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Full text of "National lyrics : and songs for music"

.<'. >,.- .:. <: -,.> u-Xa 3 



NATIONAL LYRICS, 



AND 



SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



BY 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



DUBLIN : 
WILLIAM CURRY JUN. AND COMPANY. 

SIMPKIN AND MARSHALL, LONDON. 
MDCCCXXXIV. 



DUBLIN: 
Printed by JOHN S. FOLDS, 5, Bachelor's Walk. 



TO 

MRS. LAWRENCE 

OF 

WAVERTREE HALL; 
HER FRIEND, 

AND 

THE SISTER OF HER FRIEND 
COLONEL D'AGUILAR, 

THIS VOLUME 
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 

IN REMEMBRANCE OF 

MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED HOURS, 
BY 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



CONTENTS. 



Introductory Stanzas The Themes of Song . . 3 

Rhine Song of the German Soldiers ... 7 

A Sorigof Delos 11 

Ancient Greek Chaunt of Victory . . . . 16 

Naples, a Song of the Siren . . . . .19 

The Fall of D'Assas 23 

The Burial of William the Conqueror ... 27 

Ancient Spanish Battle Song .... 32 

The beath Seng of Alcestis . 53 

Chorus from the Alcestis of Alfieri . . . 41 

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT: 

1. Nearthee, still near thee . . . .45 

2. Oh ! droop thou not 48 



viii CONTENTS. 

Mignon's Song, translated from Goethe . . .51 

The Sisters, a Ballad 54 

The Last Song of Sappho 61 

Dirge 65 

A Song of the Rose 68 

Night Blowing Flowers 73 

The Wanderer and Night Flowers . . .75 

Echo Song 78 

The Muffled Drum 80 

The Swan and the Sky Lark . . . . . 83 

SONGS OF SPAIN: 

1. Ancient Battle Song 89 

2. The Zegri Maid 91 

3. The Rio Verde Song 95 

4. Seek by the Silvery Darro .... 98 

5. Spanish Evening Hymn .... 99 

6. Bird that art singing on Ebro's Tide . . 101 

7. Moorish gathering Song 102 

8. Song of Mina's Soldiers . . . . 104 

9. Mother, oh ! sing me to rest . . . .106 
10. There are sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles 108 



CONTENTS. ix 

The Curfew Song of England 110 

The Call to Battle 11* 

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS: 

1. And I too in Arcadia . . . . .119 

2. The Wandering Wind .... 124 

3. Ye are not missed, Fair Flowers. . . . 126 
- 4. Willow Song 128 

5. Leave me not yet ...... 130 

6. The Orange Bough 132 

7. The Stream set free 134 

8. The Summer's Call 137 

9. Oh ! Sky- Lark, for thy wing . . . .140 
Genius singing to Love . . . . . 142 

Music at a Death-bed 147 

Where is the Sea ? Song of the Greek islander in exile 151 
Marshal Schwerin's Grave . . . . . .155 

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY: 

Introduction 160 

1. The Brother's Dirge . . . .162 

2. The Alpine Horn . . > . . . 164 



x CONTENTS. 

3. Oh ! ye Voices 166 

4. I dream of all things free . . . . 168 

5. Far over the Sea 170 

6. The Invocation 172 

7. The Song of Hope 174 

The Bird at Sea 176 

The Dying Girl and Flowers 179 

The Ivy Song 183 

The Music of St. Patrick's 188 

Keene, or Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son . 191 

England's Dead 195 

Faraway 199 

The Lyre and Flower 201 

Sister, since I met thee last 203 

The lonely Bird 205 

Dirge at Sea . ... 208 
Pilgrim's Song to the Evening Star . . . .210 

The Spartan's March 213 

The Meeting of the Ships 217 

The Rock of Cader Idris, a Legend of Wales . . 220 

A Farewell to Wales 224 

The Dying Bard's Prophecy 226 



CONTENTS. xi 

Come away . . . . . . ... 229 

Fair Helen of Kirconnel 231 

Music from Shore 234 

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes . . . 236 

I go, sweet friends 238 

If thou hast crushed a flower ..... 240 

Brightly hast thou fled 243 

Sing to me, Gondolier ...... 245 

O'er the far blue mountains ..... 247 

thou breeze of Spring 249 

Come to me, dreams of Heaven . . . .251 

Goodnight . . . . . . . 253 

Let her depart ....... 255 

Water Lilies, a Fairy Song 257 

The broken Flower 259 

1 would we had not met again . . . . 261 

Fairies' Recall 263 

The Rock beside the Sea 265 

O ye voices gone . . . . . . 267 

By a mountain stream at rest ..... 269 

Is there some Spirit sighing 271 

The Name of England . . . . . . 273 



xii CONTENTS. 

Old Norway . , .275 

English Soldier's Song of Memory .... 278 

Come to me, gentle sleep 280 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Home of Love 285 

Books and Flowers 290 

For a Picture of St. Cecilia attended by Angels . 294 

The Voice of the Waves 297 

The Haunted House 301 

O'Connor's Child 305 

The Brigand Leader and his Wife .... 309 
The Child's return from the Woodlands . . .312 

The faith of Love 316 

The Sister's Dream 320 

Written after visiting a tomb near Woodstock . . 324 

Prologue to Fiesco 328 

A Farewell to Abbotsford . . . . 333 

Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine ..... 335 

The Victor . 339 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This Volume contains, besides a few poems on subjects of 
national tradition, all those of the Author's pieces which have, 
at different periods, been composed either in the form of the 
ballad, the song, or the scena, with a view to musical adapta- 
tion They are now first collected and arranged to lay before 
the Public. 



The reader is particularly requested to correct the following 
ERRATA. 



Page 



7 line 11 for 

14 18 for 

19 12 for 

20 ~~- 
23 v~ 
64 ~~ 
79 note 
93 line 

121 ~~~ 



225 

231 
244 
234 



11 for 

10 for 

11 /or 
for 

3 /or 

6 /or 

11 for 

3 /or 

6 for 

5 /o>- 

8 /or 



and the Cossacks 
breaking- 
summer's air 
now 

ennemids 
fairy 
Mrs. 
their 
wanderer 
strangers 
bethrothed 
thou 
thine 
sigh 



read and even the Cossacks. 

read beating. 

read summer air. 

read how. 

read ennemis. 

read fiery. 

read Mr. 

read that, 

read wanderers. 

read stranger. 

read betrothed. 

read thus. 

read their. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, 

AND 

SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 



Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 
And melancholy fear subdued by faith. 

WORDSWORTH. 



WHERE shall the minstrel find a theme ? 

Where'er, for freedom shed, 
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, 

Amidst the mountains, red. 

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, 

Bears record to the faith 
Of love, deep, holy, fervent love, 

Victor o'er fear and death. 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Where'er a chieftain's crested brow 
Too soon hath been struck down, 

Or a bright virgin head laid low, 
Wearing its youth's first crown. 

Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 
Through storm and summer air, 

Telling, that all around have striven 
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 

Where'er a blessed Home hath been, 
That now is Home no more : 

A place of ivy, darkly green, 
Where laughter's light is o'er. 

Where'er, by some forsaken grave, 
Some nameless greensward heap, 

A bird may sing, a wild flower wave, 
A star its vigil keep. 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 

Or where a yearning heart of old, 

A dream of shepherd men, 
With forms of more than earthly mould 

Hath peopled grot or glen. 

There may the bard's high themes be found- 

We die, we pass away : 
But faith, love, pity these are bound 

To earth without decay. 

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, 

The tear from hidden springs, 
The thorn and glory of the rose 

These are undying things. 

Wave after wave of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, 

The exhaustless flood rolls on. 



RHINE SONG 

OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY. 



" I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a 
glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his ! 
the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German 
army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. 
' At the first gleam of the river,' he said, ' they all burst forth 
into the national chaunt, Am Rhein ! Am Rhein !' They 
were two days passing over ; and the rocks and the castle were 
ringing to the song the whole time ; for each band renewed 
it while crossing ; and the Cossacks, with the clash and the 
clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the 
enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, ' Am Rhein ! 
Am Rhein!'" MANUSCRIPT LETTER. 



RHINE SONG 

OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY. 
TO THE Aia OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN." 



SINGLE VOICE. 

IT is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood 

shine ! 

Sing on the march, with every banner waving 
Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine ! Sing, brothers, 'tis 
the Rhine I 

CHORUS. 
The Rhine ! the Rhine ! our own imperial River ! 

Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track ! 
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; 

We bear thee Freedom back, we bear thee 
Freedom back ! 



RHINE SONG. 9~ 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail ! Hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of water? 
Ev'n as my mother's song ; ev'n as my mother's 

song; 

That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 
And heart and arm grew strong ! And heart and 
arm grew strong I 



CHORUS. 

Roll proudly on ! brave blood is with thee sweep- 
ing* 
Poured out by sons of thine, poured out by sons 

of thine, 

Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 
Like thee, victorious Rhine ! Like thee, victo- 
rious Rhine ! 



10 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Home ! Home ! thy glad wave hath a tone of 

greeting, 
Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my 

home : 

Even now my children count the hours 'till meeting, 
O ransomed ones, I come ! O ransomed ones, 
I come ! 



CHORUS. 

Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never, 
Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by 

hearth and shrine ! 

Sing through the hills, that thou art free for ever 
Lift up thy voice, O Rhine ! Lift up thy voice, 
O Rhine ! 



A SONG OF DELOS. 



The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity 
by the Ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by 
the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young 
priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores 
during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes 
of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song. 



12 



A SONG OF DELOS. 



Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce Nature ( 
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon totnbeau ; 
L'air est si parfume! la lumiere est si pure ! 
Aux regards d' un Mourant le soleil est si beau ! 

LAMARTINE. 



A SONG was heard of old a low, sweet song, 
On the blue seas by Delos : from that isle, 
The Sun-God's own domain, a gentle girl, 
Gentle yet all inspired of soul, of mien, 
Lit with a life too perilously bright, 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying I but for her, 



A SONG OF DELOS. 13 

The child of beauty and of poesy, 
And of soft Grecian skies oh ! who may dream 
Of all that from her changeful eye flashed forth, 
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears, 
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
Coloured with loving light she gazed her last, 
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale 

brow 

And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back, 
And bending forward as the spirit swayed 
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell 
O'er dancing waves : " Oh! linger yet," she cried, 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar, 
Oh I pause upon the deep ! 

That I may gaze yet once, once more, 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep, 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore ; 
Oh ! linger, linger on the parting oar ! 



14 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

" I see the laurels fling back showers 
Of soft light still on many a shrine ; 

I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line ; 
I hear a sound of flutes a swell of song 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng ! 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar 
Beneath my native sky ! 

Let my life part from that bright shore 
With Day's last crimson gazing let me die ! 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! slowly should be borne 
The voyager that never shall return. 

" A fatal gift hath been thy dower, 
Lord of the Lyre ! to me ; 

With song and wreath from bower to bower, 
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free ; ( 
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, 
Have lain and listened to my breaking heart 



A SONG OF DELOS. 15 

" Now, wasted by the inborn fire, 
I sink to early rest ; 

The ray that lit the incense-pyre, 
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
O sunshine, skies, rich flowers I too soon I go, 
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow ! 

" Bright Isle ! might but thine echoes keep 

A tone of my farewell, 
One tender accent, low and deep, 
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to 

dwell ! 

Might my last breath send music to thy shore ! 
Oh ! linger, seamen, linger on the oar !" 



16 



ANCIENT GREEK CHAUNT OF VICTORY. 



Fill high the bowl with Saraian wine, 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade. 



BYRON. 



lo ! they come, they come ! 

Garlands for every shrine ! 
Strike lyres to greet them home ; 

Bring roses, pour ye wine ! 

Swell, swell the Dorian flute 
Thro' the blue, triumphant sky ! 

Let the Cittern's tone salute 
The sons of Victory. 



ANCIENT GREEK CHAUNT OF VICTORY. 17 

With the offering of bright blood 

They have ransomed hearth and tomb, 

Vineyard, and field, and flood ; 
lo ! they come, they come ! 

Sing it where olives wave, 

And by the glittering sea, 
And o'er each hero's grave, 

Sing, sing, the land is free ! 

Mark ye the flashing oars, 

And the spears that light the deep ? 
How the festal sunshine pours 

Where the lords of battle sweep ! 

Each hath brought back his shield ; 

Maid, greet thy lover home ! 
Mother, from that proud field, 

lo ! thy son is come ! 

c 



18 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Who murmured of the dead ? 

Hush, boding voice ! We know- 
That many a shining head 

Lies in its glory low. 

Breathe not those names to-day ! 

They shall have their praise e'er long. 
And a power all hearts to sway, 

In ever-burning song. 



But now shed flowers, pour wine. 

To hail the conquerors home I 
Bring wreaths for every shrine 

lo I they come, they come ! 



19 



NAPLES. 



A SONG OF THE SYREN. 



Then gentle winds arose, 

With many a mingled close, 
Of wild JEolian sound and mountain odour keen ; 

Where the clear Baian ocean 

Welters with air-like motion 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green. 

SHELLEY. 



STILL is the Syren warbling on thy shore, 
Bright City of the Waves ! her magic song 
Still, with a dreamy sense of extacy, 
Fills thy soft summer's air : and while my glance 
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay 
Floats thus o'er Fancy's ear ; and thus to thee, 
Daughter of Sunshine ! doth the Syren sing. 



JO NATIONAL LYRICS. 

" Thine is the glad wave's flashing play, 
Thine is the laugh of the golden day, 
The golden day, and the glorious night, 

And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light ! 

Forget, forget, that thou art not free ! 

Queen of the summer sea. 

t 

" Favored and crowned of the earth and sky ! 
Thine are all voices of melody, 
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower, 
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower ; 
Hark ! now they melt o'er thy glittering sea ; 
Forget that thou art not free ! 

" Let the wine flow in thy marble halls ! 
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls ! 
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, 
And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 
Queen of the day and the summer sea, 

Forget that thou art not free I" 



NAPLES. 21 



So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves 
Dance to her chaunt. But sternly, mournfully, 
O city of the deep ! from Sybil grots 
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore 
Take up the cadence of her strain alone, 
Murmuring " Thou art not free /" 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 



The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly 
whilst reconnoitering a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He 
had left his Regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and 
was suddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who 
threatened him with instant death if he made the least sign of 
their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his 
voice, and calling aloud " A moi, Auvergne ! ce sont les enne- 
mids !" fell, pierced with mortal blows. 



24 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 



A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 



ALONE thro' gloomy forest-shades 

A soldier went by night ; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, 

No star shed guiding light. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round, 
The youth all cheerly pass'd ; 

Unchecked by aught of boding sound 
That mutter'd in the blast. 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 25 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour ? 

In his far home, perchance ; 
His father's hall, his mother's bower, 

Midst the gay vines of France : 

Wandering from battles lost and won, 

To hear and bless again 
The rolling of the wide Garonne, 

Or murmur of the Seine. 

Hush ! Hark! did stealing steps go by? 

Came not faint whispers near ? 
No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh, 

Amidst the foliage sere. 

Hark, yet again ! and from his hand, 
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade ? 

Oh ! single midst a hostile band, 
Young soldier ! thou'rt betray'd ! 



26 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

" Silence !" in under-tones they cry 
" No whisper not a breath ! 

The sound that warns thy comrades nigh 
Shall sentence thee to death." 

Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, 
And strong to meet the blow ; 

And shouted, midst his rushing blood, 
" Arm, arm, Auvergne ! the foe !" 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call 
He heard their tumults grow ; 

And sent his dying voice thro' all 
" Auvergne, Auvergne f the foe /" 



THE 

BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, 

AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY, 1067. 



" At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince 
Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude of 
clergy and people, assembled in the Church of St. Stephen, 
which the Conqueror had founded. The mass had been per- 
formed, the corse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop of 
Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when a 
voice from the crowd exclaimed, ' He whom you have praised 
was a robber. The very land on which you stand is mine. By 
violence he took it from my father ; and, in the name of God, 
I forbid you to bury him in it.' The speaker was Asceline 
Fitz Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought reparation 
from the justice of William. After some debate, the prelates 
called him to them, paid him sixty shillings for the grave, and 
promised that he should receive the full value of his land. 
The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the king 
deposited in a coffin of stone." 

LINGARD, VOL. II. p. 98. 



THE 

BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, 

AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY. 1087. 



LOWLY upon his bier 

The royal Conqueror lay ; 

Baron and chief stood near, 
Silent in war-array. 

Down the long minster's aisle 
Crowds mutely gazing streamed, 

Altar and tomb the while 

Through mists of incense gleamed. 



BURIAL OF WM. THE CONQUEROR. 29 

And by the torches' blaze. 

The stately priest had said 
High words of power and praise 

To the glory of the dead. 

They lowered him, with the sound 

Of requiems, to repose ; 
When from the throngs around 

A solemn voice arose : 

" Forbear ! forbear !" it cried, 
" In the holiest name forbear ! 

He hath conquered regions wide, 
But he shall not slumber there f 

" By the violated hearth 

Which made way for yon proud shrine ; 
By the harvests which this earth 

Hath borne for me and mine ; 



30 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

" By the house e'en here o'erthrown, 
On my brethren's native spot ; 

Hence ! with his dark renown, 
Cumber our birth-place not ! 

" Will my sire's unransomed field, 
O'er which your censers wave, 

To the buried spoiler yield 
Soft slumbers in the grave ? 

" The tree before him fell, 
Which we cherished many a year, 

But its deep root yet shall swell, 
And heave against his bier. 

" The land that I have tilled 
Hath yet its brooding breast 

With my home's white ashes filled. 
And it shall not give him rest ! 



BURIAL OF WM. THE CONQUEROR. 31 

" Each pillar's massy bed 

Hath been wet by weeping eyes 

Away ! bestow your dead 

Where no wrong against him cries." 

Shame glowed on each dark face 
Of those proud and steel-girt men, 

And they bought with gold a place 
For their leader's dust e'en then. 

A little earth for him 

Whose banner flew so far ! 
Arid a peasant's tale could dim 

The name, a nation's star ! 

One deep voice thus arose 

From a heart which wrongs had riven, 
Oh I who shall number those 

That were but heard in heaven ? 



3-2 



ANCIENT SPANISH BATTLE SONG.* 



THE Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,f 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

Shout through the vine-clad land I 
That her sons on all their hills may hear, 
And sharpen the point of the red wolf spear, 

And the sword for the brave man's hand ! 



* Reprinted from the " Siege of Valentia." 
f Tecbir, the Moorish war-cry. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BATTLE SONG. 39 

Banners are in the field ! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board, 
And turn from the feast e'er the wine be poured, 

And take up his father's shield. 

The Moor is on his way I 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground, 
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods 
round 

There is nobler work to-day ! 

Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown, 

And arm in the banquet-hall ! 

And stay the funeral-train ! 
Bid the chanted mass be hushed a while, 
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain ! 

D 



:U NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced, and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array ! 

His steed is barbed, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky, 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 



THE DEATH SONG OF ALCESTIS. 



SHE came forth in her bridal robes arrayed, 

And midst the graceful statues, round the hall 

Shedding the calm of their celestial mein, 

Stood pale, yet proudly beautiful, as they : 

Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 

Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, 

And death upon her brow ! but glorious death ! 

Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 

Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, 'till that hour, 

Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 

Of its unutterable tenderness, 

Had burdened her full soul. 1 But now, oh I now, 



.% NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Its time was come and from the spirit's depths, 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice, in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure air, 

Came floating through that hall ; the Grecian air, 
Laden with music flute-notes from the vales, 
Echoes of song the last sweet sounds of life ; 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form, 
The glorified of love I But she she look'd 
Only on him for whom 'twas joy to die, 
Deep deepest, holiest joy ! or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide 
Of her unswerving soul 'twas but a thought 
That owned the summer-loveliness of life 
For him a worthy offering ! So she stood, 
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile, 



DEATH SONG OF ALCESTIS. 37 

Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, 
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
Of inborn oracles ! then flush'd her cheek, 
And all the triumph, all the agony, 
Borne on the battling waves of love and death, 
All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 
Burst like a fount of fire. 

" I go, I go ! 
Thou Sun, thou golden Sun, I go, 

Far from thy light to dwell ; 
Thou shalt not find my place below, 
Dim is that world bright Sun of Greece, farewell !" 

The Laurel and the glorious Rose 

Thy glad beam yet may see, 
But where no purple summer glows, 
O'er the dark wave / haste from them and thee. 



as NATIONAL LYRICS. 

.Yet doth my spirit faint to part r 

I mourn thee not, O Sun ! 
Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart, 
Sing me triumphal songs ! my crown is won ! 

Let not a voice of weeping rise ! 
My heart is girt with power ! 
Let the green earth and festal skies 
Laugh as to grace a conqueror's closing hour ! 

For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord ! 

Thee, my soul's lov'd ! I die ; 
Thine is the torch of life restor'd, 
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory ! 

Now may the boundless love, that lay 

Unfathom'd still before, 
In one consuming burst find way, 
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! 



DEATH SONG OF ALCESTIS. 39 

Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now ! 

Its glory and its might 
Are they not written on my brow ? 
And will that image ever quit thy sight ? 

No ! deathless in thy faithful breast, 

There shall my memory keep 
Its own bright altar-place of rest, 
While o'er my grave the cypress-branches weep. 

Oh ! the glad light ! the light is fair, 

The soft breeze warm and free, 
And rich notes fill the scented air, 
And all are gifts my love's last gifts to thee ! 

Take me to thy warm heart once more ! 

Night falls my pulse beats low 
Seek not to quicken, to restore, 
Joy is in every pang I go, I go ! 



40 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 

I meet thy fond look still ; 
Keen is the strife of love and death ; 
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 

Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, 

Tho' mists o'ershade mine eye; 
Sing, Paean ! sing a conqueror's song ! 
For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die !" 



41 



CHORUS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



(In the scene where the dying Alcestis has bid farewell to her 
husband and children.) 



(ATTENDANTS OF ALCESTIS.) 

PEACE, mourners, peace ! 
Be hushed, be silent, in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pangs ; let tears unheard be shed, 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 



4-J NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Sustain, O friend ! 

Upon thy faithful breast, 
The head that sinks, with mortal pain opprest ! 

And thou, assistance lend 

To close the languid eye, 
Still beautiful, in life's last agony. 

Alas ! how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath, 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 

Death ! Death ! thy work complete ! 
Let thy sad hour be fleet, 
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart, 
The adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 



CHORUS. 43 

(ATTENDANTS OF ADMETUS.) 

Tis not enough, oh ! no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; 

Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand, 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below, 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oft when all joy is fled, 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Then to the blessed skies 
Let o\ir submissive prayers in chorus rise. 



44 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Pray ! pray ! pray ! 

What other task have mortals, born to tears, 
Whom fate controls, with adamantine sway ? 

O ruler of the spheres I 
Jove ! Jore ! enthroned immortally on high, 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes, 
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye, 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father to revere. 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 
I. 



NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE!* 



NEAR thee, still near thee ! o'er thy path-way 

gliding, 

Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 
Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, 
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 

Not midst the festal throng, 
In halls of mirth and song ; 

* This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty 
by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the 
author's songs were written. 



46 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

But when thy thoughts are deepest, 
When holy tears thou weepest, 

Know then that love is nigh ! 

When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings 

creeping, 

Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, 
Or breezy anthems thro' the forest sweeping, 
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 

When every thought and prayer 
We lov d to breathe and share, 
On thy full heart returning, 
Shall wake its voiceless yearning ; 

Then feel me near once more ! 

Near thee, still near thee I trust thy soul's deep 

dreaming ! 

Oh ! love is not an earthly Rose to die ! 
Ev'n when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, 
Thine image wanders with me thro' the sky. 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 47 

The fields of air are free, 
Yet lonely, wanting thee ; 
But when thy chains are falling, 
When heaven its own is calling, 

Know then, thy guide is nigh ! 



48 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 
II. 



[ ! DROOP THOU NOT I 



They sin who tell us love can die. 

With life all other passions fly ; 

All others are but vanity. 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell. 

Earthly these passions, as of earth 

They perish where they drew their birth. 

But love is indestructible ! 

Its holy flame for ever burneth : 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 

SOUTHEV. 



OH ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 

Mine still to be ! 
I bore thro' death, to brighter lands above, 

My thoughts of thee. 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 49 

Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

Our mingled prayer, 
Our suffering love, thro' long devoted years, 

Went with me there. 

It was not vain, the hallo w'd and the tried 

It was not vain ! 
Still, tho' unseen, still hovering at thy side, 

I watch again ! 

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone : 

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou 
weepest, 

That stream, whose tone 
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known : 



50 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past, 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, 

Silent and fast : 

Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning 

Thy dreamy glance, 
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are 

burning, 
O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, lov'd one ! and around thee, 

Where'er thou art ; 
Tho' still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee, 

Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being waken 

They are of heaven I 



MIGNON'S SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 



ion, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one 
Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella 
is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, 
from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her 
early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, 
are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the 
following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, 
by Zelter, the friend of Goethe. 






52 



MIGNON'S SONG. 



TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 



Kenust du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn ? 



KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the Citron 

bowers, 

Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove ? 
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, 
And thro' a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. 
Know'st thou it well ? 

There, there, with thee, 
O friend, O lov'd one ! fain my steps would flee. 



MIGNON'S SONG. 53 

Know'st thou the dwelling ? there the pillars rise, 
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow ; 
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes 
To say " Poor child ! what thus hath wrought thee 

woe ?" 
Know'st thou it well ? 

There, there with thee, 
O my protector ! homewards might I flee ! 

Know'st thou the mountain ? high its bridge is 

hung, 

Where the mule seeks thro' mist and cloud his way ; 
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, 
O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent spray. 
Know'st thou it well ? 

With thee, with thee, 
There lies my path, O father ! let us flee ! 



54 



THE SISTERS.* 



A BALLAD. 



" I go, sweet sister ; yet, my heart would linger 

with thee fain, 
And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance 

chain ; 
Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which once I 

loved to wear, 
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of 

thy hair! 



* This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recita- 
tive, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful 
and highly accomplished sisters. 



THE SISTERS, A BALLAD. 55 

Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven 

tresses well, 
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone 

convent cell." 

" Oh speak not thus, my Leonor ! why part from 

kindred love ? 
Thro' festive scenes, when thou art gone my steps 

no more shall move ! 
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless 

throng ? 
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone 

of song ; 
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me 

proudly twine 
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly 

brow of thine." 



56 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

" Oh wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from 

shelter to detain ? 

Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed, to weary life again. 
Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have worn 

so long, 
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe 

and wrong. 
It could not still my beating heart 1 but may it be a 

sign 
Of peace and hope, my gentle one ! when meekly 

pressed to thine !" 

" Take back, take back the cross of gold, our 

mother's gift to thee, 

It would but of this parting hour, a bitter token be ; 
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but 

sadly shine, 



THE SISTERS, A BALLAD. 57 

And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer 

mine ! 
Oh sister ! if thy heart be thus with buried grief 

oppress'd, 
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well, as on my 

faithful breast!" 

" Urge me no more ! a blight hath fallen upon my 

summer years ! 
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless 

pangs and fears ; 
But take at least the lute I lov'd, and guard it for 

my sake, 
And sometimes, from its silvery strings one tone of 

memory wake ! 
Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own 

sweet vesper hymn, 
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister 

dim." 



58 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

" Yes, I will take the silvery lute and I will sing to 

thee 
A song we heard in childhood's days, ev'n from our 

father's knee. 
Oh sister ! sister ! are these notes amid forgotten 

things ? 
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar 

strings ? 
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in 

the strain, 
Kind sister ! gentlest Leonor ! say shall it plead in 

vain ?" 



SONG. 

" Led,ve us not, leave us riot ! 

Say not adieu ! 
Have we not been to thee 

Tender and true ? 



THE SISTERS, A BALLAD. 59 

" Take not thy sunny smile 

Far from our hearth ! 
With that sweet light will fade 

Summer and mirth. 

" Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Can thy heart roam ? 
Wilt thou not pine to hear 

Voices from home ? 

" Too sad our love would be, 

If thou wert gone ! 
Turn to us, leave us not ! 

Thou art our own !" 

" Oh sister, hush that thrilling lute, oh cease that 

haunting lay, 
Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes ; yet, yet 

I cannot stay, 



60 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

For weary weary is my heart ! I hear a whispered 

call 
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the 

blossom fall. 
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to 

dwell 
Where the world's voice can reach no more ! oh 

calm thee ! Fare thee well !" 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 



Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger 
Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the 
sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace 
about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling 
of utter abandonment. 



62 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 



SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

My dirge is in thy moan ; 
My spirit finds response in thee, 
To its own ceaseless cry " Alone, alone !" 

Yet send me back one other word, 

Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd, 
And say, dark waters ! will ye give me peace ? 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh, 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts and will the wave reply ? 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 63 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea I 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world, from thee, 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And yet I lov'd that earth so well, 

With all its lovely things ! 
Was it for this the death-wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings ? 

Let them lie silent at my feet ! 

Since broken even as they, 
The heart whose music made them sweet, 
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, 

The laurel-wreath is mine 
With a lone heart, a weary frame 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine ! 



04 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Give to that crown, that burning crown, 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown, 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest, 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest, 
And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for I too come ! 

I, with this winged nature fraught, 

These visions wildly free, 
This boundless love, this fairy thought 
Alone I come oh ! give me peace, dark sea ! 



65 



DIRGE. 



WHERE shall we make her grave ? 
Oh ! where the wild-flowers wave 

In the free air ! 

Where shower and singing-bird 
Midst the young leaves are heard 

There lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill : 
Low on sweet nature's breast, 
Let the meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 



66 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed, 
Where, on a gentle head, 
Storms beat no more ! 

What though for her in yain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, 

Plays the soft wind ; 
Yet still, from where she lies, 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew 
Thence, in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And, o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

StiU come and go ! 



DIRGE. 67 

Oh ! then where wild-flowers wave, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air ! 

Where shower and singing-bird 
Midst the young leaves are heard 

There, lay her there ! 



68 



A SONG OF THE ROSE. 



Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace 

All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno, 

D' una stagion volubile e fugace ; 

E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo, 

Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace, 

Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno. 

PIETRO MKTASTASIO. 



ROSE ! what dost thou here ? 

Bridal, royal rose ? 
How, inidst grief and fear 
Canst thou thus disclose 

That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf 
glows ? 



A SONG OF THE ROSE. 69 

Rose ! too much arrayed 

For triumphal hours, 
Look'st thou thro' the shade 

Of these mortal bowers, 

Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all 
flowers ! 

As an eagle soaring 

Thro' a sunny sky, 
As a clarion pouring 

Notes of victory, 

So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too 
high. 

Thoughts of rapture, flushing 

Youthful poet's cheek ; 
Thoughts of glory, rushing 

Forth in song to break, 
But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak. 



70 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Yet, oh ! festal rose, 

I have seen thee lying 
In thy bright repose 

Pillowed with the dying, 

Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood 
was flying. 

Summer, hope, and love 
O'er that bed of pain, 
Met in thee, yet wove 

Too, too frail a chain 
In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 

Smil'st thou, gorgeous flower ? 

Oh ! within the spells 
Of thy beauty's power, 

Something dimly dwells, 

At variance with a world of sorrows and fare- 
wells. 



A SONG OF THE ROSE. 71 

All the soul forth flowing 

In that rich perfume, 
All the proud life glowing 

In that radiant bloom, 

Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ersha- 
dowing tomb ? 

Crown'st thou but the daughters 

Of our tearful race ? 
Heaven's own purest waters 

Well might wear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 

Will that clime enfold thee 

With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 

Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre cloth'd, transcendantly more fair? 



72 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Yes ! my fancy sees thee 

In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 

From the mist of woes, 

Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal 
rose ! 



73 



NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS. 



CHILDREN of night ! unfolding meekly, slowly 
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, 
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, 
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers ; 

To solemn things and deep, 

To spirit-haunted sleep, 

To thoughts, all purified 

From earth, ye seem allied ; 
Q dedicated flowers ! 

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, 
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, 
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 



74 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

So doth love's dreaming heart 
Dwell from the throng apart, 
And but to shades disclose 
The inmost thought which glows 
With its pure life entwined. 

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, 
To no triumphant song your petals thrill, 
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices 
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. 
So doth lone prayer arise, 
Mingling with secret sighs, 
When grief unfolds, like you, 
Her breast, for heavenly dew 
In silent hours to fill. 



75 



THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS. 



CALL back your odours, lovely flowers, 
From the night-winds call them back, 

And fold your leaves till the laughing hours 
Come forth in the sunbeam's track. 

The lark lies couched in her grassy nest, 

And the honey bee is gone, 
And all bright things are away to rest, 

Why watch ye here alone ? 

Is not your world a mournful one, 
When your sisters close their eyes, 

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone 
Of song in the starry skies ? 



76 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth, 
When it kindles the sparks of dew ? 

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, 
Shall they gladden all but you ? 

, Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out 

On the sunny turf to play, 
And the woodland child with a fairy shout 
Goes dancing on its way ! 

" Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom 
When the stars give quiet light, 

And let us offer our faint perfume 
On the silent shrine of night. 

"Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 
To the breeze, when no step is nigh ; 

Oh thus for ever the earth should send 
Her grateful breath on high ! 



THE WANDERER, &c. 77 

"And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers, 

Of hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring through the gloom of the darkest 
hours, 

Looking alone to heaven !" 



78 



ECHO-SONG. 



IN thy cavern-hall, 

Echo ! art thou sleeping ? 
By the fountain's fall 

Dreamy silence keeping ? 
Yet one soft note borne 
From the shepherd's horn, 
Wakes thee, Echo ! into music leaping ! 
Strange sweet Echo ! into music leaping. 

Then the woods rejoice, 

Then glad sounds are swelling 

From each sister- voice 

Round hy rocky dwelling ; 



ECHO SONG. 79 

And their sweetness fills 

All the hollow hills, 

With a thousand notes, of one life telling ! 
Softly mingled notes, of one life telling. 

Echo ! in my heart 

Thus deep thoughts are lying, 
Silent and apart, 

Buried, yet undying. 
Till some gentle tone 
Wakening haply one, 

Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying ! 
Strange sweet Echo ! even like thee replying.* 

* This song is in the possession of Mrs. Power. 



80 



THE MUFFLED DRUM.* 



THE muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull deep rolling sound 

Which told the hamlets round 
Of a soldier's burial rite. 

But it told them not how dear 

In a home beyond the main, 
Was the warrior youth laid low that hour, 

By a mountain stream of Spain. 

'* Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq. 



THE MUFFLED DRUM. 81 

The oaks of England wav'd 

O'er the slumbers of his race, 
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan 

Above his last lone place : 

When the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull deep rolling sound 

Which caU'd strange echoes round 
To the soldier's burial rite. 

Brief was the sorrowing there, 

By the stream from battle red, 
And tossing on its wave the plume/3 

Of many a stately head ; 

But a mother soon to die, 

And a sister long to weep, 
Ev'n then were breathing prayer for him, 

In that home beyond the deep : 



82 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

While the muffled drum was heard 
In the Pyrenees by night, 

With a dull deep rolling sound, 
And the dark pines mourn'd round, 
O'er the soldier's burial-rite. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK. 



Adieu, adieu ! my plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 

In the next valley-glades. 

KEATS. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

SHELLEY. 



MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously, 
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 
Sent out, thro' shadowy grass and thick wild flowers, 



84 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Dim alabaster gleams a lonely Swan 
Warbled his death-chaunt ; and a poet stood 
Listening to that strange music, as it shook 
The lilies on the wave ; and made the pines 
And all the laurels of the haunted shore 
Thrill to its passion. Oh ! the tones were sweet, 
Ev'n painfully as with the sweetness rung 
From parting love ; and to the Poet's thought 
This was their language. 

" Summer, I depart ! 

O light and laughing summer, fare thee well ! 
No song the less thro' thy rich woods will swell, 

For one, one broken heart. 

And fare ye well, young flowers ! 
Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odour still, 
And wave in glory, colouring every rill, 

Known to my youth's fresh hours. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK, 85 

And ye, bright founts, that lie 
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, 
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep 

Sweet waters ! I must die. 

Will ye not send one tone 

Of sorrow thro' the pines ? one murmur low ? 

Shall not the green leaves from your voices know- 
That I, your child, am gone ? 

No, ever glad and free ! 
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell, 
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well ! 

Ye will not mourn for me. 

But thou, sweet boon, too late 
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song ! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong, 

In the dark hour, of fate ? 



86 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell; 
Only to say O sunshine and blue skies ! 

O life and love, farewell !" 

Thus flow'd the death-chaunt on ; while mournfully 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones 
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream, 
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy, 
Woke to respond : and all the air was fill'd 
With that one sighing sound" Farewell, Farewell !" 
Fill'd with that sound? high in the calm blue heaven 
Ev'n then a Sky-lark hung ; soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light, 
And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings 
Quiver'd with song : such free triumphant song, 
As if tears were not, as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below and thus that strain 
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK. 87 

u The summer is come ; she hath said, ( Rejoice !' 
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high ; 
Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky ! 

" There is joy in the mountains ; the bright waves 

leap, 

Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep ; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along 

Let the heavens ring with song ! 

" There is joy in the forests ; the bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight ; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given 

Sing, sing thro' the echoing heav'n ! 

" Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, 
Mine are the fresh gales with day-spring born : 
Only young rapture can mount so high 

Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky !" 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 

So those two voices met ; so Joy and Death 

Mingled their accents ; and amidst the rush 

Of many thoughts, the listening Poet cried, 

" Oh ! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, 

Mysterious Nature ! Not in thy free range 

Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus 

The dirge-note and the song of festival ; 

But in one heart, one changeful human heart 

Aye, and within one hour of that strange world 

Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones 

To startle and to pierce ! the dying Swan's, 

And the glad Sky-Lark's Triumph and Despair !" 



89 



IF 



No. I. 
ANCIENT BATTLE SONG. 



FLING forth the proud banner of Leon again ! 

Let the high word " Castile' go resounding thro' 

Spain ! 

And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height, 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ! 
Wake, wake ! the old soil where thy children repose, 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes. 



* Written for a set of airs, entitled " Peninsular Melodies," 
selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs. Goulding 
and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the 
words in this volume. 



90 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

The voices are mighty that swell from the past, 
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain-blast ; 
The ancient Sierras give strength to our tread, 
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath 

been shed. 

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 
And shout ye " Castile ! to the rescue for Spain !" 



II. 

THE ZEGRI MAID. 



The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. 
Their exploits, and feuds with their celebrated rivals the Aben- 
cerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances. 



92 NATIONAL LYRICS. 



II. 
THE ZEGRI MAID. 



THE summer leaves were sighing, 

Around the Zegri maid, 
To her low sad song replying 

As it fill'd the olive shade. 
" Alas ! for her that loveth 

Her land's, her kindred's foe ! 
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, 

Should a Zegri's spirit go ? 

" From thy glance, my gentle mother ! 

I sink, with shame oppress'd, 
And the dark eye of my brother 

Is an arrow to my breast." 



THE ZEGRI MAID. 

Where summer leaves were sighing, 

Thus sang the Zegri maid, 
While the crimson day was dying 

In the whispery olive shade. 

" And for all this heart's wealth wasted, 

This woe, in secret borne, 
This flower of young life blasted, 

ShouM I win back aught but scorn ? 
By aught but daily dying 

Would my lone truth be repaid ?" 
Where the olive leaves were sighing, 

Thus sang the Zegri maid. 



III. 

THE RIO VERDE SONG. 



The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the 
old ballad romances of their country for the frequent combats 
ou its banks, between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring 
to this stream, in Percy's Reliques, 

" Gentle river, gentle river, 

Lo ! thy streams are stained with gore," 

will be remembered by many readers. 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 



III. 
THE RIO VERDE SONG. 

FLOW, Rio Verde ! 

In melody flow ; 
Win her that weepeth 

To slumber from woe ; 
Bid thy wave's music 

Roll thro' her dreams, 
Grief ever loveth 

The kind voice of streams. 

Bear her lone spirit 

Afar on the sound, 
Back to her childhood, 

Her life's fairy ground ; 



THE RIO VERDE SONG. 97 

Pass like the whisper 

Of love that is gone 
Flow, Rio Verde ! 

Softly flow on ! 

Dark glassy water 

So crimson'd of yore ! 
Love, death, and sorrow 

Know thy green shore. 
Thou shouldst have echoes 

For grief's deepest tone 
Flow, Rio Verde, 

Softly flow on ! 



98 



IV. 
SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO. 



SEEK by the silvery Darro, 

Where jasmine flowers have blown ; 
There hath she left no footsteps ? 

Weep, weep, the maid is gone ! 

Seek where our Lady's image 

Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep ; 
Hear ye not there her vespers ? 

Weep for the parted, weep ! 

Seek in the porch where vine-leaves 

O'ershade her father's head ? 
Are his grey hairs left lonely ? 

Weep I her bright soul is fled. 



99 



V. 
SPANISH EVENING HYMN. 



AVE ! now let prayer and music 
Meet in love on earth and sea ! 

Now, sweet Mother ! may the weary 
Turn from this cold world to thee ! 

From the wide and restless waters 
Hear the sailor's hymn arise ! 

From his watch-fire midst the mountains, 
Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, 
If o'erburden'd souls there be, 

Dark and silent in their anguish, 
Aid those captives ! set them free ! 



100 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Touch them, every fount unsealing, 
Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 

Thou, the Mother of all Sorrows, 
Aid, oh ! aid to pray and weep ! 



101 



VI. 

BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRD'S 
SIDE! 



' BIRD, that art singing on Ebro's side, 
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, 
Doth sorrow dwell midst the leaves with thee ? 
Doth song avail thy full heart to free ? 
Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 
Teach me the spell of thy melody. 

Bird ! is it blighted affection's pain, 

Whence the sad sweetness flows thro' thy strain ? 

And is the wound of that arrow still'd, 

W T hen thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd ? 

Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 

Teach me the spell of thy melody. 



102 



VII. 
MOORISH GATHERING SONG. 

ZORZICO.* 



CHAINS on the cities ! gloom in the air ! 

Come to the hills ! fresh breezes are there. 

Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers ! 

Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers, 

Come from the Darro ! chang'd is its tone ; 
Come where the streams no bondage have known ; 
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, 
Singing of freedom from steep to steep. 

* The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique 
Moorish melody. 



MOORISH GATHERING SONG. 103 

Come from Alhambra ! garden and grove 
Now may not shelter beauty or love. 
Blood on the waters, death midst the flowers ! 
Only the spear and the rock are ours. 



104 



VIII. 
THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 



WE heard thy name, O Mina ! 

Far thro' our hills it rang ; 
A sound more strong than tempests, 

More keen than armour's clang. 
The peasant left his vintage, 

The shepherd grasp'd the spear 
We heard thy name, O Mina ! 

The mountain bands are here. 

As eagles to the day-spring, 

As torrents to the sea, 
From every dark Sierra 

So rush'd our hearts to thee. 



THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 103 

Thy spirit is our banner, 

Thine eye our beacon-sign, 
Thy name our trumpet, Mina ! 

The mountain bands are thine. 



106 



IX. 
MOTHER, OH ! SING ME TO REST, 

A CANCION. 



MOTHER ! oh, sing me to rest 
As in my bright days departed : 
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, 

Songs for a spirit oppress'd. 

Lay this tired head on thy breast ! 

Flowers from the night-dew are closing, 
Pilgrims and mourners reposing 

Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 



MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST. 107 

Take back thy bird to its nest ! 

Weary is young life when blighted 

Heavy this love unrequited ; 
Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 



108 



X. 



THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK 
RONCESVALLES. 



THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore ; 

There are murmurs but not of the torrent, 
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar. 

'Tis a day of the spear and the banner, 
Of armings and hurried farewells ; 

Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards I 
Or start from your old battle-dells. 



THERE ARE SOUNDS, &c. 109 

There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias, 
That have roll'd with your father's free blood ; 

Oh ! leave on the graves of the mighty, 

Proud marks where their children have stood ! 



no 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. 



HARK ! from the dim church-tower, 

The deep slow curfew's chime ! 
A heavy sound unto hall and bower, 

In England's olden time ! 
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth-flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, 
Which had cheered the board with the mirthful 
word, 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. Ill 

Until that sullen boding knell 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp and lip, and spirit, fell, 

With a weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then, 

In the wild deer's forest far ! 
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul, 

With lone aspirings fill'd, 
Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll, 

While the sounds of earth were still'd ! 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed, 
Where the fondly lov'd in pain lay low, 

In pain and sleepless dr6ad ! 



112 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep 
By the dying babe, her place, 

And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, 
Yet not behold its face ! 

Darkness in chieftain's hall ! 

Darkness in peasant's cot ! 
While freedom, under that shadowy pall, 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize ! 

For blood hath flow'd like rain, 
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries 

Of England's homes again. 

Heap the yule-faggots high, 

Till the red light fills the room ! 

It is home's own hour when the stormy sky 
Grows thick with evening-gloom. 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. 113 

Gather ye round the holy hearth, 

And by its gladdening blaze, 
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 

With a thought of the olden days ! 



114 



THE CALL TO BATTLE. 



Ah ! then and there was hurrying- to and fro, 
And gathering tears, arid tremblings of distress, 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated. 

BYROX. 



THE vesper-bell, from church and tower. 
Had sent its dying sound ; 

And the household, in the hush of " eve, 

^ 

Were met, their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden 

trumpet's power 
" We rise on all our hills ! come forth ! 'tis thy 

country's gathering hour 



THE CALL TO BATTLE. 115 

There's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each 

old battle-dell 
Come forth, young Juan I bid thy home a brief and 

proud farewell I" 

Then the father gave his son the sword, 
Which a hundred fights had seen 

" Away ! and bear it back, my boy ! 
All that it still hath been ! 

u Haste, haste ! the hunters of the foe are up, and 

who shall stand 
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant 

land ? 
Our chase shall sound through each defile where 

swept the clarion's blast, 
With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages 

past." 



116 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Then the mother kiss'd her son, with tears 

That o'er his dark locks fell : 
" I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er, 

Yet I stay thee not Farewell !" 

" One moment ! but one moment give to parting 

thought or word ! 
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's 

heart is stirred. 
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the 

%ht, 
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of 

keener might." 

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard, 
Though deep, yet brief and low : 

" In the vigil, in the conflict, love ! 
My prayer shall with thee go !" 



THE CALL TO B4TTLE. 117 

" Come forth ! come as the torrent comes when the 

winter's chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence 

nursed 
The night is past, the silence o'er on all our hills 

we rise 
We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no more ! the 

voice of battle cries." 

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, 
When the brave had left their bower ; 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice 
Was with mem in that hour. 



I. 



AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 



A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of 
shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in their 
wanderings, and affected with various emotions by the sight 
of a tomb which bears this inscription " Et in Arcadia 
ego." 



120 



I. 
AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 



They have wandered in their glee 
With the butterfly and bee ; 
They have climb'd o'er heathery swells, 
They have wound thro' forest dells ; 
Mountain moss hath felt their tread, 
Woodland streams their way have led ; 

* Of these songs, the ones entitled " Ye are not miss'd, lair 
Flowers," the " Willow Song," " Leave me not yet," and the 
" Orange Bough," are in the possession of Mr. Willis, by whom 
they will be published with music. 



AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. l-JI 

Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, 

Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, 

Unto them have yielded up 

Fragrant bell and starry cup : 

Chaplets are on every brow 

What hath stayed the wanderer now ? 

Lo ! a grey and rustic tomb, 

Bowered amidst the rich wood-gloom ; 

Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, 

" I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 

There is many a summer sound 

That pale sepulchre around ; 

Thro' the shade young birds are glancing, 

Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing ; 

Glimpses of blue festal skies 

Pouring in when soft winds rise ; 

Violets o'er the turf below 

Shedding out their warmest glow ; 



122 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Yet a spirit not its own 
O'er the greenwood now is thrown ! 
Something of an under-note 
Thro' its music seems to float, 
Something of a stillness grey 
Creeps across the laughing day : 
Something, dimly from those old words felt, 
" I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 

Was some gentle kindred maid 
In that grave with dirges laid ? 
Some fair creature, with the tone 
Of whose voice a joy is gone, 
Leaving melody and mirth 
Poorer on this alter'd earth ? 
Is it thus ? that so they stand, 
Dropping flowers from every hand ? 
Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store 
Of red wild-fruit prized no more ? 



AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 12:3 

No ! from that bright band of morn, 

Not one link hath yet been torn ; 

'Tis the shadow of the tomb 

Falling o'er the summer-bloom, 

O'er the flush of love and life 

Passing with a sudden strife ; 

'Tis the low prophetic breath 

Murmuring from that house of death, 

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, 

" I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 



124 



II. 
THE WANDERING WIND. 



THE Wind, the wandering Wind 

Of the golden summer eves 
Whence is the thrilling magic 

Of its tones amongst the leaves ? 
Oh ! is it from the waters, 

Or from the long tall grass ? 
Or is it from the hollow rocks 

Thro' which its breathings pass ? 

Or is it from the voices 

Of all in one combined, 
That it wins the tone of mastery ? 

The Wind, the wandering Wind I 



THE WANDERING WIND. 

No, no ! the strange sweet accents 

That with it come and go, 
They are not from the osiers, 

Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 

They are not of the waters, 

Nor of the caverned hill : 
Tis the human love within us 

That gives them power to thrill. 
They touch the links of memory 

Around our spirits twined, 
And we start, and weep, and tremble, 

To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 



126 



III. 



YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS. 



YE are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were 

spreading 

The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot ; 
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding, 
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you 
not. 

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water, 
O lily ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone ; 

The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter, 
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone. 



YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS. 127 

And thou, meek hyacinth ! afar is roving 

The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd ; 

Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! midst all things loving, 
A joy to all yet, yet, ye are not miss'd ! 

Ye 1 , that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, 
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they 
list 1 

Oh ! it were*breathing words too deep in sadness, 
To say earth's human flowers not more are miss'd. 



128 



IV. 



WILLOW-SONG. 



Willow ! in thy breezy moan, 

I can hear a deeper tone ; 

Thro' thy leaves come whispering low 

Faint sweet sounds of long ago. 

Willow, sighing Willow ! 

Many a mournful tale of old 
Heart-sick love to thee hath told, 
Gathering from thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his burning brow. 

Willow, sighing Willow ! 



WILLOW-SONG. 1-29 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ! 
Many a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent : 
Willow, sighing Willow ! 

Therefore, wave and murmur on ! 
Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
And for tuneful voices fled, 
And for love, whose heart hath bled, 
Ever, W T illow, Willow ! 



130 



V. 



LEAVE ME NOT YET ! 



Leave me not yet thro' rosy skies from far, 
But now the song-birds to their nests return ; 

The quivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 

Leave me not yet ! 

Not yet ! oh hark ! low tones from hidden streams, 
Piercing the shivery leaves, ev'n now arise ; 

Their voices mingle not with day light-dreams, 
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies : 

Leave me not yet ! 



LEAVE ME NOT YET! 131 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love ! 

By day shut up in their own still recess, 
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, 
Then to breathe ofct their soul of tenderness : 

Leave me not yet ! 



132 



VI. 

THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 



OH ! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, 
And bind it, Mother ! on my breast ! 

Go, seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odours I must breathe no more ; 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 

Oh! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingeriag liicte ; 
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, ev'n in death, would own. 



THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life's parting sweetness round my head, 
And bind it, Mother ! on my breast 
When I am laid in lonely rest. 



134 

VII. 
THE STREAM SET FREE. 



FLOW on, rejoice, make music, 
Bright living stream set free ! 

The troubled haunts of care and strife 
Were not for thee ! 

The woodland is thy country, 
Thou art all its own again ; 

The wild birds are thy kindred race, 
That fear no chain. 

Flow on, rejoice, make music 
Unto the glistening leaves ! 

Thou, the beloved of balmy winds, 
And golden eves. 



THE STREAM SET FREE. 135 

Once more the holy starlight 

Sleeps calm upon thy breast, 
Whose brightness bears no token more 

Of man's unrest. 

Flow, and let free-born music 

Flow with thy wavy line, 
While the stock-dove's lingering loving voice 

Comes blent with thine. 

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee, 

Strings of the forest-lyre, 
All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds, 

In joy respire. 

Yet, midst thy song's glad changes, 

Oh ! keep one pitying tone 
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee 

Their sadness lone. 



136 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

One sound, of all the deepest, 
To bring, like healing dew, 

A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes 
The meek and true. 

Then, then, rejoice, make music, 
Thou stream, thou glad and free ! 

The shadows of all glorious flowers 
Be set in thee ! 



137 



VIII. 
THE SUMMER'S CALL. 



COME away ! the sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 
O'er the very waters now, 

In their play, 

Flowers are shedding beauty's glow- 
Come away ! 

Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream 
Come away ! 

All the air is filled with sound, 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 



138 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

Murmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass 

Come away ! 

Where the bee's deep music swells 
From the trembling fox-glove bells 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along 

Come away ! 

Where the boughs with dewy gloom 
Darken each thick bed of bloom 

Come away ! 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 



THE SUMMER CALL. 

Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray, 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright 

Come away ! 

Where the fairy cup-moss lies, 
With the wild-wood strawberries, 

Come away ! 

Now each tree by summer crowned, 
Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 
Glancing there from sun to shade, 

Bright wings play ; 
There the deer its couch hath made 

Come away ! 

Where the smooth leaves of the lime 
Glisten in their honey-time 

Come away away ! 



140 



IX. 
OH ! SKY-LARK, FOR THY WING. 



OH ! Sky-lark, for thy wing ! 
Thou bird of joy and light, 
That I might soar and sing 
At heaven's empyreal height ! 

With the heathery hills beneath me, 

Whence the streams in glory spring, 
And the pearly clouds to wreath me 
Oh sky-lark ! on thy wing ! 

Free, free from earth-born fear, 
I would range the blessed skies, 

Through the blue divinely clear, 
Where the low mists cannot rise ! 



OH ! SKY-LARK, FOR THY WING. 141 

And a thousand joyous measures 

From my chainless heart should spring, 

Like the bright rain's vernal treasures, 
As I wandered on thy wing. 

But oh ! the silver chords, 

That around the heart are spun, 
From gentle tones and words, 

And kind eyes that make our sun ! 
To some low sweet nest returning, 
How soon my love would bring, 
There, there the dews of morning, 
Oh, sky-lark ! on thy wing ! 



142 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 



Tha^t voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
The things of nature utter ; birds or trees, 
Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 

COLERIDGE. 



I heard a song upon the wandering wind, 
A song of many tones though one full soul 
Breathed through them all imploringly ; and made 
All nature as they passed, all quivering leaves 
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill, 
As with the consciousness of human prayer. 
At times the passion-kindled melody 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 143 

Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart, 

Over the wild sea- wave ; at times the strain 

Flowed with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 

Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ; 

And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 

A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 

Of Tasso's holy lyre ; yet still the tones 

Were of a suppliant ; " Leave me not /" was still 

The burden of their music ; and I knew 

The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, 

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world, 

Hath ever breathed to Love. 

They crown me with the glistening crown, 

Borne from a deathless tree ; 
I hear the pealing music of renown 
O Love ! forsake me not ! 
Mine we*e a lone dark lot, 
Bereft of thee ! 



144 NATIONAL LYRICS. 

They tell me that my soul can throw 

A glory o'er the earth ; 

From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow ! 
Shed by thy gentle eyes 
It gives to flower and skies, 
A bright new birth ! 

Thence gleams the path of morning, 
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 

Thence to its heart of hearts, the rose is burning 
With lustre not its own ! 
Thence every wood-recess 
Is filled with loveliness, 
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known. 

I see all beauty by the ray 
That streameth from thy smile ; 
Oh ! bear it, bear it not away ! 
Can that sweet light beguile ? 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 145 

Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, 
To. linger long by earthly streams ; 
I clasp it with th' alloy 
Of fear 'midst quivering joy, 
Yet must I perish if the gift depart 
Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating heart ! 

The music from my lyre 
With thy swift step would flee ; 

The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire 
In my deep soul a temple filled with thee ! 
Seal'd would the fountains lie, 
The waves of harmony, 
Which thou alone canst free ! 

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken, 

Whence the oracle hath fled ; 
Like a harp which none might waken 

But a mighty master dead ; 



146 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd, 

Such would my spirit be ; 
So mute, so void, so shatter'd, 

Bereft of thee ! 

Leave me not, Love ! or if this earth 

Yield not for thee a home, 
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth 

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers " Come /" 
Then, with the glory from the rose, 

With the sparkle from the stream, 
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws 

Over the poet's dream ; 
With all th' Elysian hues 
Thy pathway that suffuse, 

With joy, with music, from the fading grove, 

Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love ! 



147 



MUSIC AT A DEATH-BED. 



" Music ! why thy power employ 
Only for the sons of joy ? 
Only for the smiling guests 
At natal, or at nuptial feasts ? 
Rather thy lenient numbers pour 
On those whom secret griefs devour ; 
And with some softly-whispered air 
Smooth the brow of dumb despair !" 

WARTON FROM EURIPIDES. 

BRING music ! stir the brooding air 

With an ethereal breath ! 
Bring sounds my struggling soul to bear 

Up from the couch of death ! 

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, 
Such as the southern breeze 

Might waft, at golden fall of daj&, 
O'er blue transparent seas ! 



148 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Oh no ! not such ! that lingering spell 

Would lure me back to life, 
When my weaned heart hath said farewell, 

And passed the gates of strife. 

Let not a sigh of human love 
Blend with the song its tone ! 

Let no disturbing echo move 
One that must die alone ! 

But pour a solemn-breathing strain 
Filled with the soul of prayer ; 

Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain, 
And trembling hope be there. 

Deeper, yet deeper ! in my thought 

Lies more prevailing sound, 
A harmony intensely fraught 

With pleading more profound 



MUSIC AT A DEATH-BED. 149 

A passion unto music given, 

A sweet, yet piercing cry : 
A breaking heart's appeal to heaven, 

A bright faith's victory ! 

Deeper ! Oh ! may no richer power 

Be in those notes enshrined ? 
Can all which crowds on earth's last hour 

No fuller language find ? 

Away ! and hush the feeble song, 

And let the chord be stilled ! 
Far in another land ere long 

My dream shall be fulfilled. 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 



SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 



A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and 
called upon to admire its beauty, only replied " The sea 
where is it ?" 



152 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 



WHERE is the sea ? I languish here 

Where is my own blue sea ? 
With all its barks in fleet career, 

And flags, and breezes free. 

I miss that voice of waves which first 
Awoke my childhood's glee ; 

The measured chime the thundering burst- 
Where is my own blue sea ? 

Oh ! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, 

Soft, soft your winds may be ; 
Yet my sick heart within me dies 

Where is my own blue sea ? 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 133 

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute 

I hear the whispering tree ; 
The echoes of my soul are mute : 

Where is my own blue sea? 



MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 



" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin a plain 
quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on 
the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious 
career in arms. He fell here at eighty years of age, at the head 
of his own Regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. 
His seat was in the leathern saddle his foot in the iron stirrup 
his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last." 

Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. 



156 



MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 



THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, 

And a banner in thy hand ; 
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, 

By a proudly mournful band. 

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, 

Thy long bright years had sped ; 
And a warrior's bier was thine at last, 

When the snows had crowned thy head. 

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! 

Brothers and friends, perchance ; 
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, 

And light was in thy glance. 



MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 157 

The soldier's heart at thy step leaped high, 
And thy voice the war-horse knew ; 

And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, 
Wert thou, the bold and true. 

Now mayest thou slumber thy work is done 

Thou of the well-worn sword ! 
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone, 

But not to the festal board. 

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, 

Where fiery blood hath flowed : 
Oh ! lover of battle and trumpet-sound ! 

Thou art couch'd in a still abode ! 

A quiet home from the noonday's glare, 
And the breath of the wintry blast 

Didst thou toil thro' the days of thy silvery hair, 
To win thee but this at last ? 



IF 



These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been 
set to music by the author's sister, and are in the possession of 
Mr. Willis, by whose permission they are here published. 



160 



INTRODUCTION. 

ONE hour for distant homes to weep 
'Midst Afric's burning sands, 

One silent sunset hour was given 
To the slaves of many lands. 

They sat beneath a lonely palm, 
In the gardens of their lord ; 

And mingling with the fountain's tune, 
Their songs of exile poured. 



SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 161 

And strangely, sadly, did those lays 

Of Alp and Ocean sound, 
With Afric's wild red skies above, 

And solemn wastes around. 

Broken with tears were oft their tones, 
And most when most they tried 

To breathe of hope and liberty, 
From hearts that inly died. 

So met the sons of many lands, 

Parted by mount and main ; 
So did they sing in brotherhood, 

Made kindred by the chain. 



162 



, I. 
THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 



IN the proud old fanes of England 

My warrior fathers lie, 
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust 
With gorgeous blazonry. 

But thou, but ihou, niy brother ! 
O'er thee dark billows sweep, 
The best and bravest heart of all 
Is shrouded by the deep. 

In the old high wars of England 

My noble fathers bled ; 
For her lion kings of lance and spear, 

They went down to the dead. 



THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 163 

But thou, but thou, my brother ! 

Thy life-drops flowed for me 
Would I were with thee in thy rest, 

Young sleeper of the sea. 

In a sheltered home of England 

Our sister dwells alone, 
With quick heart listening for the sound 
Of footsteps that are gone. 

She little dreams, my brother ! 

Of the wild fate we have found ; 
I, midst the Afric sands a slave, 
Thou, by the dark seas bound. 



164 

II. 
THE ALPINE HORN. 



THE Alpine horn ! the Alpine horn ! 

Oh ! through my native sky, 
Might I but hear its deep notes borne, 

Once more, but once, and die ! 

Yet, no ! midst breezy hills thy breath, 

So full of hope and morn, 
Would win me from the bed of death 

O joyous Alpine horn ! 

But here the echo of that blast, 

To many a battle known, 
Seems mournfully to wander past, 

A wild, shrill, wailing tone ! 



THE ALPINE HORN. 165 

Haunt me no more ! for slavery's air 

Thy proud notes were not born ; 
The dream but deepens my despair 

Be hushed, thou Alpine horn ! 



166 



III. 
O YE VOICES. 



O ye voices round my own hearth singing ! 

As the winds of May to memory sweet, 
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, 

Would those vernal tones the Wanderer greet, 
Once again ? 

Never, never ! Spring hath smiled and parted 
Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 

O'er the green turf of the gentle hearted, 

Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed, 
Oft again. 



O YE VOICES. 167 

Or if still around my heart ye linger, 
Yet, sweet voices I there must change have come ; 

Years have quelled the free soul of the singer, 
Vernal tones shall greet the Wanderer home, 
Ne'er again ! 



168 



IV. 
I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 



I dream of all things free ! 

Of a gallant, gallant bark, 
That sweeps through storm and sea, 

Like an arrow to its mark ! 
Of a stag that o'er the hills 

Goes bounding in his glee ; 
Of a thousand flashing rills 

Of all things glad and free. 

I dream of some proud bird, 
A bright-eyed mountain king ! 

In my visions I have heard 
The rushing of his wing. 



I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 169 

I follow some wild river, 

On whose breast no sail may be ; 

Dark woods around it shiver 
I dream of all things free ! 

Of a happy forest child, 

With the fawns and flowers at play ; 
Of an Indian midst the wild, 

With the stars to guide his way : 
Of a chief his warriors leading, 

Of an archer's greenwood tree : 
My heart in chains is bleeding, 

And I dream of all things free ! 



170 

V. 

FAR O'ER THE SEA. 



WHERE are the vintage songs 

Wandering in glee ? 
Where dance the peasant bands 

Joyous and free ? 
Under a kind blue sky, 
Where doth my birth-place lie ? 

Far o'er the sea ! 

Where floats the myrtle-scent 

O'er vale and lea, 
When evening calls the dove 

Homewards to flee ? 
Where doth the orange gleam 
Soft on my native stream ? 

Far o'er the sea ! 



FAR O'ER THE SEA. 171 

Where are sweet eyes of love 

Watching for me ? 
Where o'er the cabin roof 

Waves the green tree ? 
Where speaks the vesper-chime 
Still of a holy time ? 

Far o'er the sea ! 



Dance on, ye vintage bands, 

Fearless and free ! 
Still fresh arid greenly wave, 

My father's tree ! 
Still smile, ye kind blue skies ! 
Though your son pines and dies 

Far o'er the sea ! 



172 



VI. 
THE INVOCATION. 



OH ! art thou still on earth, my love ? 

My only love ! 
Or smiling in a brighter home, 

Far, far above ? 

Oh ! is thy sweet voice fled, my love ? 

Thy light step gone ? 
And art thou not, in Earth or Heaven, 

Still, still my own ? 

I see thee with thy gleaming hair, 
In midnight dreams ! 

But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, 
Thy soft eye seems. 



THE INVOCATION. 173 

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love ! 

Dwelt on thy brow ; 
But something mournfully divine 
There shineth now ! 

And silent ever is thy lip, 

And pale thy cheek ; 
Oh ! art thou Earth's, or art thou Heaven's, 

Speak to me, speak ! 



174 



VII. 
THE SONG OF HOPE. 



DROOP not, my brothers I I hear a glad strain 
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter- 
night's chain ; 

A flag is unfurled, a bright star of the sea, 
A ransom approaches we yet shall be free ! 

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps 
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps, 
Where the snows glisten, the mountain rills foam, 
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam. 



THE SONG OF HOPE. 175 

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are 

met, 

Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet ! 
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea, 
Droop not, my Brothers ! we yet shall be free ! 



176 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 



BIRD of the greenwood ! 

Oh I why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 
All the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play 

Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Where the mast quivers, 
Thy place will not be, 

As midst the waving 
Of wild rose and tree. 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 177 

How should'st thou battle 

With storm and with spray ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land, 
Where by the south-wind 

Vine leaves are fanned ? 
Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

" Chide not my lingering , 

Where storms are dark ; 
A hand that hath nursed me 

Is in the bark ; 

N 



178 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

A heart that hath cherished 
Through winter's long day, 

So I turn from the greenwood, 
Away, away !" 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 



" I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of 
Earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no 
more? whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the 
world in which my future home is to be cast ? or whether they 
have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and 
delightful mould." 

Conversations with an Ambitious Student in ill heahh. 



180 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 



BEAR them not from grassy dells, 
Where wild bees have honey-cells ; 
Not from where sweet water-sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds ; 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of Death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are, 
And the glow-worm's emerald star, 
And the bird, whose song is free, 
And the many-whispering tree : 
Oh I too deep a love, and vain, 
They would win to earth agajn 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 181 

Spread them not before the eyes, 

Closing fast on summer skies ! 

Woo thou not the spirit back, 

From its lone and viewless track, 

With the bright things which have birth 

Wide o'er all the coloured earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 
From the lily's pearl-cup shed, 
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 
Dreams of youth of spring-time" eves 
Music beauty all she leaves ! 

Hush ! 'tis thou that dreaming art, 
Calmer is her gentle heart. 
Yes ! o'er fountain, vale, and grove, 
Leaf and flower, hath gushed her love ; 
But that passion, deep and true, 
Knows not of a last adieu. 



182 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Types of lovelier forms than these, 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things, 
Born beside immortal springs, 
Into fuller glory wrought, 
Kindled by surpassing thought ! 

Therefore, in the lily's leaf, 
She can read no word of grief; 
O'er the woodbine she can dwell, 
Murmuring not Farewell ! farewell ! 
And her dim, yet speaking eye, 
Greets the violet solemnly. 

Therefore, once, and yet again, 
Strew them o'er her bed of pain ; 
From her chamber take the gloom, 
With a light and flush of bloom : 
So should one depart, who goes 
Where no Death can touch the rose ! 



THE IVY-SONG. 



Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves, gathered from the 
ruined Castle of Rheinfels on the Rhine. 



184 



THE IVY-SONG. 



OH ! how could fancy crown with thee 

In ancient days the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the vine ? 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er, 
Where song and beaker once went round, 

But now are known no more. 

Where long-fallen gods recline, 
There the place is thine. 



THE IVY SONG. 185 

The Roman on his battle-plains, 

Where Kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 

Shadow'd the victor's tent : 
Tho' shining there in deathless green, 

Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lov'st the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave. 

Urn and sculpture half divine 
Yield their place to thine. 

The cold halls of the regal dead, 

Where lone th' Italian sunbeams dwell, 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread 

Ivy ! they know thee well ! 
And far above the festal vine, 

Thou wav'st where once proud banners hung, 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine 

The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 



186 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine 
Ivy ! all are thine ! 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those Eyries of a vanish'd race, 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 

Have pass'd, and left no trace. 
But thou art there ! serenely bright, 

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom, 
Thou that will climb the loftiest height, 

Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy, Ivy ! all are thine, 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 

Tis still the same ; our pilgrim tread 
O'er classic plains, thro' deserts free, 

On the mute path of ages fled, 
Still meets decay and thee. 



THE IVY SONG. 187 



And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, stern in power, 
Days pass thou Ivy never sere !* 
And thou shalt have thy dower. 

All are thine, or must be thine 
Temple, pillar, shrine ! 



* Ye Myrtles brown, and Ivy never sere Lycides. 



THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S. 



The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is al- 
most unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and 
scientific skill The majestic harmony of effect thus produced 
is not a little deepened by the character of the Church itself ; 
which, though small, yet with its dark rich fret-work, knightly 
helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all 
filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. 
The imagination never fails to recognize it as a fitting scene 
for high solemnities of old; a place to witness the solitary 
vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial 
of some warlike King. 



189 



MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S. 



All the choir 
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas. 

MILTON. 



AGAIN, oh ! send that anthem peal again 
Thro' the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky ! 
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, 
The banners thrill as if with victory ! 

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, 
While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown ; 
Such the high hearts of Kings might well have stirr'd, 
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown, 



190 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Those notes once more ! they bear my soul away, 
They lend the wings of morning to its flight ; 
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay, 
Whispers one tone to win me from that height. 

All is of Heaven ! Yet wherefore to mine eye 
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source ? 
Ev'n while the wavas of that strong harmony 
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course ! 

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower ? 
Oh ! is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour ? 



KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH 
MOTHER OVER HER SON. 



This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the 
Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and 
and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those 
of ihe national music, 



192 



KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH 
MOTHER OVER HER SON. 



DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 

Silent and dark. 

There is blood upon the threshold 
Whence thy step went forth at morn, 

Like a dancer's in its fleetness, 
O my bright first-born ! 



KEENE, OR LAMENT, &c. 

At the glad sound of that footstep, 

My heart within me smiled ; 
Thou wert brought me back all silent 

On thy bier, my child ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 

Silent and (kirk. 

I thought to see thy children 
Laugh on me with thine eyes ; 

But my sorrow's voice is lonely 
Where my life's flower lies. 

I shall go to sit beside thee, 

Thy kindred's, graves among ; 
I shall hear the tall grass whisper 
I shall hear it not long ! 



194 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 

Silent and dark. 

And I too shall find slumber 

With my lost one, in the earth ; 

Let none light up the ashes 
Again on our hearth ! 

Let the roof go down ! let silence 

On the home for ever fall, 
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not 

His lone Mother's call ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 

Silent and dark. 



195 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 



Son of the Ocean Isle ! 

Where sleep your mighty dead ? 
Show me what high and stately pile 

Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, Stranger ! track the deep, 
Free, free, the white sail spread ! 

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 

By the Pyramid o'ersway'd, 
With fearful power the noon-day reigns, 

And the Palm-trees yield no shade. 



196 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

But let the angry sun 

From heaven look fiercely red, 

Unfelt by those whose task is done ! 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 

Along the Indian shore, 
And far, by Ganges' banks at night 

Is heard the tiger's roar. 

But let the sound roll on ! 

It hath no tone of dread, 
For those that from their toils are gone 

There slumber England's dead ! 

Loud rush the torrent floods 

The western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods, 

The hunter's bow is strong. 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 197 

But let the floods rush on ! 

Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ? 
There slumber England's dead. 

The mountain storms rise high 

In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs thro' the sky, 
Like rose-leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on ! 

Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won 

There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose, 

Tis a dark and dreadful hour 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 

And the northern night-clouds lower. 



198 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

But let the ice drift on ! 

Let the cold blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done 

Ev'n there sleep England's dead ! 

The warlike of the Isles, 

The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles ? 

The seas and shores their grave ? 

Go, Stranger ! track the deep ! 

Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 

Where rest not England's dead !* 



* Set to music by the Author's sister. 



199 



FAR AWAY.* 



FAR away ! my home is far away, 

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore ; 

In the woods I hear my brothers play, 

Midst the flowers my sister sings once more. 
Far away ! 

Far away ! my dreams are far away, 

When at midnight, stars and shadows reign ; 

" Gentle child," my mother seems to say 
" Follow me where home shall smile again !" 
Far away ! 



* This, and the five following songs, have been set to music 
of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann, and H. F. G, and 
are published in a set by Mr. Power, who has given permission 
for the appearance of the words in this Volume. 



200 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Far away ! my hope is far away, f 

Where love's voice young gladness may restore; 

O thou dove ! now soaring thro' the day, 
Lend me wings to reach that better shore, 
Far away ! 



201 



THE LYRE AND FLOWER. 



A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour'd 

Forth on the wild wind's track ; 
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord, 
But gave no music back. 
Oh ! child of song ! 

Bear hence to heaven thy fire ! 
What hop'st thou from the reckless throng ; 
Be not like that lost lyre ! 
Not like that lyre ! 

A flower its leaves and odours cast 

On a swift- rolling wave ; 
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd, 

And back no treasure gave. 



202 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Oh ! heart of love ! 

Waste not thy precious dower ! 
Turn to thine only home above, 

Be not like that lost flower ! 
Not like that flower. 



203 



SISTER ! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 



SISTER ! since I met thee last, 
O'er thy brow a change hath past, 
In the softness of thine eyes, 
Deep and still a shadow lies ; 
From thy voice there thrills a tone, 
Never to thy childhood known ; 
Thro' thy soul a storm hath moved, 
Gentle sister, thou hast loved ! 

Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 
Hues too bright from troubled thought ; 
Far along the wandering stream, 
Thou art followed by a dream ; 



204 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

In the woods and vallies lone 
Music haunts thee not thine own : 
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 
Sister, thou hast loved in vain ! 

Ttil me not the tale, my flower ! 
On my bosom pour that shower ! 
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 
Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
Wring not forth one burning word, 
Let thy heart no more be stirred ! 
Home alone can give thee rest. 
Weep, sweet sister, on my breast ! 



205 



THE LONELY BIRD. 



From a ruin thou art singing, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 
The soft blue air is ringing, 

By thy summer music stirr'd ; 
But all is dark and cold beneath, 

Where harps no more are heard : 
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ? 

Thy song flows richly swelling, 
To a triumph of glad sounds, 

As from its cavern dwelling 
A stream in glory bounds ! 



206 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Tho' the castle echoes catch no tone 

Of human step or word, 
Tho' the fires be quenched and the feasting done, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 

How can that flood of gladness 

Rush thro' thy fiery lay, 
From the haunted place of sadness, 

From the bosom of decay ? 
While dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, 

Thro' the ivy garlands heard, 
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird I 

There's many a heart, wild singer, 

Like thy forsaken tower, 
Where joy no more may linger, 

Where love hath left his bower : 



THE LONELY BIRD. 207 

And there's many a spirit e'en like thee, 

To mirth as lightly stirr'd, 
Tho' it soar from ruins in its glee, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 



208 



DIRGE AT SEA. 



Sleep ! we give thee to the wave, 
Red with life-blood from the brave, 
Thou shalt find a noble grave. 
Fare thee well ! 

Sleep ! thy billowy field is won. 
Proudly may the funeral gun, 
Midst the hush at set of sun, 
Boom thy knell ! 

Lonely, lonely is thy bed, 
Never there may flower be shed, 
Marble reared, or brother's head 
Bowed to weep. 



DIRGE AT SEA. 209 

Yet thy record on the sea, 
Borne thro' battle high and free, 
Long the red cross flag shall be. 
Sleep ! O sleep ! 



210 



| 

PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR. 



O soft star of the west ! 

Gleaming far, 
Thou'rt guiding all things home, 

Gentle star ! 
Thou bring'st from rock and wave, 

The sea-bird to her nest, 
The hunter from the hills, 
The fisher back to rest. 
Light of a thousand streams. 

Gleaming far ! 
O soft star of the west, 

Blessed star ! 



PILGRIM'S SONG, &c. -211 

No bowery roof is mine, 

No hearth of love and rest, 
Yet guide me to my shrine, 

O soft star of the west ! 
There, there, my home shall be, 

Heaven's dew shall cool my breast, 
When prayer and tear gush free, 

O soft star of the west ! 

O soft star of the west, 

Gleaming far ! 
Thou'rt guiding all things home, 

Gentle star ! 
Shine from thy rosy heaven, 

Pour joy on earth and sea ! 
Shine on, tho' no sweet eyes 
Look forth to watch for me I 



212 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Light of a thousand streams, 
Gleaming far ! 

O soft star of the west ! 
Blessed star ! 



THE SPARTAN'S MARCH. 



" The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into 
battle," says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the 
rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made " to the 
Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders." The valour of a 
Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or 
rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the 
spur." 

Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks. 



214 



THE SPARTAN'S MARCH. 



TWAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 
Where peasants dress'd the vines, 

Sunlight was on Cithceron's rills, 
Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And brightly, thro' his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wandered by, 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

Of solemn harmony. 



THE SPARTAN'S MARCH. 215 

Was it the hunter's choral strain 
To the woodland-goddess pour'd ? 

Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 
Strike the full sounding chord ? 

But helms were glancing on the stream, 

Spears ranged in close array, 
And shields flung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day ! 

And the mountain echoes of the land 
Swell'd through the deep blue sky, 

While to soft strains moved forth a band 
Of men that moved to die. 

They marched not with the trumpet's blast, 

, Nor bade the horn peal out, 
And the laurel-groves, as on they passed, 

Rung with no battle shout ! 



216 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

They asked no clarion's voice to fire 
Their souls with an impulse high ; 

But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre 
For the sons of liberty ! 

And still sweet flutes, their path around, 

Sent forth ^Eolian breath : 
They needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return, 
Save bringing back the Spartan shield, 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 



" We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few 
words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few 
short moments ; and then days, months, years intervene and 
we see and know nothing of each other." 

Washington Irving. 



218 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 



Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, 
When calms had stilled the tide ; 

A few bright days of summer glee 
There found them side by side. 

And voices of the fair and brave 
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 

And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Indian main 
Cloudless and lovely slept ; 

While dancing step, and festive strain 
Each deck in triumph swept. 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 219 

And hands were linked, and answering eyes 

With kindly meaning shone ; 
Oh ! brief and passing sympathies, 

Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's repose, 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

Like trumpet music rose. 

And proudly, freely on their way 

The parting vessels bore ; 
In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 

To meet Oh ! never more ! 

Never to blend in victory's cheer, 

To aid in hours of woe : 
And thus bright spirits mingle here, 

Such ties are formed below ! 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 



A LEGEND OF WALES. 



It is an old tradition of the Welch Bards, that on the summit 
of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a 
couch ; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, 
would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of frenzy, 
or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration. This song is 
one of a " Selection of Welch Melodies, arranged by John 
Parry, and published by Mr. Power." 



221 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 



A LEGEND OF WALES. 



I lay on that rock where the storms have their 

dwelling, 
The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the 

cloud ; 
Arpund it for ever deep music is swelling, 

The voice of the mountain- wind, solemn and loud. 
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, 
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their 

moan; 
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulphs faintly 

gleaming, 
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. 



2-2 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

I lay there in silence a Spirit came o'er me ; 
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I 

saw ; 
Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before 

me, 
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and 

awe ! 

I viewed the dread beings, around us that hover, 
Tho' veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath ; 
And I called upon darkness the vision to cover, 
For a strife was within me of madness and death. 

I saw them the powers of the wind and the ocean, 

The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms ; 

Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their 

motion, 

I felt their dim presence, but knew not their 
forms ! 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. t>-2.i 

I saw them the mighty of ages departed 

The dead were around me that night on the hill : 
From their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance they 

darted, 

There was light on my soul, but my heart's 
blood was chill. 

I saw what man looks on, and dies but my spirit 

Was strong, and triumphantly liv'd thro' that hour; 
And as from the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power ! 
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, 

And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun ; 
But oh ! what new glory all nature invested, 

When the sense which gives soul to her beauty 
was won ! 



224 



A FAREWELL TO WALES. 



FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE A8H GROVE." 



ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN. 



THE sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear 
Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green 

land! 

On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure moun- 
tain-air, 
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free 

hand! 
From the love of my soul with my tears it is 

shed, 

As I leave thee, green land of my home and my 
dead! 



A FAREWELL TO WALES. 225 

I bless thee ! yet not for the beauty which dwells 

In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore ; 
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells, 
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yor.e ; 
And not for thy songs of those proud ages 

fled, 

Green land, Poet-land of my home and 
my dead ! 

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, 

Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies, 
For thy cottage hearths, burning the strangers to 

greet,^ 
For the soul that shines forth from thy children's 

kind eyes ! 
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee 

be spread, 

Green land of my childhood, my home, and 
my dead ! 



226 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.* 



" All is not lost the unconquerable will 
And courage never to submit or yield." 

MILTON. 

The Hall of Harps is lone to-night. 

And cold the chieftain's hearth ; 
It hath no mead, it hath no light, 

No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. 

The bow lies broken on the floor 

Whence the free step is gone ; 
The pilgrim turns him from the door 

Where minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold 
stone. 



* At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards 
by Edward the First. 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. 27 

And I too go ray wound is deep, 

My brethren long have died 
Yet ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride I 

Bear it, where on his battle plain, 

Beneath the setting sun, 
He counts my country's noble slain 

Say to him Saxon ! think not all is won. 

Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, 

The minstrel's chainless hand ; 
Dreamer ! that number'st with the dead, 

The burning spirit of the mountain land ! 

Think'st thou because the song hath ceas'd, 

The soul of song is flown ? 
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast, 

It liv'd beside the ruddy hearth alone ? 



228 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

No ! by our wrongs, and by our blood, 

We leave it pure and free 
Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood 

Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

We leave it midst our country's woe, 
The birth-right of her breast 

We leave it as we leave the snow- 
Bright arid eternal on *Eryri's crest. 

We leave it with our fame to dwell 

Upon our children's breath. 
Our voice in theirs thro' time shall swell 

The Bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. 

He dies but yet the mountains stand, 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide ; 
And this is yet \Aneurins land 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride 

* Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountain*, 
f Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. 



229 



COME AWAY I* 



COME away ! the child, where flowers are springing 
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope, 

Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, 
Like the sky-lark's with its tone of hope : 
Come away } 

Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, 
All the wealth of glowing life outspread, 

Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, 
By that strain the youth in joy is led : 
Come away ! 



+ This song is in the possession of Mr. Power, to be set to 
music 



230 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling 
O'er the sweetness of the voice within ; 

Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, 
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win : 
Come away ! 

Come away ! the heart, at last forsaken, 

Smile by smile, hath prov'd each hope untrue 

Yet a breath can still those words awaken, 
Tho' to other shores far hence they woo : 
Come away ! 

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, 
In the low sweet sounds of early spring, 

Still their music wanders till the dying 
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 
Come away ! 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. 



" Fair Helen of Kirconnel," as she is called in the Scottish 
Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her bethrothed lover and 
a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, 
and died in the arms of the former. 



232 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. 



HOLD ine upon thy faithful heart, 
Keep back my flitting breath ; 

Tis early, early to depart, 
Belov'd ! yet this is death ! 

Look on me still : let that kind eye 

Be the last light I see I 
Oh ! sad it is in spring to die, 

But yet I die for thee ! 

For thee, my own ! thy stately head 

Was never thus to bow ; 
Give tears when with me love hath fled, 

True love, thou know'st it now ! 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. L> 

Oh ! the free streams looked bright, where Yi 

We in our gladness roved ; 
And the blue skies were very fair 

O friend ! because we loved. 

Farewell ! I bless thee live thou on, 

When this young heart is low ! 
Surely my blood thy life hath won 

Clasp me once more I go ! 



234 



MUSIC FROM SHORE. 



A sound comes on the rising breeze, 

A sweet and lovely sound ! 
Piercing the tumult of the seas 

That wildly dash around. 

From land, from sunny land it comes, 
From hills with murmuring trees, 

From paths by still and happy homes 
That sweet sound on the breeze. 

Why should its faint and passing sigh 
Thus bid my quick pulse leap ? 

No part in earth's glad melody 
Is mine upon the deep. 



MUSIC FROM SHORE. 

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot, 
Whence those rich breathings flow ! 

Kind hearts, although they know me not, 
Like mine there beat and glow. 

And blessing, from the bark that roams 

O'er solitary seas, 
To those that far in happy homes 

Give sweet sounds to the breeze ! 



236 



LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS 
EYES. 



Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
Truth in their dark transparence lies ; 
Their sweetness gives me back the tears, 
And the free trust of early years ; 

My gentle child ! 

The spirit of my infant prayer 
Shines in the depths of quiet there. 
And home and love once more are mine, 
Found in that dewy calm divine, 

My gentle child ! 

f The songs marked thus J: are in the possession 8f Mr. 
Willis, to be published by him with music. 



LOOK ON ME, &c. -j:J7 

Oh ! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, 
Its light by day around thee gleams : 
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies ; 
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
My gentle child ! 



238 



I GO, SWEET FRIENDS. 



I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers ; 
For we have wandered far and free, 

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go but when you pause to hear, 

From distant hills, the Sabbath bell 
On summer winds float silvery clear, 

Think on me then I lov'd it well ! 

Forget me not around your hearth, 
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze, 

For dear hath been its evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends ! in other days. 



I GO, SWEET FRIENDS. 

And oh ! when music's voice is heard 
To melt in strains of parting woe, 

When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd 
Think of me then ! I go, I go ! 



940 



IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER. 



Oh cast thou not 

Affection from thee ! In this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 
Watch guard it suffer not a breath to dim 
The bright gem's purity! 



IF thou hast crushed a flower, 

The root may not be blighted ; 
If thou hast quenched a lamp, 

Once more it may be lighted : 
But on thy harp or on thy lute, 

The string which thou hast broken, 
Shall never in sweet sound again 

Give to thy touch a token ! 



IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER. -J4I 

If thou hast loosed a bird, 

Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 
Still, still he may be won 

From the skies to warble near thee : 
But if upon the troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not that wind or wave will bring 

The treasure back when needed. 



If thou hast bruised a vine, 

The summer's breath is healing, 
And its clusters yet may glow, 

Through the leaves their bloom revealing 
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 

With a bright draught filled oh ! never 
Shall earth give back that lavished wealth 

To cool thy parched lip's fever ! 



242 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

The heart is like that cup, 

If thou waste the love it bore thee ; 
And like that jewel gone, 

Which the deep will not restore thee 
And like that strain of harp or lute 

Whence the sweet sound is scattered ; 
Gently, oh ! gently touch the chords, 

So soon for ever shattered ! 



243 



BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. 



Brightly, brightly hast thou fled, 
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head, 

Brightly didst thou part ! 
With thy young thoughts pure from spot, 
With thy fond love wasted not, 

With thy bounding heart. 

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet, 
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, 

Ere with dust o'erspread : 
Lilies ne'er by tempest blown, 
White-rose which no stain hath known, 

Be about thee shed ! 



244 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

So we give thee to the earth, 
And the primrose shall have birth 

O'er thy gentle head ; 
Thou that like a dew-drop, borne 
On a sudden breeze of morn, 

Brightly thou hast fled ! 



245 



SING TO ME, GONDOLIER ! 



Sing to me, Gondolier ! 

Sing words from Tasso's lay ; 
While blue, and still, and clear, 

Night seems but softer day : 
The gale is gently falling 

As if it paus'd to hear 
Some strain the past recalling ; 

Sing to me, Gondolier ! 

Oh, ask me not to wake 
The memory of the brave ; 

Bid no high numbers break 
The silence of the wave. 



246 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Gone are the noble-hearted, 
Closed the bright pageants here 

And the glad song is departed 
From the mournful Gondolier ! 



247 



O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.* 



O'ER the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea foam, 

Come, thou long parted one ! 
Back to thine home ! 

When the bright fire shineth, 

Sad looks thy place, 
While the true heart pineth 

Missing thy face. 

* Set to music by the Author's sister. 



248 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Music is sorrowful 

Since thou art gone, 
Sisters are mourning thee, 
' Come to thine own ! 

Hark ! the home voices call 

Back to thy rest ; 
Come to thy father's hall, 

Thy mother's breast ! 

O'er the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea foam, 

Come, thou long parted one ! 
Back to thine home ! 



-249 



O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING !* 



O them breeze of spring ! 

Gladdening sea and shore, 
Wake the woods to sing, 

Wake my heart no more I 
Streams have felt the sighing 

Of thy scented wing, 
Let each fount replying 

Hail thee, breeze of spring, 
Once more ! 

* Set to music by John Lodge, Esq. 



250 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

O'er long buried flowers 

Passing, not in vain, 
Odours in soft showers 

Thou hast brought again. 
Let the primrose greet thee, 

Let the violet pour 
Incense forth to meet thee 

Wake my heart no more ! 
No more ! 

From a funeral urn 

Bowered in leafy gloom, 
Ev'n thy soft return 

Calls not song or bloom. 
Leave my spirit sleeping 

Like that silent thing ; 
Stir the founts of weeping 

Hiere y O breeze of spring, 
No more ! 



251 



COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 



COME to me, dreams of heaven ! 

My fainting spirit bear 
On your bright wings, by morning given, 

Up to celestial air. 
Away, far, far away, 

From bowers by tempests riven, 
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, 

O blessed dreams of heaven ! 

Come but for one brief hour, 
Sweet dreams ! and yet again, 

O'er burning thought and memory shower 
Your soft effacing rain ! 



252 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Waft me where gales divine, 

With dark clouds ne'er have striven, 

Where living founts for ever shine 
O blessed dreams of heaven !* 



Set to music by Miss Graves. 



253 



GOOD NIGHT.* 



DAY is past ! 

Stars have set their watch at last, 
Founts that thro' the deep woods flow 
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now, 
Flowers have shut with fading light 
Good night ! 

Go to rest ! 

Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast ! 
If within that secret cell 
One dark form of memory dwell, 
Be it mantled from thy sight 
Good night I 

* For a melody of Eisenhofer's. 



254 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Joy be thine ! 

Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine ! 
Go, and in the spirit-land 
Meet thy home's long parted band, 
Be thine eyes all love and light 
Good night ! 

Peace to all ! 

Dreams of heaven on mourners fall ! 
Exile ! o'er thy couch may gleams 
Pass from thine own mountain streams ; 
Bard ! away to worlds more bright 
Good night ! 



255 



LET HER DEPART. 



HER home is far, oh ! far away ! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath nought to do with earthly day, 

Tis kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart I 



She looks upon the things of earth, 

E'vn as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth. 

How softly, yet how far I 

Let her depart I 



SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Her spirit's hope her bosom's love 
Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 

Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way, 
But deems it sent from heavenly air, 

For her who cannot stay. 

Let her depart ! 

& 

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 

She breathes and moves alone, 
Pining for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart 



257 



WATER-LILIES. 



A FAIRY-SONG. 



COME away. Elves ! while the dew is sweet, 
Come to the dingles where fairies meet ; 
Know that the lilies have spread their bells 
O'er all the pools in our forest-dells ; 
Stilly and lightly their vases rest 
On the quivering sleep of the water's breast, 
Catching the sunshine thro' leaves that throw 
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow ; 
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, 
A golden star unto heaven looks up, 
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie, 
Set 4n the blue of the summer sky. 

s 



258 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Come away ! under arching boughs we'll float, 

Making those urns each a fairy boat ; 

We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free, 

And a tall flag leaf shall our streamer be, 

And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low, 

It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow, 

As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh, 

Or water-drops trained into melody. 

Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong, 

And the life of the lily may not be long. 



259 



THE BROKEN FLOWER. 



X>H ! wear it on thy heart, my love ! 

Still, still a little while ! 
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, 

Tho' faded be their smile. 
Yet, for the sake of what hath been, 

Oh ! cast it not away ! 
'Twas born to grace a summer scene, 

A long, bright, golden day, 
My love ! 

A long, bright, golden day ! 

A little while around thee, love ! 

Its fragrance yet shall cling, 
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain, 

A fair, tho' faded thing. 



SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

But not ev'n that warm heart hath power 

To win it back from fate : 
Oh ! / am like thy broken flower, 

Cherish'd too late, too late, 
My love ! 

Cherish'd, alas! too late! 



261 



I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN. 



I would we had not met again ! 

I had a dream of thee, 
Lovely, tho' sad, on desert plain, 

Mournful on midnight sea. 

What tho' it haunted me by night, 
And troubled thro' the day ? 

It touched all earth with spirit-light, 
It glorified my way ! 

Oh ! what shall now my faith restore 

In holy things and fair ? 
We met I saw thy soul once more 

The world's breath had been there ! 



262 SONGS' FOR MUSIC. 



Yes ! it was sad on desert-plain, 
Mournful on midnight sea, 

Yet would I buy with life again 
That one deep dream of thee ! 



263 



FAIRIES' RECALL. 



WHILE the blue is richest 

In the starry sky, 
While the softest shadows 

On the greensward lie, 
While the moonlight slumbers 

In the lily's urn, 
Bright elves of the wild wood ! 

Oh ! return, return ! 

Round the forest fountain, 

On the river shore, 
Let your silvery laughter 

Echo yet once more ; 



\ 

264 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



While the joyous bounding^ 
Of your dewy feet 

Rings to that old chorus : 
" The daisy is so sweet !"* 

Oberon, Titania, 

Did your starlight mirth, 
With the song of Avon, 

Quit this work-day earth ? 
Yet while green leaves glisten, 

And while bright stars burn, 
By that magic memory, 

Oh, return, return ! 



* See the chorus of Fairies in the Flower and the Leaf of 
Chaucer. 



265 



THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 



OH ! tell me not the woods are fair 

Now Spring is on her way ; 
Well, well I know how brightly there 

In joy the young leaves play ; 
How sweet on winds of morn or eve 

The violet's breath may be ; 
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 

My lone rock by the sea. 

The wild wave's thunder on the shore, 
The curlew's restless cries, 

Unto my watching heart are more 
Than all earth's melodies. 



266 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Come back, my ocean rover I come ! 

There's but one place for me, 
Till I can greet thy swift sail home 

My lone rock by the sea ! 



267 



O YE VOICES GONE.* 



OH ! ye voices gone, 

Sounds of other years ! 
Hush that haunting tone, 

Melt me not to tears ! 
All around forget, 

All who loved you well, 
Yet, sweet voices, yet 

O'er my soul ye swell. 

With the winds of spring, 
With the breath of flowers, 

Floating back, ye bring 

Thoughts of vanished hours. 

* Set to music by Miss H. Corbett. 



SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Hence your music take, 
Oh ! ye voices gone ! 

This lone heart ye make 
But more deeply lone. 



269 



BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST. 



By a mountain stream at rest, 
We found the warrior lying, 
And around his noble breast 
A banner, elasp'd in dying : 
Dark and still 
Was every hill, 
And the winds of night were sighing. 

Last of his noble race, 

To a lonely bed we bore him ; 
'Twas a green, still, solemn place 

Where the mountain heath waves o'er him. 
Woods alone 
Seem to moan, 
Wild streams to deplore him. 



270 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Yet, from festive hall and lay 

Our sad thoughts oft are flying, 
To those dark hills far away, 

Where in death we found him lying ; 
On his breast 
A banner press'd, 
And the night-wind o'er him sighing. 



271 



IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING. 



Is there some spirit sighing 

With sorrow in the air, 
Can weary hearts be dying, 

Vain love repining there 9 
If not, then how can that wild wail, 

O sad jEolian lyre ! 
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale, 

From thy deep thrilling wire ? 

No, no ! thou dost not borrow 
That sadness from the wind, 

Nor are those tones of sorrow 
In thee, O harp ! enshrined ; 



272 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

But in our own hearts deeply set 
Lies the true quivering lyre, 

Whence love, and memory, and regret, 
Wake answers from thy wire. 



273 



THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 



THE trumpet of the battle 

Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 

And the first deep gun of an ocean fight 
Dread music all its own. 

But a mightier power, my England ! 

Is in that name of thine, 
To strike the fire from every heart 

Along the banner'd line. 

Proudly it woke the spirits 

Of yore, the brave and true. 
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 

And the yeoman's arrow flew. 

T 



274 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

And proudly hath it floated 

Through the battles of the sea, 
When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths play'd 

Like the lightning in its glee. 

On rock, on wave, on bastion, 

Its echoes have been known, 
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low, 

That have answered to its tone. 

A thousand ancient mountains 

Its pealing note hath stirr'd ; 
Sound on, and on, for evermore, 

O thou victorious word ! 



OLD NORWAY. 



A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 



" To a Norwegian the words Gamle Norge (Old Norway) 
have a spell in them immediate and powerful ; they cannot be 
resisted. Gamle Norge is heard, in an instant repeated by every 
voice ; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained ; not a drop is 
left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus "For Norge!" 
the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand) and in 
a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character 
of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the 
expression Gamle Norge. The gravest discussion is instantly in- 
terrupted ; and one might suppose for the moment, that the party 
was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some na- 
tional anniversary of freedom." Derwcnt Conway's Personal 
Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden. 

The following words were written to the national air, as con- 
tained in the work above cited. 



276 



OLD NORWAY .* 



A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 



ARISE ! old Norway sends the word 

Of battle on the blast; 
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd, 

As if a storm went past; 
Her thousand hills the call have heard, 

And forth their fire-flags cast. 



* These words have been published, as arranged to the 
spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq. 



OLD NORWAY. -277 

Arm, arm, free hunters ! for the chase, 

The kingly chase of foes ; 
Tis not the bear or wild wolfs race, 

Whose trampling shakes the snows ; 
Arm, arm ! 'tis on a nobler trace 

The northern spearman goes. 

Our hills have dark and strong defiles, 

With many an icy bed ; 
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles, 

Above the invader's head ! 
Or let the seas, that guard our Isles, 

Give burial to his dead ! 



278 



ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY. 



TO THE AIR OF " AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN ! 



SING, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices 

Have mingled with our own ; 
Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices, 

Forget not who are gone ! 



ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG, &c. 279 

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, 

On Albuera's plain ; 
They that beside us cheerly tracked the flying, 

Far o'er the hills of Spain : 

The^y that amidst us, when the shells were showering, 

From old Rodrigo's wall, 
The rampart scaled, thro' clouds of battle towering, 

First, *first at victory's call ! 

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, 

In Roncesvalles' dell; 

With England's blood the southern vineyards 
laving, 

Forget not how they fell ! 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword I 



280 



J COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP. 



COME to me, gentle sleep ! 

I pine, I pine for thee ; 
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, 

And set my spirit free ! 
Each lonely, burning thought, 

In twilight langour steep 
Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought, 

O gentle, gentle sleep ! 

Come with thine urn of dew, 
Sleep, gentle sleep ! yet bring 

No voice, love's yearning to renew, 
No vision on thy wing ! 



COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP. 281 

Come, as to folding flowers, 

To birds in forests deep ; 
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, 

O gentle, gentle sleep ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



283 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 



THOU mov'st in visions, Love ! Around thy way, 
E'en through this world's rough path and changeful 
day, 

For ever floats a gleam, 

Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn, 


But thine own soul's illumined chambers born 

The colouring of a dream ! 

Love, shall I read thy dream ? oh ! is it not 
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot 

A bower for thee and thine ? 
Yes ! lone and lowly is that home ; yet there 
Something of heaven in the transparent air 

Makes every flower divine. 



286 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Something that mellows and that glorifies, 
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 

As o'er some blessed isle ; 
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow, 
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow 

Sleeps lovingly awhile. 

The very whispers of the wind have there 
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear 

Greeting from some bright shore, 

Where none have said Farewell ! where no decay 


Lends the faint crimson to the dying day ; 

Where the storm's might is o'er. 

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, 
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast 

Hidden from earthly ill : 
There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose 

sound 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, 

Thine inmost soul can thrill. 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 287 

There by the hearth should many a glorious page, 
From mind to mind th' immortal heritage, 

For thee its treasures pour ; 
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, 
Or dearer interchange of playful word, 

Affection's household lore. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 
The melody of hearts in heavenly air, 

Thence duly should arise ; 
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, 
Of spirits, not to be disjoined by death, 

Up to the starry skies. 

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come 
To mar the stillness of that angel-home ; 

There should thy slumbers be 
Weighed down with honey-dew, serenely blessed, 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 

Under some balmy tree. 



288 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Love, Love ! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below 

Here, where bright things must die ? 
Oh, thou ! that wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 

Gifts of infinity ! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love ! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, 
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 



And, as a flower with some fine sense imbued 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude, 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming ill ; 

Oh ! canst Thou dream of rest ? 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 289 

Bear up thy dream ! thou mighty and thou weak ! 
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break. 

As a flame, tempest-swayed ! 
He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its troubled course, 

He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity ? He whose searching eye 
Reads all the secrets of thine agony ? 

Oh ! pray.. to be forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. , 



La vue d' une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flatte mes sens 
a un point inexprimable. Sous le tranquille abri du toit paternel, 
j 'etais nourrie des 1'enfance avec des fleurs et des livres ; dans 
1'etroite enceinte d'une prison, au milieu des fers imposies par la 
tyrannic, j'oublie Pinjustice des hommes, leurs sottises et mes 
maux avec des livres et des fleurs. 

Madame Roland. 



291 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 



COME, let me make a sunny realm around thee, 
Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and 

flowers, 
With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound 

thee, 
The ravelled coil of this world's feverish hours. 

The soul of song is in these deathless pages, 
Even as the odour in the flower enshrined ; 

Here the crowned spirits of departed ages 
Have left the silent melodies of mind. 



292 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change, 
and anguish, 

For some high place where faith her wing might rest, 
Are burning here ; a flame that may not languish, 

Still pointing upward to that bright hill's crest ! 

Their grief, the veiled infinity exploring 

For treasures lost, is here ; their boundless love 

Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring 
On all things round, and clasping all above. 

And the bright beings, their own heart's creations, 
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still ; 

Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations 
Are here, and victories of prevailing will ! 

Listen, oh ! listen, let their high words cheer thee ! 

Their swan-like music ringing through all woes, 
Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee, 

The Elysian air of their divine repose ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 

Or wouldst thou turn to earth ? Not earth all fur- 
rowed 

By the old traces of man's toil and care, 
But the green peaceful world that never sorrowed, 

The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air ! 

Look on these flowers ! As o'er an altar shedding, 
O'er Milton's page, soft light from coloured urns ! 

They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding, 
When to her breast the prodigal returns. 

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles, 
Fresh banks of many a low voiced hidden stream, 

Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles 
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. 

They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, 
Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers ; 

Too richly dowered, O friend ! are we for sadness 
Look on an empire mind and nature ours ! 



294 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA 
ATTENDED BY ANGELS. 



How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
How bright that heaven-directed glance ! 
Waft her to glory, winged powers, 

Ere sorrow be renewed, 
' And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a humbler mood ! 

WORDSWORTH. 

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 
Wear yet so deep a calm ? Oh, child of song ! 

Is not the music-land a world of dreaming, 

Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng ? 

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed ? 

Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear ? 
Low haunting whispers, which the weary hearted, 

Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear ? 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA, &c. 295 

No, not to thee ! thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, 
On its own starry height, beyond all this, 

Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, 

Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of 
bliss ! 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swell- 
ing* 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the 

skies ? 

Bright guests ! even such as left of yore their dwell- 
ing* 
For the deep cedar shades of Paradise ! 

What strain? oh! not the Nightingale's when 
showering 

Her own heart's life drops on the burning lay, 
She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, 

And pours her strength, but not her grief away : 



296 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And not the Exile's when midst lonely billows 
He wakes the alpine notes his mother sung, 

Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, 
Where murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung. 

And not the Pilgrim's though his thoughts be holy, 
And sweet his Ave song, when day grows dim, 

Yet as he journeys, pensively and slowly, 

Something of sadness floats through that low hymn. 

But thou ! the spirit which at eve is filling 
All the hushed air and reverential sky, 

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture 

thrilling, 
This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 

This bears up high those breathings of devotion 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free ; 

Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion 
Is the dream-haunted music land for thee. 



297 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 



WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT MUFWMCK. 

How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no sleep, 
No mood, which season takes away or brings : 

I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

But welrome fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 

WORDSWORTH. 

ANSWER, ye chiming waves ! 

That now in sunshine sweep ; 
Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 

Voice of the solemn deep ! 

Hath man's lone spirit here 
With storms in battle striven ? 

Where all is now so calmly clear, 
Hath anguish cried to heaven ? 



_>98 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Then the sea's voice arose, 
Like an earthquake's under- tone : 

" Mortal, the strife of human woes 
Where hath not nature known ? 

" Here to the quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung, 
The shriek upon the wind hath past, 

The midnight sky hath rung. 

" And the youthful and the brave 
With their beauty and renown, 

To the hollow chambers of the wave 
In darkness have gone down. 

" They are vanished from their place 
Let their homes and hearths make moan ! 

But the rolling waters keep no trace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 

Alas ! thou haughty deep ! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies, I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass, 

High hope, and thought, and mind, 
Ev'n as the breath-stain from the glass, 

Leaving no sigh behind ! 

Saw'st thou nought else, thou main ? 

Thou and the midnight sky ? 
Nought save the struggle, brief and vain, 

The parting agony ! 

And the sea's voice replied, 
" Here nobler things have been ! 

Power with the valiant when they died, 
To sanctify the scene : 



300 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

" Courage, in fragile form, 

Faith, trusting to the last, 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro' the storm, 

But all alike have passed. " 

Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 

These have not passed in vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs free 

On victor wings again. 

Thou, from thine empire driven, 
May'st vanish with thy powers ; 

But, by the hearts that here have striven, 
A loftier doom is ours ! 



301 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 



I seem like one 
Who treads alone 

Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 

And all but me departed. 

MOOBB, 

SEEST thou yon grey gleaming hall, 
Where the deep elm-shadows fall ? 
Voices that have left the earth 

Long ago, 
Still are murmuring round its hearth, 

Soft and low : 

Ever there ; yet one alone 
Hath the gift to hear their tone. 



302 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Guests come thither, and depart, 
Free of step, and light of heart ; 
Children, with sweet visions blessed, 
In the haunted chambers rest ; 
One alone unslumbering lies 
When the night hath sealed all eyes, 
One quick heart and watchful ear, 
Listening for those whispers clear. 

Seest thou where the woodbine flowers 
O'er yon low porch hang in showers ? 
Startling faces of the dead, 

Pale, yet sweet, 
One lone woman's entering tread 

There still meet I 

Some with young smooth foreheads fair, 
Faintly shining through bright hair ; 
Some with reverend locks of snow 
All, all buried long ago ! 



THE .HAUNTED HOUSE. 303 

All, from under deep sea-waves, 

Or the flowers of foreign graves, 

Or the old and bannered aisle, 

Where their high tombs gleam the while ; 

Rising, wandering, floating by, 

Suddenly and silently, 

Through their earthly home and place, 

But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone, 

Are those sounds and visions known ? 

Wherefore hath that spell of power 

Dark and dread, 
On her soul, a baleful dower, 

Thus been shed ? 
Oh ! in those deep-seeing eyes, 
No strange gift of mystery lies! 
She is lone where once she moved, 
Fair, and happy, and beloved ! 



304 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Sunny smiles were glancing round her, 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her ; 
Now those silver chords are broken, 
Those bright looks have left no token ; 
Not one trace on all the earth, 
Save her memory of their mirth. 
She is lone and lingering now, 
Dreams have gathered o'er her brow, 
Midst gay songs and children's play, 
She is dwelling far away ; 
Seeing what none else may see 
Haunted still her place must be ! 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 



This piece was suggested by a picture in the possession of 
Mrs. Lawrence of Wavertree Hall It represents the " Hero's 
Child" of Campbell's Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of 
rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and desert place. A 
tempest seems gathering in the angry skies above her, but the 
attitude of the drooping figure expresses the utter carelessness of 
desolation, and the countenance speaks of entire abstraction from 
all external objects. A bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst 
the weeds and wild flowers of the desert. 



306 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 



I fled the home of grief 
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall, 
I found the helmet of my Chief, 

His bow still hanging on our wall ; 
And took it down, and vowed to rove 

This desert place, a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 
For any heart of living mould. 

CAMPBELL. 



THE sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud : 

Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise, 

And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bowed, 

And leave the^ tomb, as tombs are left alone, 

To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan. 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. ;K>7 

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, 

Where gems are glittering, and bright winejis pour'd ; 
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, 

And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord ; 
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, 
Tnan the sad "Love lies bleeding" of the grave. 

Oh ! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell, 
Wherewith love binds the spirit strong in pain, 

To the spot hallowed by a wild farewell, 
A parting agony, intense, yet vain, 

A look and darkness when it's gleam hath flown, 

A voice and silence when it's words are gone ! 

She hears thee not ; her full, deep, fervent heart 
Is set in her dark eyes ; and they are bound 

Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, 
Where faithful love hath sanctified the ground ; 

And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, 

And anguish frozen into still despair. 



308 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last 

A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born; 

Around her path a vision's glow is cast, 

Back, back, her lost one comes, in hues of morn !* 

For her the gulf is filled the dark night fled ; 

Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 

And she can pour forth in such converse high, 
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong, 

Oh ! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny, 

And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng, 

Than hers the queen of that majestic gloom, 

The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb ! 



* ". A son of light, a lovely form, 
He comes, and makes her glad." 

CAMPBELL. 



309 



THE BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE. 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OP EASTLAKE'S. 



DARK chieftain of the heath and height ! 
Wild feaster on the hills by night ! 
Seest thou the stormy sunset's glow 
Flung back by glancing spears below ? 
Now for one strife of stern despair ! 

The foe hath tracked thee to thy lair. 

i 

Thou, against whom the voice of blood 
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood ; 
And in whose dreams a moan should be, 
Not of the water, nor the tree ; 
Haply thine own last hour is nigh, 
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

There's one that pale beside thee stands, 
More true than all thy mountain bands ! 
She will not shrink in doubt and dread, 
When the balls whistle round thy head : 
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye 
No longer may to her's reply. 

Oh ! many a soft and quiet grace 
Hath faded from her form and face ; 
And many a thought, the fitting guest 
Of woman's meek religious breast, 
Hath perished in her wanderings wide, 
Through the deep forests by thy side. 

Yet, mournfully surviving all, 

A flower upon a ruin's wall, 

A friendless thing whose lot is cast, 

Of lovely ones to be the last ; 

Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, 

Thine is her lone devotion still. 



THE BRIGAND LEADER, &c. 311 

And oh ! not wholly lost the heart 
Where that undying love hath part ; 
Not worthless all, though far and long 
From home estranged, and guided wrong ; 
Yet may its depths by heaven be stirred, 
Its prayer for thee be poured and heard ! 



312 



THE CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE 
WOODLANDS. 



All good and guiltless as thou art, 
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart 
Griefs that along thy altered face 
Will breathe a more subduing grace, 
Than even those looks of joy that lie 
On the soft cheek of infancy. 

WILSON. 



HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee ? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free ? 
With the hare thro' the copses and dingles wild ? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? 
Yes : the light fall of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells 
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. 



THE CHILD'S RETURN, &c. 313 

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song 
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng ; 
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, 
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim ; 
These are old words, that have made each grove 
A- dreaming haunt for romance and love ; 
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, 
A place for the gushings of poesy. 

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore 
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er ; 
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep, 
Like hidden gems, in the flower-urns deep ; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell ; 
And the scent, by the blossoming sweet-briars shed, 
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. 

Oh ! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee ! 
What is remembrance or thought to thee ? 



314 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, 
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling ; 
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature hath mines of such wealth and thou 
Never wilt prize its delights as now ! 

For a day is coming to quell the tone 

That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one ! 

And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, 

Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 

Into the stillness of autumn skies ; 

And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 

Midst the hidden things of each human heart. 

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child ! for this ? 
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! 
Such be thy portion ! the bliss to look, 
With a reverent spirit, through nature's book ; 



THE CHILD'S RETURN, &c. 

By fount, by forest, by river's line, 

To track the paths of a love divine ; 

To read its deep meanings to see and hear 

God in earth's garden and not to fear ! 



316 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 



THOU hast watched beside the bed of death, 

Oh fearless human love ! 
Thy lip received the last faint breath, 

Ere the spirit fled above. 

Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier, 

In a low and farewell tone, 
Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear- 

Oh love ! thy task is done. 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 317 

Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 

Where thou wert wont to rove, 
For there the friend of thy soul is not, 

Nor the joy of thy youth, oh love ! 

Thou wilt meet but mournful memory there, 
Her dreams in the grove she weaves, 

With echoes filling the summer air, 
With sighs the trembling leaves. 

Then turn thee to the world again, 

From those dim haunted bowers, 
And shut thine ear to the wild sweet strain 

That tells of vanished hours. 

And wear not on thine aching heart 

The image of the dead, 
For the tie is rent that gave thee part 

In the gladness it's beauty shed. 



318 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And gaze on the pictured smile no more 

That thus can life out-last, 
All between parted souls is o'er ; 

Love ! love ! forget the past ! 

" Voice of vain boding ! away, be still ! 

Strive not against the faith 
That yet my bosom with light can fill, 

Unquench'd, and undimm'd by death : 

" From the pictured smile I will not turn, 

Though sadly now it shine ; 
Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn 

For the step once linked with mine : 

" Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, 
Though its notes the pang renew, 

Such memories deep in my heart I hold, 
To keep it pure and true. 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 319 

" By the holy instinct of my heart, 

By the hope that bears me on, 
I have still my own undying part 

In the deep affection gone. 

" By the presence that about me seems 

Through night and day to dwell, 
Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams ! 

I have breathed no last farewell !" 



THE SISTER'S DREAM. 



Suggested by a picture, in which a young girl is represented 
as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by the spirits of her 
departed sisters. 



321 



THE SISTER'S DREAM. 



SHE sleeps ! but not the free and sunny sleep 
That lightly on the brow of childhood lies : 

Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, 
Yet, ere it sunk upon her shadowed eyes, 

Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'erswept 

Her soul's meek stillness : she had prayed and wept. 

And now in visions to her couch they come, 
The early lost the beautiful the dead 

That unto her bequeathed a mournful home, 

Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled ; 

They rise the sisters of her youth arise, 

As from the world where no frail blossom dies. 



322 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And well the sleeper knows them not of earth 
Not as they were when binding up the flowers, 

Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth, 
Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours ; 

These things are past ; a spiritual gleam, 
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream. 

Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years 
In those pure aspects may no more be read, 

Thence, too, hath sorrow melted, and the tears 
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, 

Are all effaced ; there earth hath left no sign 

Save its deep love, still touching every line. 

But oh ! more soft, more tender, breathing more 
A thought of pity, than in vanished days : 

While, hovering silently and brightly o'er 

The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze 

With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, 

" Yet, sister, yet we love thee, come away !" 



THE SISTER'S DREAM. M-J.-J 

Twill fade, the radiant dream ! and will she not 
Wake with more painful yearning at her heart ? 

Will not her home seem yet a lonelier spot, 

Her task more sad, when those bright shadows part? 

And the green summer after them look dim, 

And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn ? 

But let her hope be strong, and let the dead 
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still, 

Be their names uttered, be their memory spread 
Yet round the place they never more may fill ! 

All is not over with earth's broken tie 

Where, where should sisters love, if not on high ? 



324 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, 

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY. 



Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap, 

The undelighting, slighted thing ; 
There, in the cold earth, buried deep, 

In silence let it wait the spring. 

Mas. TIGHE'S POEM ON THE LILY. 

I stood where the lip of song lay low, 
Where the dust had gathered on beauty' brow ; 
Where stillness hung on the heart of love, 
And a marble weeper kept watch above. 

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, 
Of deep affections that inly wrought, 
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear 
They knew themselves exiled spirits here ! 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB. 325 

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, 
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly ! 
Thou that dost bear on thy fairy wings, 
No burden of mortal sufferings ! 

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, 
Over a bright world of joy and bloom, 
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, 
The all that severed thy life and mine. 

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, 
Of love and grief, its unfathomed springs. 
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and sky, 
With voices to question eternity ! 

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, 
Like an embodied breeze at play ! 
Child of the sunlight ! thou winged and free ! 
One moment, one moment, I envied thee ! 



326 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thou art not lonely, tho' born to roam, 
Thou hast no longings that pine for home, 
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird, 
To fly from the sickness of hope deferred : 

In thy brief being, no strife of mind, 
No boundless passion is deeply shrined ; 
While I as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 
One hour of my soul seemed infinity ! 

And she, that voiceless below me slept, 
Flowed not her song from a heart that wept ? 
O love and song, tho' of heaven your powers, 
Dark is your fate in this world of ours ! 

Yet, ere I turned from that silent place, 
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, 
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, 
Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB. Ml 

Thou, that dost image the freed soul's birth, 
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth, 
Oh ! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise 
Round the dark chamber where genius lies ! 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF 
FIESCO. 



As translated from the German of Schiller, by Colonel 
D'Aguilar, and performed at the Theatre Royal" Dublin, 
December, 1832. 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF 
FIESCO. 



Too long apart, a bright but severed band, 

The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land, 

Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung, 

Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. 

Brave hearts leaped proudly to their words of power. 

As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour ; 

Fair eyes rained homage o'er the impassioned la\ - 

In loving tears, more eloquent than praise ; 

While we, far distant, knew not, dreamed not aught 

Of the high marvels by that magic wrought 



330 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But let the barriers of the sea give way, 

When mind sweeps onward with a conquerer's sway ! 

And let the Rhine divide high souls no more 

From mingling on its old heroic shore, 

Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many an 

age, 
Have made the Poet's own free heritage ! 

To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone 

Of the far minstrelsy at last be known ; 

Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, 

Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here. 

And if by one, more used, on march and heath, 

To the shrill bugle, than the muse's breath, 

With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, 

And in a trusting loyalty of thought, 

So let it be received ! a Soldier's hand 

Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land 

A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime, 

Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, 



PROLOGUE, &c. 

Hath song held empire ; then if not with Fame, 
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim, 
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, 
Where once that harp " the soul of music shed !" 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 



These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of 
Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently 
in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long 
continuance ; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the 
very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness 
of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the hap- 
piness of approaching him. 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 



HOME of the gifted ! fare thee well, 

And a blessing on thee rest ; 
While the heather waves its purple bell 

O'er moor and mountain crest ; 
While stream to stream around thee calls, 

And braes with broom are drest, 
Glad be the harping in thy halls 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

While the high voice from thee sent forth, 

Bids rock and cairn reply, 
W r akening the spirits of the North, 

Like a chieftain's gathering cry ; 



334 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

While its deep master- tones hold sway, 
, As a king's o'er every breast, 

Home of the Legend and the Lay ! 

/ 

A blessing on thee rest. 

Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower ! 

Long honours to thy line ! 
And hearts of proof, and hands of power, 

And bright names worthy thine ! 
By the merry step of childhood still 

May thy free sward be prest ! 
While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, 

A blessing on thee rest ! 



335 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 



" Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, 
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust : 
Had watched bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years ; 
And thus they met- 



" HASTE, with your torches, haste ! make firelight 

round I" 
They speed, they press what hath the miner 

found ? 

Relic or treasure, giant sword of old ? 
Gems bedded deep, rich veins of burning gold ? 
Not so the dead, the dead ! An awe-struck 

band, 
In silence gathering round the silent stand, 



336 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Chained by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, 
Before the thing that, in the might of death, 
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay 
A sleeper, dreaming not ! a youth with hair 
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair !) 
O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay 
Had touched those pale bright features yet he wore 
A mien of other days, a garb of yore. 
Who could unfold that mystery ? From the throng 
A woman wildly broke ; her eye was dim, 
As if through many tears, through vigils long, 
Through weary strainings : all had been for him ! 
Those two had loved ! And there he lay, the dead, 
In his youth's flower and she, the living, stood 
With her grey hair, whence hue and gloss had fled 
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood 
Had long since ebb'd a meeting sad and strange ! 
Oh ! are not meetings in this world of change 
Sadder than partings oft ? She stood there, still, 
And mute, and gazing, all her soul to fill 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 337 

With the loved face once more the young, fair face, 
'Midst that rude cavern touched with sculpture's 

grace, 

By torchlight arid by death : until at last 
From her deep heart the spirit of the past 
Gushed in low broken tones : " And there thou art! 
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part 
As for a few brief hours ! My friend, my friend ! 
First-love, and only one ! Is this the end 
Of hope deferred, youth blighted ? Yet thy brow 
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek 
Smiles how unchanged ! while I, the worn, and 

weak, 

And faded oh ! thou wouldst but scorn me now, 
If thou couldst look on me ! a withered leaf, 
Seared though for thy sake by the blast of grief! 
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go, 
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I called thee ! With the morning light 

z 



338 MISCELLANEOUS POEiMS. 

How have I watched for thee! wept, wandered, 

prayed, 

Met the fierce mountain tempest, undismayed, 
In search of thee ! Bound my worn life to one, 
One torturing hope ! Now let me die ! Tis gone. 
Take thy betrothed !" And on his breast she fell 
Oh -I since their youth's last passionate farewell, 
How changed in all but love ! the true, the strong, 
Joining in death whom life had parted long ! 
They had one grave one lonely bridal bed 
No friend, no kinsman, there a tear to shed ! 
His name had ceased her heart outlived each tie, 
Once more to look on that dead face and die ! 



339 



THE VICTOR. 



" De tout ce qui t'airaoit n'cst-il plus rien qui t'airae ?" 

LAMARTINE. 



MIGHTY ones, Love and Death ! 
Ye are the strong in this world of ours, 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers, 

Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 

Thou art the victor, Love ! 
Thou art the fearless, the crowned, the free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee, 

The spirit from above ! 



340 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thou hast looked on Death, and smiled ! 
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form, 
Thro' the waves of the fight, thro' the rush of the storm, 

On field, and flood, and wild ! 

No ! Thou art the victor, Death ! 
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, 
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ? 

Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet, 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart ! 



THE VICTOR. 341 

Boast not thy victory, Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power, 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber, the snow beneath. 

It is but as a Tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still : 
But the fiery thought, and the lofty will, 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence affection springs, 
Tho' buried, it is not of mortal things 

Thou art the victor. Love ! 



THE END. 



Denbigh, March 4th, 1824. 

-*&- 

RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY. 



Tli foiniiii.tf.u avail themselves of this opportanity to present their 
aim-.'st atkiuiwlrilicmcnts to .Mrs Hcmans, fortlie coni|'liiueat that her 
iisc has oiU-ml to this so'/iery, and they cannot foreuo the grutifiuttion 
e nhoilvin'.* in this report the foitotriilg beautiful fttanzai addressed to 
fin l>/ her : 



THE HARP OF WALKS, 

Inscribed to the Ruthin Wdsh JAterary Society. 
HARP of the Mountain-land ! sound forth a^ain, 

As when the foaming Hirlas Horn was crown'il, 
And warrior-hearts beat proudly to thy strain, 

And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round : 
Wake with the spirit and the pow'r of yore ! 
Harp of the ancient hills ! be heard once more ! 
Thy tones are not to cease ! The Roman came 

O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars : 
Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame ; 

The Druid-shrines lay prostrate on our shores : 
He gave their ashes to the wind and sea 
Ring out, th<?u Harp ! he could not silence thee. 
Thy tones are not to cease ! The Saxon pass'd, 

His banners floated on Eryri's gales ; 
But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast, 

E'en when his tow'rs rose loftiest o'er the vales ! 
Thine was the voice that cheer'd the brave and free 
They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and TIIF.E. 
Those were dark years ! They saw the valiant fall, 

The rank weeds gath'ring round the chieftain's board, 
The hearth left lonely in the ruin'd hall- 
Yet pow'r was thine a gift in every chord ! 
Call back that spirit to the days of peace, 
Thou noble Harp ! Thy tones are not to cease ! 



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