowls  went  round  j 

He  heard  the  minstrel  sing. 
He  saw  the  Tourney's  victor  crown'd. 

Amidst  the  knightly  ring : 
A  murmur  of  the  restless  deep 

Was  blent  with  every  strain, 
A  voice  of  winds  that  would  not  sleep — 

— He  never  smiled  again ! 

Hearts^  in  that  time,  clos'd  o'er  the  trace 
Of  vows  once  fondly  pour'd. 

And  strangers  took  the  kinsman's  place 
At  many  a  joyous  board ; 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  147 

GrsLveSj  which  true  love  had  bath'd  with  tears, 

Were  left  to  Heaven's  bright  rain. 
Fresh  hopes  were  born  for  other  years — 

— He  never  smiled  again  ! 


l2 


148  LAYS    OF    xMANY    LANDS. 


CCEUR  DE  LION  AT  THE  BIER  OF  HIS 
FATHER. 


The  body  of  Henry  the  Second  lay  in  state  in  the  abbey-church  of  Fontevraud, 
where  it  was  visited  by  Richard  Cceur -de-Lion,  who,  on  beholding  it,  was 
struck  with  horror  and  remorse,  and  bitterly  reproached  himself  for  that 
rebellious  conduct  which  had  been  the  means  of  bringing  his  father  to  an 
untimely  grave. 


Torches  were  blazing  clear. 

Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow. 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier. 

In  the  church  of  Fontevraud. 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung. 

And  warriors  slept  beneath. 
And  light,  as  Noon's  broad  light,  was  flung 

On  the  settled  face  of  death. 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  149 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare. 
Though  dimm'd  at  times  by  the  censer's  breathy 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there : 
As  if  each  deeply-furrow'd  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show, — 
— Alas  !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  clos'd  in  woe  ! 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long  dark  stole. 
As  the  kneeling  priests  round  him  that  slept. 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul ; 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  pour'd 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and  sword. 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang. 
As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread. 
And  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pavement  rang 
With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread ; 


150  LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS. 

And  the  holy  chant  was  hush'd  awhile. 

As  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms,  up  the  sweeping  aisle. 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look. 

An  eagle-glance  and  clear. 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breast-plate  shook. 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier ! 
He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow. 

And  clasp'd  hands  o'er  it  rais'd ; — 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low. 

It  was  Coeur-de-Lion  gazed ! 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast, 
— But  there 's  more  in  late  repentant  love 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppress'd  ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like  rain — 

— Men  held  their  breath  in  awe. 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train, 

And  he  reck'd  not  that  they  saw. 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  151 

He  look'd  upon  the  dead, 

And  sorrow  seem'd  to  lie, 
A  weight  of  sorrow,  ev'n  like  lead. 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 
He  stoop'd — and  kiss'd  the  frozen  cheek. 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay. 
Till  bursting  words — yet  all  too  weak — 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way, 

"  Oh,  father  !  is  it  vain. 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father  !  once  again, 

I  weep— behold,  I  weep ! 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire ! 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 

"  Speak  to  me  !  mighty  grief 
Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirr'd  ! 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me  ! — father,  chief. 
My  king  !  I  must  be  heard  ! 


152  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

— Hush'd,  hush'd — how  is  it  that  I  call. 
And  that  thou  answerest  not  ? 

When  was  it  thus  ? — woe,  woe  for  all 
The  love  my  soul  forgot ! 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see. 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright ! 
And  father,  father  !  but  for  me. 

They  had  not  been  so  white  ! 
/  bore  thee  down,  high  heart !  at  last. 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive  j — 
Oh  !  for  one  moment  of  the  past. 

To  kneel  and  say — '  forgive  !' 

"  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king. 

On  royal  throne  e'er  seen  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear,  in  knightly  ring. 

Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are  prov'd 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart — 
—Oh  !  ever  the  renown'd  and  lov'd 

Thou  wert — and  there  thou  art  J 


LAYS    0¥    MANY    LANDS.  153 

"  Thou  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be  ! — 
Th€  times  I  've  sported  at  thy  side^ 

And  climb'd  thy  parent-knee ! 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine. 

My  sire  !  I  see  thee  lie, — 
— How  will  that  sad  still  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die !" 


154  LAYS   OF    MANY    LANDS. 


THE  VASSAL'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  FALLEN 
TREE. 


Here  (at  Brereton  in  Cheshire)  is  one  thing  incredibly  strange,  but  attested,  as 
I  myself  have  lieard,  by  many  persons,  and  commonly  believed.  Before  any 
heir  of  this  family  dies,  there  are  seen,  in  a  lake  adjoining,  the  bodies  of 
trees  swimming  on  the  water  for  several  days." 

Camden's  Britannia. 


Yes  !  I  have  seen  the  ancient  oak 

On  the  dark  deep  water  cast. 
And  it  was  not  fell'd  by  the  woodman's  stroke, 
Or  the  rush  of  the  sweeping  blast ; 
For  the  axe  might  never  touch  that  tree. 
And  the  air  was  still  as  a  summer-sea. 


LAYS   OF    MANY   LANDS.  155 

I  saw  it  fall,  as  falls  a  chief 
By  an  arrrow  in  the  figlit. 
And  the  old  woods  shook,  to  their  loftiest  leaf. 
At  the  crashing  of  its  might ! 
And  the  startled  deer  to  their  coverts  flew. 
And  the  spray  of  the  lake  as  a  fountain's  flew ! 

'Tis  fall'n  !  but  think  thou  not  I  weep 

For  the  forest's  pride  o'erthrown  : 
An  old  man's  tears  lie  far  too  deep. 
To  be  pour'd  for  this  alone  ! 
But  by  that  sign  too  well  I  know. 
That  a  youthful  head  must  soon  be  low ! 

A  youthful  head,  with  its  shining  hair. 
And  its  bright  quick-flashing  eye — 
—Well  may  I  weep !  for  the  boy  is  fair. 
Too  fair  a  thing  to  die  ! 
But  on  his  brow  the  mark  is  set — 
Oh  !  could  my  life  redeem  him  yet ! 

He  bounded  by  me  as  I  gazed 
Alone  on  the  fatal  sign. 


156  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

And  it  seem'd  like  sunshine  when  he  rais'd 
His  joyous  glance  to  mine  !  , , 

With  a  stag's  fleet  step  he  bounded  by. 
So  full  of  life— but  he  must  die  ! 

He  must,  he  must !  in  that  deep  dell, 

By  that  dark  water's  side, 
'Tis  known  that  ne'er  a  proud  tree  fell. 
But  an  heir  of  his  fathers  died. 
And  he — there  's  laughter  in  his  eye, 
Joy  in  his  voice — yet  he  must  die  ! 

I  've  borne  him  in  these  arms,  that  now 

Are  nerveless  and  unstrung  ; 
And  must  I  see,  on  that  fair  brow, 
The  dust  untimely  flung.!* 
I  must ! — yon  green  oak,  branch  and  crest, 
Lies  floating  on  the  dark  lake's  breast ! 

The  nOble  boy  ! — how  proudly  sprung 

The  falcon  from  his  hand ! 
It  seem'd  like  youth  to  see  him  young, 

A  flower  in  his  father's  land  ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS.  157 

But  the  hour  of  the  knell  and  the  dirge  is  nigh. 
For  tlie  tree  hath  fall'n,  and  the  flower  must  die. 

Say  not  'tis  vain  ! — I  tell  thee,  some 

Are  warn'd  by  a  meteor's  light. 
Or  a  pale  bird  flitting  calls  them  home. 
Or  a  voice  on  the  winds  by  night ; 
And  they  must  go ! — and  he  too,  he — 
— Woe  for  the  fall  of  the  glorious  Tree  ! 


158  LAVS    OF    MAXY   LANDS. 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 


It  is  a  popular  belief  in  the  Odenwald,  that  the  passing  of  the  Wild  Huntsman 
announces  the  approach  of  war.  He  is  supposed  to  issue  with  his  train  from 
the  ruined  castle  of  Rodenstein,  and  traverse  the  air  to  the  opposite  castle 
of  Schnellerts.  It  is  confidently  asserted  that  the  sound  of  his  phantom 
horses  and  hounds  was  heard  by  the  Duke  of  Baden  before  the  commence- 
ment of  the  last  war  in  Germany. 


Thy  rest  was  deep  at  the  slumberer's  hour 

If  thou  didst  not  hear  the  blast 
Of  the  savage  horn,  from  the  mountain-tower, 

As  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  pass'd. 
And  the  roar  of  the  stormy  chase  went  by, 

Through  the  dark  unquiet  sky ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS.  159 

The  stag  sprung  up  from  his  mossy  bed 

When  he  caught  the  piercing  sounds. 
And  the  oak-boughs  crash'd  to  his  antler'd  head 

As  he  flew  from  the  viewless  hounds ; 
And  the  falcon  soar'd  from  her  craggy  height. 

Away  through  the  rushing  night ! 

The  banner  shook  on  its  ancient  hold, 

And  the  pine  in  its  desert-place. 
As  the  cloud  and  tempest  onward  roll'd 

With  the  din  of  the  trampling  race ; 
And  the  glens  were  fill'd  with  the  laugh  and  shout. 

And  the  bugle,  ringing  out ! 

From  the  chieftain's  hand  the  wine-cup  fell, 

At  the  castle's  festive  board. 
And  a  sudden  pause  came  o'er  the  swell 

Of  the  harp's  triumphal  chord ; 
And  the  Minnesinger's  *  thrilling  lay 

In  the  hall  died  fast  away. 

*  Minnesinger,  love-singer;  the  wandering  minstrels  of  Germany  were  so 
called  in  the  middle  ages. 


160  LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS. 

The  convent's  chanted  rite  was  stay'd. 
And  the  hermit  dropp'd  his  beads. 

And  a  trembling  ran  through  the  forest-shade. 
At  the  neigh  of  the  phantom  steeds, 

And  the  church-bells  peaVd  to  the  rocking  blast 
As  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  pass'd. 

The  storm  hath  swept  with  the  chase  away. 

There  is  stillness  in  the  sky. 
But  the  mother  looks  on  her  son  to-day. 

With  a  troubled  heart  and  eye. 
And  the  maiden's  brow  hath  a  shade  of  care 

Midst  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair ! 

The  Rhine  flows  bright,  but  its  waves  ere  long 

Must  hear  a  voice  of  war. 
And  a  clash  of  spears  our  hills  among. 

And  a  trumpet  from  afar ; 
And  the  brave  on  a  bloody  turf  must  lie. 

For  the  Huntsman  hath  gone  by ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LAMDS.  161 


BRANDENBURGH  HARVEST-SONG*. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE. 


The  corn,  in  golden  light. 

Waves  o'er  the  plain ; 
The  sickle's  gleam  is  bright  ; 

Full  swells  the  grain. 

Now  send  we  far  around 

Our  harvest  lay ! 
— Alas !  a  heavier  sound 

Comes  o'er  the  day ! 

On  every  breeze  a  knell 

The  hamlets  pour, — 
—We  know  its  cause  too  well, 

She  is  no  more  ! 

For  the  year  of  the  Queen  of  Prussia's  death. 

M 


Ijg2  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Earth  shrouds  with  burial  sod 
Her  soft  eye's  blue, — 

—Now  o'er  the  gifts  of  God 
Fall  tears  like  dew ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS.  163 


THE  SHADE  OF  THESEUS. 

ANCIENT  GREEK  TRADITION. 


Know  ye  not  when  our  dead 

From  sleep  to  battle  sprung  ? 
— When  the  Persian  charger's  tread 

On  their  covering  greensward  rung ! 
When  the  trampling  march  of  foes 

Had  crush'd  our  vines  and  flowers. 
When  jeweird  crests  arose 

Through  the  holy  laurel-bowers. 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone. 
When  masts  were  on  the  seas. 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 


m2 


164  LAYS    OV    MANY    LANDS. 

There  was  one,  a  leader  crown'd. 

And  arm'd  for  Greece  that  day ; 
But  the  falchions  made  no  sound 

On  his  gleaming  war-array. 
In  the  battle's  front  he  stood. 

With  his  tall  and  shadowy  crest  ; 
But  the  arrows  drew  no  blood 

Though  their  path  was  through  his  breast. 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone. 
When  masts  were  on  the  seas. 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

His  sword  was  seen  to  flash 

Where  the  boldest  deeds  were  done ; 
But  it  smote  without  a  clash ; 

The  stroke  was  heard  by  none ! 
His  voice  was  not  of  those 

That  swell'd  the  rolling  blast. 
And  his  steps  fell  hush'd  like  snows — 

'Twas  the  Shade  of  Theseus  pass'd ! 


LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS.  165 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze. 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone. 
When  masts  were  on  the  seas. 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

Far  sweeping  through  the  foe. 

With  a  fiery  charge  he  bore  ; 
And  the  Mede  left  many  a  bow 

On  the  sounding  ocean-shore. 
And  the  foaming  waves  grew  red. 

And  the  sails  were  crowded  fast. 
When  the  sons  of  Asia  fled. 

As  the  Shade  of  Theseus  pass*d ! 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze. 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 
When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 


1&6  LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS. 


ANCIENT  GREEK  SONG  OF  EXILE. 


Where  is  the  summer,  with  her  golden  sun  ? 

— That  festal  glory  hath  not  pass'd  from  earth  : 
For  me  alone  the  laughing  day  is  done ! 

Where  is  the  summer  with  her  voice  of  mirth  ? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land  ! 

Where  are  the  Fauns,  whose  flute-notes  breathe  and  die 
On  the  green  hills  ? — the  founts,  from  sparry  caves 

Through  the  wild  places  bearing  melody  ? 

The  reeds,  low  whispering  o'er  the  river  waves  ? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land ! 

Where  are  the  temples,  through  the  dim  wood  shining. 
The  virgin-dances,  and  the  choral  strains  ? 

Where  the  sweet  sisters  of  my  youth,  entwining 
The  Spring's  first  roses  for  their  sylvan  fanes  ? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS.  167 

». 

Where  are  the  rineyards,  with  their  joyous  throngs. 
The  red  grapes  pressing  when  the  foliage  fades  ? 

The  lyres,  the  wreaths,  the  lovely  Dorian  songs. 
And  the  pine  forests,  and  the  olive  shades  ? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land ! 

Where  the  deep  haunted  grots,  the  laurel  bowers. 
The  Dryad's  footsteps,  and  the  minstrel's  dreams  ? 

— Oh  !  that  my  life  were  as  a  southern  flower's ! 
I  might  not  languish  then  by  these  chill  streams. 
Far  from  my  own  bright  land ! 


108  LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


GREEK  FUNERAL  CHANT  OR  MYRIOLOGLE. 


Les  Chants  Funebres  par  lesquels  on  deplore  en  Grece  la  mort  de  ses 
proches,  prennent  le  nom  particulier  de  Myriologia,  comme  qui  dirait,  Dis- 
cours  de  lamentation,  complaintes.  Un  malade  vient-il  de  rendre  le  dernier 
soupir,  sa  femme,  sa  mere,  ses  filles,  ses  soeurs,  celles,  en  un  mot,  de  ses  plus 
proches  parentes  qui  sont  la,  lui  ferment  les  yeux  et  la  bouche,  en  epanchant 
librement,  chacune  selon  son  naturel  et  sa  mesure  de  tendresse  pour  le  de- 
funt,  la  douleur  qu'elle  ressent  de  sa  perte.  Ce  premier  devoir  rempli, 
elles  se  retirent  toutes  chez  une  de  leurs  parentes  ou  de  leurs  amies.  Laelles 
changent  de  vetemens,  s'habillent  de  blanc,  comme  pour  la  ceremonie  nup- 
tiale,  avec  cette  difference,  qu'elles  gardent  la  tete  nucy  les  chevaux  epars  et 
pendants.  Ces  apprets  termines,  les  parentes  reviennent  dans  leur  parure 
de  deueil;  toutes  se  rangent  en  circle  autour  du  mort,  et  leur  douleur  s' ex- 
hale de  nouveau,  et,  comme  la  premiere  fois,  sans  regie  et  sans  contrainte. 
A  ces  plaintes  spontanees  succedent  bientot  des  lamentations  d*une  autre 
espece :  ce  sont  les  Myriologues.  Ordinairement  c^est  la  plus  proche  pa- 
rente  qui  prononce  le  sien  la  premiere ;  apres  elle  les  autres  parentes,  les 
amies,  les  simples  voisines.  Les  JMyriologues  sont  toujours  composes  et 
chantes  par  les  femmes.  lis  sont  toujours  improvises,  toujours  en  vers,  et 
toujours  chantes  sur  un  air  qui  difFere  d*un  lieu  a  un  autre,  mais  qui,  dans 
un  lieu  donne,  reste  invariablement  consacre  a  ce  genre  de  poesie." 

Chants  Populaires  de  la  Grece  Moderne,  par  C.  Fauriel. 


A  WAIL  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed  of  the  young. 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful  mother  sung. 
— "  lanthis!  dost  thou  sleep? — Thou  sleep'st ! — but  this  is  not 

the  rest. 
The  breathing  and  the  rosy  calm,  I  have  pillow'd  on  my  breast ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS.  169 

I  luird  thee  not  to  this  repose,  lanthis  !  my  sweet  son ! 
As  in  thy  glowing  childhood's  time  by  twilight  I  have  done! 
— How  is  it  that  I  bear  to  stand  and  look  upon  thee  now  ? 
And  that  I  die  not,  seeing  death  on  thy  pale  glorious  brow  ? 

"  I  look  upon  thee,  thou  that  wert  of  all  most  fair  and  brave ! 
I  see  thee  wearing  still  too  much  of  beauty  for  the  grave  ! 
Though  mournfully  thy  smile  is  fix'd,  and  heavily  thine  eye 
Hath  shut  above  the  falcon-glance  that  in  it  lov'd  to  lie; 
And  fast  is  bound  the  springing  step,  that  seem'd  on  breezes 

borne. 
When  to  thy  couch  I  came  and  said, — '  Wake,  hunter,  wake ! 

'tis  morn  !' 
Yet  art  thou  lovely  still,  my  flower !  untouch'd  by  slow  decay, 
— And  I,  the  wither'd  stem  remain — I  would  that  grief  might 

slay ! 

"  Oh !  ever  when  I  met  thy  look,  I  knew  that  this  would  be  \ 
I  knew  too  well  that  length  of  days  was  not  a  gift  for  thee  ! 
I  saw  it  in  thy  kindling  cheek,  and  in  thy  bearing  high ; — 
A  voice  came  whispering  to  my  soul,  and  told  me  thou  must  die ! 
That  thou  must  die,  my  fearless  one!  where  swords  were  flashing 

red. — 
— Why  doth  a  mother  live  to  say — my  first-born  and  my  dead  ? 


* 


170  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

They  tell  me  of  thy  youthful  fame,  they  talk  of  victory  won — 
— Speak  thou,  and  I  will  hear!  my  child,  lanthis!   my  sweet 
son  !" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  deathbed  of  the  young, 

A  fair-hair'd  bride  the  Funeral  Chant  amidst  her  weeping  sung. 

— "  lanthis  !  look'st  thou  not  on  mef — Can  love  indeed  be  fled? 

When  was  it  woe  before  to  gaze  upon  thy  stately  head  ? 

I  would  that  I  had  followed  thee,  lanthis,  my  belov'd ! 

And  stood  as  woman  oft  hath   stood  where  faithful  hearts  are 

prov'd ! 
That  I  had  bound  a  breastplate  on,  and  battled  at  thy  side — 
— It  would  have  been  a  blessed  thing  together  had  we  died  ! 

"  But  where  was  I  when  thou  didst  fall  beneath  the  fatal  sword  ? 
Was  I  beside  the  sparkling  fount,  or  at  the  peaceful  board  ? 
Or  singing  some  sweet  song  of  old,  in  the  shadow  of  the  vine. 
Or  praying  to  the  saints  for  thee,  before  the  holy  shrine  ? 
And  thou  wert  lying  low  the  while,  the  life-drops  from  thy  heart 
Fast  gushing  like  a  mountain-spring ! — and  couldst  thou  thus 

depart  ? 
Couldst  thou  depart,  nor  on  my  lips  pour  out  thy  fleeting  breath  ? 
— Oh  !  I  was  with   thee  but  in  joy,  that  should  have  been  in 

death  ! 


LAYS   OF    MANY   LANDS.  I7l 

"  Yes  !   I  vras  with  thee  when  the  dance  through  mazy  rings  was 

led. 
And  when  the  lyre  and  voice  were  tun'd,  and  when  the  feast  was 

spread  j 
But  not  where  noble  blood  flow'd  forth,  where  sounding  javelins 

flew — 
— Why  did  I  hear  love's  first  sweet  words,  and  not  its  last  adieu  ? 
What  now  can  breathe  of  gladness  more,  what  scene,  what  hour, 

what  tone  ? 
The  blue  skies  fade  with  all  their  lights,  they  fade,  since  thou 

art  gone ! 
Ev'n  that  must  leave  me,  that  still  face,  by  all  my  tears  unmov'd — 
— Take  me  from  this  dark  world  with   thee,  lanthis !  my  be- 

lov'd !" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed  of  the  young. 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful  sister  sung. 
"  lanthis !  brother  of  my  soul ! — oh  !  where  are  now  the  days 
That  laughM  among  the  deep  green  hills,  on  all  our  infant  plays  ? 
When  we  two  sported  by  the  streams,  or  track'd  them  to  their 

source. 
And  like  a  stag's,  the  rocks  along,  was  thy  fleet  fearless  course! 
— I  see  the  pines  there  waving  yet,  I  see  the  rills  descend, 
I  see  thy  bounding  step  no  more — my  brother  and  my  friend ! 


172  LAYS    OF    MANY  XANDS. 

"  I  come  with  flowers — for  spring  is  come  ! — Ian  this  !  art  thou 

heref 
I  bring  the  garlands  she  hath  brought,  I  cast  them  on  thy  bier ! 
Thou  shouldst  be  crown'd  with  Tictory's  crown — but  oh  !  more 

meet  they  seem. 
The  first  faint  violets  of  the  wood,  and  lilies  of  the  stream  ! 
More  meet  for  one  so  fondly  lov'd,  and  laid  thus  early  low — 
— Alas  !  how  sadly  sleeps  thy  face  amidst  the  sunshine's  glow : 
The  golden  glow  that  through  thy  heart  was  wont  such  joy  to 

send, 
— Woe,  that  it  smiles,  and  not  for  thee ! — my  brother  and  my 

friend  V 


LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS.  1/3 


THE  PARTING  SONG. 


This  piece  is  founded  on  a  tale  related  by  Fauriel,  in  his  "  Chansons  Populaires 
de  la  Grece  Moderne,"  and  accompanied  by  some  very  interesting  particulars 
respecting  the  extempore  parting  songs,  or  songs  of  expatriation,  as  he  in- 
forms us  they  are  called,  in  which  the  modern  Greeks  are  accustomed  to 
pour  forth  their  feelings  on  bidding  farewell  to  their  country  and  friends. 


A  YOUTH  went  forth  to  exile,  from  a  home 
Such  as  to  early  thought  gives  images. 
The  longest  treasur'd,  and  most  oft  recall'd. 
And  brightest  kept,  of  love ; — a  mountain  home. 
That,  with  the  murmur  of  its  rocking  pines 
And  sounding  waters,  first  in  childhood's  heart 
Wakes  the  deep  sense  of  nature  unto  joy. 
And  half  unconscious  prayer ; — a  Grecian  home. 
With  the  transparence  of  blue  skies  o'erhung. 
And,  through  the  dimness  of  its  olive  shades. 
Catching  the  flash  of  fountains,  and  the  gleam 
Of  shining  pillars  from  the  fanes  of  old. 


174  LAYS   OF   MANY   LANDS. 

And  this  was  what  he  left ! — Yet  many  leave 

Far  more : — the  glistening  eye,  that  first  from  theirs 

Caird  out  the  soul's  bright  smile ;  the  gentle  hand. 

Which  through  the  sunshine  led  forth  infant  steps 

To  where  the  violets  lay ;  the  tender  voice 

That  earliest  taught  them  what  deep  melody 

Lives  in  affection's  tones. — He  left  not  these. 

— Happy  the  weeper,  that  but  weeps  to  part 

With  all  a  mother's  love ! — A  bitterer  grief 

Was  his — To  part  unlovd  ! — of  her  unlov'd, 

That  should  have  breath'd  upon  his  heart,  like  Spring, 

Fostering  its  young  faint  flowers  ! 

Yet  hftd  he  friends. 
And  they  went  forth  to  cheer  him  on  his  way 
Unto  the  parting  spot — and  she  too  went. 
That  mother,  tearless  for  her  youngest-born. 

The  parting  spot  was  reach 'd: — a  lone  deep  glen. 
Holy,  perchance,  of  yore,  for  cave  and  fount 
Were  there,  and  sweet- voiced  echoes ;  and  above. 
The  silence  of  the  blue,  still,  upper  Heaven 
Hung  round  the  crags  of  Pindus,  where  they  wore 
Their  crowning  snows.' — Upon  a  rock  he  sprung. 


LAYS    OF    MANY   LANDS.  175 

The  unbelov'd  one,  for  his  home  to  gaze 
Through  the  wild  laurels  back ;  but  then  a  light 
Broke  on  the  stern  proud  sadness  of  his  eye, 
A  sudden  quivering  light,  and  from  his  lips 
A  burst  of  passionate  song. 

"  Farewell,  farewell ! 

"  I  hear  thee,  O  thou  rushing  stream  ! — thou  'rt  from  my  native 

dell, 
Thou  'rt  bearing  thence  a  mournful  sound — a  murmur  of  farewell ! 
And  fare  thee  well — flow  on,  my  stream ! — flow  on,  thou  bright 

and  free! 
I  do  but  dream  that  in  thy  voice  one  tone  laments  for  me , 
But  I  have  been  a  thing  unlov'd,  from  childhood's  loving  years, 
And  therefore  turns  my  soul  to  thee,  for  thou  hast  known  my 

tears ; 
The  mountains,  and  the  caves,  and  thou,  my  secret  tears  have 

known : 
The  woods  can  tell  where  he  hath  wept,  that  ever  wept  alone ! 

'*  I  see  thee  once  again,  my  home !  thou  'rt  there  amidst  thy 

vines. 
And  clear  upon  thy  gleaming  roof  tjhe  light  of  summer  shines. 


176  LAYS    01'    MA^Y    LANDS. 

It  is  a  joyous  hour  when  eve  comes  whispering  through  thy  groves. 
The  hour  that  brings  the  son  from  toil,  the  hour  the  mother 

loves ! 
— The  hour  the  mother  loves ! — for  jne  belov'd  it  hath  not  been ; 
Yet  ever  in  its  purple  smile,  thou  smil'st,  a  blessed  scene ! 
Whose  quiet   beauty  o'er  my  soul   through  distant   years  will 

come — 
— ^Yet  what  but  as  the  dead/ to  thee,  shall  I  be  then,  my  home? 

'*  Not  as  the  dead! — no,  not  the  dead ! — We  s{)eak  of  them — we 

keep 
Their  names,  like  light  that  must  not  fade,  within  our  bosoms 

deep ! 
We  hallow  ev*n  the  lyre  they  touch'd,  we  love  the  lay  they  sung. 
We  pass  with  softer  step  the  place  thei/  fill'd  our  band  among ! 
But  I  depart  like  sound,  like  dew,  like  aught  that  leaves  on  earth 
No  trace  of  sorrow  or  delight,  no  memory  of  its  birth  ! 
I  go ! — the  echo  of  the  rock  a  thousand  songs  may  swell 
When   mine  is  a  forgotten  voice. — Woods,   mountains,  home, 

farewell ! 

**  And  farewell,  mother ! — I  have  borne  in  lonely  silence  long, 
But  now  the  current  of  my  soul  grows  passionate  and  strong ! 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS  177 

And  I  will  speak  I  though  but  the  wind  that  wanders  through 

the  sky. 
And  but  the  dark  deep-rustling  pines  and  rolling  streams  reply. 
Yes !  I  will   speak ! — within   my  breast  whate'er  hath   seem'd 

to  be. 
There  lay  a  hidden  fount  of  love,  that  would  have  gush'd  for 

thee! 
Brightly  it  would  have  gush'd,  but  thou,  my  mother !  thou  hast 

thrown 
Back  on  the  forests  and  the  wilds  what  should  have  been  thine 


*^  Then  fare  thee  well !  I  leave  thee  not  in  loneliness  to  pine. 
Since  thou  hast  sons  of  statelier  mien  and  fairer  brow  than  mine ! 
Forgive  me  that  thou  couldst  not  love  ! — it  may  be,  that  a  tone 
Yet  from  my  burning  heart  may  pierce,  through  thine,  when  I 

am  gone! 
And  thou  perchance  mayst  weep  for  him  on  whom  thou  ne'er 

hast  smil'd. 
And  the  grave  give  his  birthright  back  to  thy  neglected  child ! 
Might  but  my  spirit  then  return,  and  'midst  its  kindred  dwell. 
And  quench  its  thirst  with  love's  free  tears ! — 'tis  all  a  dream — 

farewell!" 

N 


178  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

*'  Farewell !" — the  echo  died  with  that  deep  M'ord, 
Yet  died  not  so  the  late  repentant  pang 
By  the  strain  quicken'd  in  the  mother's  breast ! 
71iere  had  pass'd  many  changes  o'er  her  brow. 
And  cheek,  and  eye  ;  but  into  one  bright  flood 
Of  tears  at  last  all  melted ;  and  she  fell 
On  the  glad  bosom  of  her  child,  and  cried 
"  Return,  return,  my  son!" — the  echo  caught 
A  lovelier  sound  than  song,  and  woke  again. 
Murmuring — "  Return,  my  son  !" 


LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS.  179 


THE  SULIOTE  MOTHER. 


It  is  related  in  a  French  Life  of  Ali  Pacha,  that  several  of  the  Suliote  women, 
on  the  advance  of  the  Turkish  troops  into  tlieir  mountain  fastnesses,  as- 
sembled on  a  lofty  summit,  and,  after  chanting  a  wild  song,  precipitated 
themselves,  with  their  children,  into  the  chasm  below,  to  avoid  becoming 
the  slaves  of  the  enemy. 


She  stood  upon  the  loftiest  peak. 
Amidst  the  clear  blue  sky, 

A  bitter  smile  was  on  her  cheek, 
And  a  dark  flash  in  her  eye. 


^■ 


Dost  thou  see  them,  boy  ? — through  the  dusky  pines 
Dost  thou  see  where  the  foeman's  armour  shines  ? 
Hast  thou  caught  the  gleam  of  the  conqueror's  crest  ? 
My  babe,  that  I  cradled  on  my  breast ! 
Wouldst  thou  spring  from  thy  mother's  arms  with  joy? 
— That  sight  hath  cost  thee  a  father,  boy !" 

N  2 


180  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

For  ill  the  rocky  strait  beneatli, 

Lay  Suliote  sire  and  son  ; 
They  had  heap'd  high  the  piles  of  death 

Before  the  pass  was  won. 

'*  They  have  cross'd  the  torrent,  and  on  they  come ! 
Woe  for  the  mountain  hearth  and  home  ! 
There,  where  the  hunter  laid  by  his  spear. 
There,  where  the  lyre  hath  been  sweet  to  hear. 
There,  where  I  sang  thee,  fair  babe !  to  sleep. 
Nought  but  the  blood-stain  our  trace  shall  keep !" 

And  now  the  horn's  loud  blast  was  heard. 

And  now  the  cymbal's  clang, 
Till  ev'n  the  upper  air  was  stirr'd, 

As  cliff  and  hollow  rang. 

"  Hark  !  they  bring  music,  my  joyous  child ! 
What  saith  the  trumpet  to  Suli's  wild ! 
Doth  it  light  thine  eye  with  so  quick  a  fire. 
As  if  at  a  glance  of  thine  armed  sire  ? 
— Still ! — be  thou  still ! — there  are  brave  men  low — 
Thou  wouldst  not  smile  couldst  thou  seem  him  now  !' 


LAVS    OF    MANY    LANDS.  181 

But  nearer  came  the  clash  of  steel. 

And  louder  swell'd  the  horn. 
And  farther  yet  the  tambour's  peal 

Through  tlie  dark  pass  was  borne. 

Hear'st  thou  the  sound  of  their  savage  mirth  ? 
— Boy  I  thou  wert  free  when  I  gave  thee  birth. 
Free,  and  how  cherish'd,  my  warrior's  son  ! 
He  too  hath  bless'd  thee,  as  I  have  done  ! 
Aye,  and  unchain'd  must  his  lov'd  ones  be — 
— Freedom,  young  Suliote  !  for  thee  and  me !" 

And  from  the  arrowy  peak  she  sprung, 

And  fast  the  fair  child  bore, 
A  veil  upon  the  wind  was  flung, 

A  cry — and  all  was  o'er  ! 


182  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 


THE  FAREWELL  TO  THE  DEAD. 


The  following  piece  is  founded  on  a  beautiful  part  of  the  Greek  funeral  service, 
in  which  relatives  and  friends  are  invited  to  embrace  the  deceased  (whose 
face  is  uncovered)  and  to  bid  their  final  adieu. 

See  Christian  Researches  in  tlie  Mediterranean. 

*Ti8  hard  to  lay  into  the  earth 


A  countenance  so  benign  !  a  form  that  walk'd 
But  yesterday  so  stately  o'er  the  eartli ! 


Wilson. 


Come  near ! — ere  yet  the  dust 
Soil  the  bright  paleness  of  the  settled  brow. 
Look  on  your  brother,  and  embrace  him  now. 

In  still  and  solemn  trust ! 
Come  near ! — once  more  let  kindred  lips  be  press'd 
On  his  cold  cheek  j  then  bear  him  to  his  rest ! 

Look  yet  on  this  young  face  ! 
What  shall  the  beauty,  from  amongst  us  gone. 
Leave  of  its  image,  ev'n  where  most  it  shone. 

Gladdening  its  hearth  and  race  ? 


LAYS    OF    xMANY    LANDS.  183 

Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  impress'd — 
— Come  near,  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest ! 

Ye  weep,  and  it  is  well ! 
For  tears  befit  earth's  partings ! — Yesterday 
Song  was  upon  the  lips  of  this  pale  clay. 

And  sunshine  seem*d  to  dwell 
Where'er  he  mov'd — the  welcome  and  the  bless'd  ! 
— Now  gaze  !  and  bear  the  silent  unto  rest ! 

Look  yet  on  him^  whose  eye 
Meets  yours  no  more,  in  sadness  or  in  mirth  ! 
Was  he  not  fair  amidst  the  sons  of  earth. 

The  beings  born  to  die  ? 
— But  not  where  death  has  power  may  love  be  bless'd— 
Come  near !  and  bear  ye  the  belov'd  to  rest ! 

How  may  the  mother's  heart 
Dwell  on  her  son,  and  dare  to  hope  again  ? 
The  spring's  rich  promise  hath  been  given  in  vain. 

The  lovely  must  depart ! 
Is  he  not  gone,  our  brightest  and  our  best  ? 
Come  near  !  and  bear  the  early-call' d  to  rest ! 


184  LAYS    OF    MANY    LANDS. 

Look  on  him  !   is  he  laid 
To  slumber  from  the  harvest  or  the  chase  ? 
— Too  still  and  sad  the  smile  upon  his  face. 

Yet  that,  ev'n  that,  must  fade ! 
Death  holds  not  long  unchang'd  his  fairest  guest, — 
Come  near !  and  bear  the  mortal  to  his  rest ! 

His  voice  of  mirth  hath  ceas'd 
Amidst  the  vineyards !  there  is  left  no  place 
For  him  whose  dust  receives  your  vain  embrace,^ 

At  the  gay  bridal  feast ! 
Earth  must  take  earth  to  moulder  on  her  breast ; 
Come  near  !  weep  o'er  him !  bear  him  to  his  rest ! 

Yet  mourn  ye  not  as  they 
Whose  spirit's  light  is  quench 'd ! — for  him  the  past 
Is  seal'd.     He  may  not  fall,  he  may  not  cast 

His  birthright's  hope  away  .* 
All  is  not  here  of  our  belov'd  and  bless'd — 
— Leave  ye  the  sleeper  with  his  God  to  rest ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  187 


THE  TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP. 


What  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells .'' 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main  ! 
— Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow-col our'd  shells. 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unreck'd-of,  and  in  vain ! 
— Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  ! — what  wealth  untold. 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness  lies  ! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold. 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies  ! 
— Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  main  ! 
Earth  claims  not  these  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  !— thy  waves  have  roll'd 
Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by ! 


188  MISCELLANi':Oirs    PIECES. 

Sand  hath  fill'd  up  the  palaces  of  old, 
Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry. 
— Dash  o'er  them,  ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play  ! 
Man  yields  them  to  decay. 

Yet  more  !  the  billows  and  the  depths  have  more  ! 
High  hearts  and  brave  are  gather'd  to  thy  breast ! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar. 
The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest. 
— Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  ! 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely ! — those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long, 
The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless  gloom. 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  'midst  festal  song ! 
Hold  fast  thy  buried  Isles,  thy  towers  o'erthrown — 
But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

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, 
— Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice — restore  the  dead  I 
Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from  thee ! 
— Restore  the  dead,  thou  sea  ! 


MISCELLAKEOUS   PIECES:  189 


BRING  FLOWERS. 


Bring  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal  board. 

To  wreathe  the  cup  ere  the  wine  is  pour'd ; 

Bring  flowers !  they  are  springing  in  wood  and  vale, 

Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale, 

And  the  touch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the  rose. 

To  deck  the  hall  where  the  bright  wine  flows. 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  in  the  conqueror's  path — 
He  hath  shaken  thrones  with  his  stormy  wrath  ! 
He  comes  with  the  spoils  of  nations  back. 
The  vines  lie  crush'd  in  his  chariot's  track. 
The  turf  looks  red  where  he  won  the  day — 
Bring  flowers  to  die  in  the  conqueror's  way ! 

Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell. 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell ; 


190  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Of  the  free  blue  streams,  and  the  glowing  sky, 

And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid  eye ; 

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  I 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair. 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth. 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth. 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side — 
Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride! 

Bring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed, 

A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead ! 

For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white-rose  burst. 

For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nurs'd. 

Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was  ours. 

They  are  love's  last  gift — bring  ye  flowers,  pale  flowers ! 

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 ! 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  l^l 


THE  CRUSADER'S  RETURN. 


Alas  !  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  his  wan  cheeks  and  simburnt  hair. 

She  had  not  known  her  child." 


Marmioi 


Rest,  pilgrim,  rest! — thou'rt  from  the  Syrian  land. 
Thou  'rt  from  the  wild  and  wondrous  east,  I  know 
By  the  long-withered  palm-branch  in  thy  hand, 
And  by  the  darkness  of  thy  sunburnt  brow. 
Alas !  the  bright,  the  beautiful,  who  part. 
So  full  of  hope,  for  that  for  country's  bourne ! 
Alas !  the  weary  and  the  chang'd  in  heart. 
And  dimm'd  in  aspect,  who  like  thee  return  ! 

Thou  'rt  faint — stay,  rest  thee  from  thy  toils  at  last. 
Through  the  high  chesnuts  lightly  plays  the  breeze. 


194  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Oh !  hath  his  smile  departed  ? — Could  the  grave 
Shut  o'er  those  bursts  of  bright  and  tameless  glee  ? 
— No !   I  shall  yet  behold  his  dark  locks  wave — 
That  look  gives  hope — I  knew  it  could  not  be  ! 

Still  weep'st  thou,  wanderer  ? — some  fond  mother's  glance 
O'er  thee  too  brooded  in  thine  early  years — 
Think'st  thou  of  herj  whose  gentle  eye,  perchance, 
Bath'd  all  thy  faded  hair  with  parting  tears  ? 
Speak,  for  thy  tears  disturb  me  ! — what  art  thou  ? 
Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  face,  yet  weeping  on  ? 
Look  up !— oh !  is  it — that  wan  cheek  and  brow ! — 
Is  it — alas !  yet  joy  !^-my  son,  my  son ! 


MISCEl.LANEOUH    PIECES.  195 


THEKLA'S  SONG;  OR,  THE  VOICE  OF  A  SPIRIT. 

FROM  THE   GERMAN  OF   SCHILLER. 


This  Song  is  said  to  have  been  composed  by  Schiller  in  answer  to  the  inquiries 
of  his  friends  respecting  the  fate  of  Thekla^  whose  beautiful  character  is 
withdrawn  from  the  tragedy  of  "  Wallenstein's  Death,"  after  her  resolution 
to  visit  the  grave  of  her  lover  is  made  known, 

"  'Tis  not  merely 

The  human  being's  pride  that  peoples  space 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 
Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 
Are  all  too  narrow." 

Coleridge's  Translation  of  Wallenstein. 


Ask'st  thou  my  home  } — my  pathway  wouldst  thou  know, 
When  from  thine  eye  my  floating  shadow  pass'd  .> 
Was  not  my  work  fulfil  I'd  and  closed  below  } 
Had  I  not  liv'd  and  lov'd  } — my  lot  was  cast. 

Wouldst  thou  ask  where  the  nightingale  is  gone. 
That  melting  into  song  her  soul  away. 
Gave  the  spring-breeze  what  witch'd  thee  in  its  tone  ? 
—But  while  she  lov'd,  she  liv'd,  in  that  deep  lay ! 

^  o2 


194  MISCELLAMEOUS    PIECES. 

Oh  I  hath  his  smile  departed  ? — Could  the  grave 
Shut  o'er  those  bursts  of  bright  and  tameless  glee  ? 
— No !   I  shall  yet  behold  his  dark  locks  wave — 
That  look  gives  hope — I  knew  it  could  not  be  ! 

Still  weep'st  thou,  wanderer  ? — some  fond  mother's  glance 
O'er  thee  too  brooded  in  thine  early  years — 
Think'st  thou  of  her^  whose  gentle  eye,  perchance, 
Bath'd  all  thy  faded  hair  with  parting  tears  ? 
Speak,  for  thy  tears  disturb  me  ! — what  art  thou  ? 
Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  face,  yet  weeping  on  ? 
Look  up ! — oh  !  is  it — that  wan  cheek  and  brow ! — 
Is  it — alas !  yet  joy  !*-my  son,  my  son ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES-  I9«'5 


THEKLA'S  SONG;  OR,  THE  VOICE  OF  A  SPIRIT. 

FROM  THE   GERMAN  OF   SCHILLER. 


This  Song  is  said  to  have  been  composed  by  Schiller  in  answer  to  the  inquiries 
of  his  friends  respecting  the  fate  of  Thekla^  whose  beautiful  character  is 
withdrawn  from  the  tragedy  of  *'  Wallenstein's  Death,"  after  her  resolution 
to  visit  the  grave  of  her  lover  is  made  known. 

"  'Tis  not  merely 

The  human  being's  pride  that  peoples  space 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 
Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 
Are  all  too  narrow." 

Coleridge's  Translation  of  Wallenstein. 


Ask'st  thou  my  home  } — my  pathway  wouldst  thou  know, 
When  from  thine  eye  my  floating  shadow  pass'd  } 
Was  not  ray  work  fulfil  I'd  and  closed  below  } 
Had  I  not  liv'd  and  lov'd  } — my  lot  was  cast. 

Wouldst  thou  ask  where  the  nightingale  is  gone. 
That  melting  into  song  her  soul  away. 
Gave  the  spring-breeze  what  witch 'd  thee  in  its  tone  ? 
—But  while  she  lov'd,  she  liv'd,  in  that  deep  lay ! 

^  o  2 


196  MISCELI.ANEOUS   PIECES. 

Think'st  thou  my  heart  its  lost  one  hath  not  found? 
— Yes !  we  are  one,  oh  !  trust  me,  we  have  met, 
Where  nought  again  may  part  what  love  hath  bound. 
Where  falls  no  tear,  and  whispers  no  regret. 

There  shalt  thou  find  us,  there  with  us  be  blest. 
If  as  our  love  thy  love  is  pure  and  true ! 
There  dwells  my  father  *,  sinless  and  at  rest. 
Where  the  fierce  murderer  may  no  more  pursue. 

And  well  he  feels,  no  error  of  the  dust 
Drew  to  the  stars  of  Heaven  his  mortal  ken. 
There  it  is  with  us,  ev'n  as  is  our  trust. 
He  that  believes,  is  near  the  holy  then. 

There  shall  each  feeling  beautiful  and  high. 
Keep  the  sweet  promise  of  its  earthly  day; 
— Oh  !  fear  thou  not  to  dream  with  waking  eye  ! 
There  lies  deep  meaning  oft  in  childish  play. 

*  M'^allenstein. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  1  P'i 


THE  REVELLERS. 


Ring,  joyous  chords ! — ring  out  again  f 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  ! 
They  are  here — the  fair  face  and  the  careless  heart. 
And  stars  shall  wane  ere  the  mirthful  part. 
— But  I  met  a  dimly  mournful  glance. 
In  a  sudden  turn  of  the  flying  dance  ; 
I  heard  the  tone  of  a  heavy  sigh. 
In  a  pause  of  the  thrilling  melody  ! 
And  it  is  not  well  that  woe  should  breathe 
On  the  bright  spring-flowers  of  the  festal  wreath ! 
—Ye  that  to  thought  or  to  grief  belong, 
Leave,  leave  the  hall  of  song  ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords ! — but  who  art  thou 

With  the  shadowy  locks  o'er  thy  pale  young  brow. 


* 


\$8  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

And  the  world  of  dreamy  gloom  that  lies 
In  the  misty  depths  of  thy  soft  dark  eyes  ? 
— Thou  hast  lov'd,  fair  girl !  thou  hast  lov'd  too  well ! 
Thou  art  mourning  now  o'er  a  broken  spell  5 
Thou  hast  pour  d  thy  heart's  rich  treasures  forth, 
And  art  unrepaid  for  their  priceless  worth ! 
Mourn  on  ! — yet  come  thou  not  here  the  while. 
It  is  but  a  pain  to  see  thee  smile  ! 
There  is  not  a  tone  in  our  songs  for  thee — 
— Home  with  thy  sorrows  flee  ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords ! — ring  out  again  ! 
— But  what  dost  thou  with  the  Revel's  train  ? 
A  silvery  voice  through  the  soft  air  floats. 
But  thou  hast  no  part  in  the  gladdening  notes; 
There  are  bright  young  faces  that  pass  thee  by. 
But  they  fix  no  glance  of  thy  wandering  eye ! 
Away !  there 's  a  void  in  thy  yearning  breast. 
Thou  weary  man  !  wilt  thou  here  find  rest  ? 
Away !  for  thy  thoughts  from  the  scene  have  fled. 
And  the  love  of  thi/  spirit  is  with  the  dead ! 
Thou  art  but  more  lone  midst  the  sounds  of  mirth — 
— Back  to  thy  silent  hearth  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  199 

Ring,  joyous  chords ! — ring  forth  again ! 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain ! 
— But  thou,  though  a  reckless  mien  be  thine. 
And  thy  cup  be  crown'd  with  the  foaming  wine. 
By  the  fitful  bursts  of  thy  laughter  loud. 
By  thine  eye's  quick  flash  through  its  troubled  cloud, 
I  know  thee ! — it  is  but  the  wakeful  fear 
Of  a  haunted  bosom  that  brings  thee  here ! 
I  know  thee ! — thou  fearest  the  solemn  night. 
With  her  piercing  stars  and  her  deep  wind's  might ! 
There 's  a  tone  in  her  voice  which  thou  fain  wouldst  shun. 
For  it  asks  what  the  secret  soul  hath  done ! 
And  thou — there 's  a  dark  weight  on  thine — away ! 
— Back  to  thy  home  and  pray ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords  ! — ring  out  again  ! 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain ! 

And  bring  fresh  wreaths  ! — we  will  banish  all 

Save  the  free  in  heart  from  our  festive  hall. 

On  through  the  maze  of  the  fleet  dance,  on  ! 

— But  where  are  the  young  and  the  lovely  ? — gone ! 

Where  are  the  brows  with  the  red  rose  crown'd, 

And  the  floating  forms  with  the  bright  zone  bound  ? 


200  MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES. 

And  the  waving  locks  and  the  flying  feet. 
That  still  should  be  where  the  mirthful  meet ! 
—They  are  gone — they  are  fled — they  are  parted  all- 
— Alas !  the  forsaken  hall ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  201 


THE  CONQUEROR'S  SLEEP. 


Sleep  'midst  thy  banners  furl'd ! 
Yes !  thou  art  there,  upon  thy  buckler  lying. 
With  the  soft  wind  unfelt  around  thee  sighing. 
Thou  chief  of  hosts,  whose  trumpet  shakes  the  world  ? 
Sleep  while  the  babe  sleeps  on  its  mother's  breast — 
— Oh  !  strong  is  night — for  thou  too  art  at  rest ! 

Stillness  hath  smooth'd  thy  brow. 
And  now  might  love  keep  timid  vigils  by  thee. 
Now  might  the  foe  with  stealthy  foot  draw  nigh  thee, 
Alike  unconscious  and  defenceless  thou  ! 
Tread  lightly,  watchers! — now  the  field  is  won. 
Break  not  the  rest  of  nature's  weary  son  ! 

Perchance  some  lovely  dream 
Back  from  the  stormy  fight  thy  soul  is  bearing. 
To  the  green  places  of  thy  boyish  daring. 
And  all  the  windings  of  thy  native  stream ; 


202  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

— Why,  this  were  joy  ! — upon  the  tented  plain. 
Dream  on,  thou  Conqueror  ! — be  a  child  again  ! 

But  thou  wilt  wake  at  morn. 
With  thy  strong  passions  to  the  conflict  leaping. 
And  thy  dark  troubled  thoughts,  all  earth  o'ersweeping, 
— So  wilt  thou  rise,  oh  !  thou  of  woman  born ! 
And  put  thy  terrors  on,  till  none  may  dare 
Look  upon  thee — the  tired  one,  slumbering  there ! 

Why,  so  the  peasant  sleeps 
Beneath  his  vine  ! — and  man  must  kneel  before  thee. 
And  for  his  birthright  vainly  still  implore  thee ! 
Shalt  thou  be  stay'd  because  thy  brother  weeps  ? 
"—Wake  !  and  forget  that  'midst  a  dreaming  world. 
Thou  hast  lain  thus,  with  all  thy  banners  furl'd ! 

Forget  that  thou,  ev'n  thou. 
Hast  feebly  shiver'd  when  the  wind  passed  o'er  thee. 
And  sunk  to  rest  upon  the  earth  which  bore  thee, 
And  felt  the  night-dew  chill  thy  fever'd  brow ! 
Wake  with  the  trumpet,  with  the  spear  press  on  1 
— Yet  shall  the  dust  take  home  its  mortal  son. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  203 


OUR  LADY'S  WELL*. 


Fount  of  the  woods !  thou  art  hid  no  more. 
From  Heaven's  clear  eye,  as  in  time  of  yore  I 
For  the  roof  hath  sunk  from  thy  mossy  walls. 
And  the  sun's  free  glance  on  thy  slumber  falls; 
And  the  dim  tree-shadows  across  thee  pass, 
As  the  boughs  are  sway'd  o'er  thy  silvery  glass; 
And  the  reddening  leaves  to  thy  breast  are  blown. 
When  the  autumn  wind  hath  a  stormy  tone; 
And  thy  bubbles  rise  to  the  flashing  rain—- 
Bright  Fount !  thou  art  nature's  own  again  ! 


*  A  beautiful  spring  in  the  woods  near  St.  Asaph,  formerly  covered  in  with  a 
chapel,  now  in  ruins.  It  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  and,  accx>rding  to  Pen- 
nant, much  the  resort  of  pilgrims. 


204  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Fount  of  tlie  vale  !  thou  art  sought  no  more 
By  the  pilgrim's  foot,  as  in  time  of  yore. 
When  he  came  from  afar,  his  beads  to  tell. 
And  to  chant  his  hymn  at  Our  Lady's  Well. 
There  is  heard  no  Ave  through  thy  bo\rers, 
Thou  art  gleaming  lone  'midst  thy  water-flowers ! 
But  the  herd  may  drink  from  thy  gushing  wave, 
And  there  may  the  reaper  his  forehead  lave. 
And  the  woodman  seeks  thee  not  in  vain — 
— Bright  Fount !  thou  art  nature's  own  again  ! 

Fount  of  the  Virgin's  ruin'd  shrine  ! 

A  voice  that  speaks  of  the  past  is  thine ! 

It  mingles  the  tone  of  a  thoughtful  sigh. 

With  the  notes  that  ring  through  the  laughing  sky; 

'Midst  the  mirthful  song  of  the  summer-bird. 

And  the  sound  of  the  breeze,  it  will  yet  be  heard ! 

— Why  is  it  that  thus  we  may  gaze  on  thee, 

To  the  brilliant  sunshine  sparkling  free  ? 

— 'Tis  that  all  on  earth  is  of  Time's  domain — 

He  hath  made  thee  nature's  own  again  ! 

Fount  of  the  chapel  with  ages  grey ! 
Thou  art  springing  freshly  amidst  decay  ' 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  205 

Thy  rites  are  closed,  and  thy  cross  lies  low. 
And  the  changeful  hours  breathe  o'er  thee  now  I 
Yet  if  at  thine  altar  one  holy  thought 
In  man*s  deep  spirit  of  old  hath  wrought ; 
If  peace  to  the  mourner  hath  here  been  given. 
Or  prayer,  from  a  chasten'd  heart,  to  Heaven, 
Be  the  spot  still  hallow'd  while  Time  shall  reign. 
Who  hath  made  thee  nature's  own  again ! 


THE    END. 


LONDON : 

PllIMTED   BY    THOMAS   DAVISON,    WHITEFRIARS. 


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