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1 He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, 
And our hearts burned within us as he spoke." Page 352. 




* * 


Santa Barbara, California 

Santa Barbara, California 





The Forest Sanctuary 25 

The Abencerrage 64 

The Widow of Crescentius 97 

1'he last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra 104 

Alaricin Italy 107 

The Wife of Asdrubal no 

Heliodorus in the Temple 1 1 j 

Night-scene in Genoa 114 

The Troubadour and Richard Coeur de Ljon 117 

The Death of Conradin 1 19 

Lays of Many Lands 

Moorish Bridal Song 123 

The Bird's Release 124 

The Sword of the Tomb 125 

Valkyriur Song 129 

The Cavern of the Three Tells. 130 

Swiss Song 132 

The Messenger Bird 132 

The Stranger in Louisiana 134 

The Isle of Founts 135 

The Bended Bow 136 

He never Smiled again 137 

Coeur de Lion at the Bier of his Father 138 

The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree 139 

The Wild Huntsman 140 

Brandenburg Harvest-Song 141 

The Shade of Theseus 141 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile 142 

Greek Funeral Chant : or, Myriologue 143 

Greek Partins Song 144 

The Suliote Mother . 146 

The Farewell to the Dead 148 

Records of Woman 

Arabella Stuart I4<i 

The Bride of the Greek Isle 155 

The Switzer's Wife i6c 

Properzia Rossi 163 

Gertrude ; or Fidelity till Death 16* 

Imelda 167 

Edith 170 

The Indian City 175 

The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 180 

Indian Woman's Death-Song 183 


Rw-ords of Woman, continued, PAGE. 

Joan of Arc in Rheitns 184 

Pauline iS6 

(liana iSS 

The American Forest Girl iqo 

Costanza... 192 

Madeline KJJ 

The Queen of Prussia's Tomb 197 

The Memorial Pillar 198 

The Grave of a Poetess 199 

i ^s of the Affections 

A Spirit's Return 200 

The Lady of Provence 206 

The Coronation of Inex de Castro 210 

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin 212 

To a Departed Spirit 212 

The Chamois Hunter's Love 213 

The Indian with his Dead Child 214 

Song of Emigration 215 

The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother 2ift 

The Return 218 

The Vaudois Wife 219 

The Guerilla Leader's Vow 220 

Thekla at her Lover's Grave 221 

The Sisters of Scio 222 

Bernardo del Carpio 223 

The Tomb of Madame Langhans 224 

The Exile's Dirge 225 

The Dreaming Child 226 

The Charmed Picture ' 227 

Parting Words 228 

The Message to the Dead 229 

The Two Homes 229 

The Soldier's Deathbed 230 

The Image in the Heart 231 

The Land of Dreams 233 

Woman on the Field of Battle 234 

The Deserted House 235 

The Stranger's Heart 236 

To a Remembered Picture 236 

Ome Home 237 

The Fountain of Oblivion 238 

VcUh Melodies 

The Harp of Wales 30 

Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans -to 

The Green Isles of Ocean 240 

The Sea-Sons of Gafran - 241 

The Hirlas Horn 241 

The Hall of Cynddylan 241 

The Lament of Llywarch Hen , 243 

Grufydd's Feast 244 

The Cambrian in America 245 

The Fair Isle 245 

Taliesin's Prophecv 2 4 ft 

Jwen Glynd wr's War-Song 246 

Prince Madoc's Farewell 247 

Caswallon's Triumph , 248 

Howel's Song 248 

The Mountain Fires 249 

F.ryri Wen 249 

Chants of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward 1 250 

The Dying Bard's Prophecy 250 

The Rock of Cader Idris 251 


Songs of the Cid 

The Cid's Departure into Exile 252 

The Cid's I Jeathbed iSS 

The Cid's Funeral Procession 251 

The Cid's Rising 256 

The Caravan in the Deserts 256'ms among tlie Ruins of Carthage 259 

Sons; founded on an Arabian Anecdote 2'- ' 

The Cross of the South 262 

The Sleeper of Marathon 263 

To Miss F. A. L., on her Birthday 26j 

Written in the First Leaf of the Album of the Same 264 

To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 264 

A Dirge 265 

The Maremma 266 

A Tale of the Fourteenth Century 272 

3elshazzar's Feast 280 

The Last Constantino 283 

Greek Songs 

1. The Storm of Delphi y>7 

2. The Bowl of Liberty 309 

3. The Voice of Scio " 3'<> 

4. The Spartans' March 3 " 

5. The Urn and Sword 3'i 

6. The Myrtle Hough 3 '3 

Elysium 3 '3 

The Funeral Genius 3 '6 

The Tombs of Platea 3>7 

The View from Castri 3'S 

The Festal Hour 3 '9 

Song of the Battle of Morgan 322 

On a Flower from the Field of Griitli 324 

On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 324 

1'he Chieftain's Son 324 

A Fragment 325 

England's Dead 325 

The Meeting of the Bards 326 

The Voice of Spring 328 


Lines written in a Hermitage on the Seashore 330 

Dirge of a Child 331 

Invocation - 331 

To the Memory of Sir Edward Pakenham 332 

To the Memory of Sir Henry Ellis, who full in the Rattle of Waterloo m 

Guerilla Song, founded on the story related of the Spanish Patriot Mina ?3j 

The Aged Indian 133 

Evening amongst the Alps ;?4 

Dirge of the Highland Chief in " Waverley " 334 

The Crusaders' War-song 335 

The Death of Clanronald 335 

To the Eye . 336 

The Hero's Death 337 

The Treasures of the Deep 338 

Bring Flowers . jjS 

The Crusader's Return 330 

Tlie Revellers 34 r 

The Conqueror's Steep 3P 

Our L.idy'sWell Ul 

The P.iiting of Summer <4I 

Thv.- S.. i .;j;s of our Fathers ^45 



The World in the Open Air 346 

Kindred Hearts 347 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 34S 

Casablanca 348 

The Dial of Flowers 349 

Our Daily Paths 350 

The Cross in the Wilderness 351 

Last Rites 353 

The Hebrew Mother 3 54 

The Wreck 356 

The Trumpet 357 

Evening Prayer at a Girls* School 357 

The Hour of Death 358 

The Lost Pleiad 359 

The Cliffs of Dover ^ . . 360 

The Graves of Martyrs 361 

The Hour of Prayer 361 

The Voice of Home to the Prodigal 362 

The Wakening 362 

The Breeze from Shore 363 

The Dying Improvisatore 364 

Music of Yesterday 366 

The Forsaken Hearth , 367 

The Dreamer 367 

The Wings of the Dove 368 

Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 370 

The Boon of Memory 370 

I go, Sweet Friends 372 

Angel Visits 372 

Ivy Song ; 374 

To one of the Author's Children on his Birthday 374 

On a similar occasion 375 

Christ stilling the Tempest 375 

Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers, a Child and a Youth 375 

Monumental Inscription 376 

The Sound of the Sea 376 

The Child and Dove 377 

A Dirge 377 

Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine 378 

English Soldier's Song of Memory 379 

Haunted Ground 380 

The Child of the Forests 381 

Stanzas to the Memory of 382 

The Vaudois Valleys 383 

Song of the Spanish Wanderer .-* 384 

The Contadina 384 

Troubadour Song 385 

The Homes of England 385 

The Sicilian Captive 3 S( > 

Ivan the Czar 3SS 

Carolan's Prophecy 380 

The Lady of the Castle 392 

The Mourner for the Barmecides 394 

The Spanish Chape) 396 

. The Kaiser's Feast - 397 

Tasso and his Sister 398 

The Release of Tasso .' , 399 

The Necromancer < 403 

Ulla ; or, The Adjuration 404 

To Wordsworth 406 

A Monarch's Deathbed 407 

To the Memory of Heber 407 

The Adopted Child - 408 


Miscellaneous, continued. 

Invocation 409 

Korner and his Sister 410 

The Death-Day of Korner 412 

An Hour of Romance 412 

A Voyager's Dream of Land 413 

The Effigies 415 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in Now England 416 

The Spirit's Mysteries - 416 

The Departed 418 

The Palm-Tree 418 

The Child's Last Sleep 419 

The Sunbeam 420 

Breathings of Spring 421 

The I lluminated City 422 

The Spells of Home 423 

Roman Girl's Song 424 

The Distant Ship 425 

The Birds of Passage 425 

The Graves of a Household 426 

Mozart's Requiem 426 

The Image in Lava 428 

Christmas Carol 428 

A Father reading the Bible 429 

The Meeting of the Brothers 429 

The Last Wish 430 

Fairy Favors 432 

The Siege of Valencia. A Dramatic Poem 434 

The Vespers of Palermo. A Tragedy, in Five Act* 4f| 


SENTIMENT without passion, and suffering without abjection* 
these, along with a deep religious sense, and with the gifts of a 
brilliant mind taking the poetical direction through eager sym- 
pathy and some genuine vocation, constitute the life of Mrs. 
Hemans. 1 Whatever may be the deservings of the poems in other 
respects, they do not fail to convey to the reader a certain im- 
pression of beauty, felt to be inherent as much in the personality 
of the -authoress as in her writings : they show as being the out- 
come of a beautiful life, and in fact they are so. The impression 
which the reader will thus have received from perusing the poems 
is not only confirmed but intensified when he knows the events of 
the writer's life. 

Felicia Dorothea Browne, born in Duke Street, Liverpool, on 
the 25th of September, 1793, was daughter of a merchant of con- 
siderable eminence, a native of Ireland, belonging to a branch of 
the Sligo family. Her mother, whose maiden name was Wagner, 
was partly Italian and partly German by extraction, her father 
having held the post of Consul at -Liverpool for the Austrian and 
Tuscan Governments. The surname Wagner was in reality a cor- 
ruption from the illustrious Venetian name Veniero, borne by 
three Doges, and by the Commander of the fleet of the Republic 
at the great battle of Lepanto. Felicia was the fifth child in a 
family of seven, of whom one died in infancy ; she was distin- 
guished, almost from her cradle, by extreme beauty and preco- 
cious talents. "The full glow of that radiant beauty which was 
destined to fade so early " is one of the expressions used by the 
poetess's sister in describing the former at the age of fifteen. 
This reference to " early fading " appears to be intended to apply 

1 The Memoir of Mrs. Hemans, written by her sister Mrs. Hughes, and prefixed to the 
edition of the Poems in ^ vols. published by Messrs. Blackwood, is the best authority for the 
facts of the poet's life. There are also the Memorials by Mr. Chorley in 2 vols., containing a 
good deal of Mrs. Hemans's correspondence (reproduced to a large extent by Mrs. HughesV 
and mostly bearing on her literary carerr rather than the circumstances of her private life. The 
former of these accounts is pleasantly written, in a tone of deep affection, and admiration as well, 
at which the reader will not be disposed to cavil. 

1 2 PkEFA TOff Y MO T1CE. 

rather to the death of Mrs. Hemans when only in her forty-second 
year, and to the ravages of disease in the few years preceding, 
than to any loss of comeliness in mature womanhood. An en- 
graved portrait of her by the American artist William E. West, 
one of three which he painted in 1827, shows us that Mrs. 
Hemans, at the age of thirty-four, was eminently pleasing and 
good-looking, with an air of amiability and sprightly gentleness, 
and of confiding candor which, while none the less perfectly 
womanly, might almost be termed childlike in its limpid depth. 
The features are correct and harmonious ; the eyes full ; and the 
contour amply and elegantly rounded. In height she was neither 
tall nor short. A sufficient wealth of naturally clustering hair, 
golden in early youth, but by this time of a rich auburn, shades 
the capacious but not over-developed forehead, and the lightly- 
pencilled eyebrows. The bust and form have the fulness of a 
mature period of life ; and it would appear that Mrs. Hemans was 
somewhat short-necked and high-shouldered, partly detracting 
from delicacy of proportion, and ot general aspect or impression 
on the eye. We would rather judge of her by this portrait (which 
her sister pronounces a good likeness) than by another engraved 
in Mr. Chorley's Memorials. This latter was executed in Dublin 
in 1831 by a young artist named Edward Robinson. It makes 
Mrs. Hemans look younger than in the earlier portrait by West, 
and may on that ground alone be surmised unfaithful ; and, 
though younger, it also makes her heavier and less refined. 

The childhood of Felicia Browne was probably rendered all 
the happier by a commercial reverse which befell her father be- 
fore she was seven years of age. The family hereupon removed to 
Wales, and for nine years they lived at Gwrych l near Abergele in 
Denbighshire, close to the sea and amid mountains. This was the 
very scene for the poetically-minded child to enjoy, and to have 
her powers nurtured by : a great love of nature, and in particular 
an affectionate delight in Wales, its people and associations, con- 
stantly traceable in her writings, followed as an almost necessary 
consequence. Her mother, a most amiable and excellent woman, 
fully qualified to carry on her daughter's education, devoted the 
most careful attention to this object, and was repaid by an un- 
swerving depth and constancy of love. A large library was kept 
in the house, and Felicia drew heavily upon its stores : a pretty 
picture is presented to the mind's eye, and would not be unworthy 

? So spelled by Mrs. Hughes :. " Grwych " by Mr. Chorley. 


of realization by art, in the anecdote that it was her habit, at the 
age of six, to read Shakspeare while seated in the branches of an 
apple-tree. Along with great rapidity of comprehension, she had 
a memory of surprising retentiveness, and would repeat whole 
pages of poetry after a single reading. At the age of about eleven 
she passed a winter in London, and was there again in the follow- 
ing year never afterwards. 

In 1808 age fourteen Felicia first appears as an authoress. 
She published a volume of poems which got abused in some re- 
view : this was the only time that really harsh criticism befell her. 
The mishap so far affected the impressionable damsel as to keep 
her in bed some days : but she surmounted it pretty soon and re- 
sumed writing. In the same year she wrote a poem named Eng- 
land and Spain ; being then under the influence of military enthu- 
siasm arising from the events of the Peninsular War, in which one 
of her brothers was serving : another of them was also in (he army, 
and in the same regiment, the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers. The 
next year was a momentous one in the life of Felicia Browne. She 
met Captain Hemans, of the 4th (or King's Own) Regiment, an 
officer not rich in purse, but having advantages, as we are in-. 
formed, both of person and education : he professed admiration of 
the bewitching girl, and she gave him her love. He shortly had 
to return to Spain ; and nearly three years elapsed before they 
again met. Meanwhile, in 1809, the Browne family removed to 
Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph in Flintshire ; and in 1812, for the sec- 
ond and last time, appeared a volume of poetry bearing the name 
of Felicia Dorothea Browne, The Domestic Affections, and Other 
Poems. In the summer of 1812 she married the man of her 

Biographers have not permitted us to know distinctly whether 
or not the conjugal life of Mrs. Hemans was happy, or what Cap- 
tain Hemans might possibly have found to say on the subject : at 
any rate, it was a short one, practically speaking. The wedded 
couple resided at first at Daventry in Northamptonshire, where 
the Captain .was Adjutant to the County Militia : here they re- 
mained about a year, and here was born their son Arthur, the first 
of a family of five, all of whom were boys. They then went to live 
with Mrs. Hemans's own family at Bronwylfa; her mother was 
now at the head of the house, as her father, having resumed the 
mercantile career, had gone out to Quebec, where finally he died. 
In 1818 Captain Hemans resolved to go to the south of Europe 


" for the sake of his health " a very inconvenient motive, or a 
highly convenient one, according to circumstances : he had suf- 
fered much from the vicissitudes of a military life, especially dur- 
ing the retreat to Corunna, and afterwards through fever caught 
in the Walcheren expedition. He departed just before the birth 
of his fifth son ; went to Rome ; and there settled down. The 
parting proved to be a final one. It might have been fancied that 
even the shattered frame of a young officer who had survived Cor- 
unna and Walcheren would suffice for the effort of coming to 
Wales, England, or Ireland, at some time between 1818 and 1835, 
so as to rebehold a wife whom he had left in the bloom of youth 
and loveliness, and whose literary fame, for many years succeed- 
ing his departure, lent an ever-brightening lustre to the name of 
Hemans, and so as to get a glimpse of his five promising boys. 
But this was not to be : for some reason or other, not defined to 
us, even the charms of Bronwylfa, with a wife, five sons, and a 
resident mother-in-law, did not relax the tenacious grasp which 
Italy and Rome obtained on Captain Hemans. Or again it might 
have seemed conceivable that not only Captain Hemans but also 
his wife, the author of Lays of Many Lands, sensitive to the his- 
toric and romantic associations of such a country as Italy, would 
find it compatible with her liking as well as her duties to pay a 
visit to Rome, or possibly to make it her permanent dwelling-place. 
As to this, it may perhaps be inferred, in a general way, that the 
family affections of daughter and mother were more dominant and 
vivid in Mrs. Hemans than conjugal love : her intense feeling of 
the sacredness of home, which it would be both idle and perverse 
to contest, may have set before her, as more binding and impera- 
tive, the duties of service to her own mother, and of guidance to 
her own children, than the more equal, passionate, and in some 
sense self-indulgent relation between wife and husband. However, 
abandoning conjecture, it may be best here to transcribe the reti- 
cent hints on the subject which are given by the poetess's sister, 
Mrs. Hughes, in her Memoir, and which show that the de facfa 
separation between Captain and Mrs. Hemans depended partly 
upon general considerations of family obligation, and partly upon 
special circumstances not clearly indicated, but apparently reflect- 
ing more or less on the marital deportment of the Captain. " It 
has been alleged, and with perfect truth, that the literary pursuits 
of Mrs. Hemans, and the education of her children, made it more 
eligible for her to remain under the maternal roof than to- accom- 


pany her husband to Italy. It is, however, unfortunately but too 
well known that such were not the only reasons which led to this 
divided course. To dwell on this subject would be unnecessarily 
painful ; yet it must be stated that nothing like a permanent sep- 
aration was contemplated at the time, nor did it ever amount to 
more than a tacit conventional arrangement which offered no ob- 
stacle to the frequent interchange of correspondence, nor to a 
constant reference to their father in all things relating to the dis- 
posal of her boys. But years rolled on seventeen years of 
absence, and consequently alienation ; and, from this time to the 
hour of her death, Mrs. Hemans and her husband never met 

With this incident of the lifelong separation between her husband 
and herself, anything of a romantic character in the occurrences 
of Mrs. Hemans's career comes to a close ; although the coloring 
of high-toned romance in her mind and writings never died out, 
but to the last continued to permeate, enliven, and beautify, that 
other element and staple of her life, its sweet and earnest domes- 
ticity. Now we have only to contemplate the loving daughter, 
glad, as long as fate permitted, to escape being the head of a 
household, although invested with the matronly dignity proper to 
the motherhood of five boys. We see in her the not less deeply 
affectionate, tender, and vigilant mother ; the admired and popu- 
lar poetess, distinguished and soon burdened by applause ; shortly 
afterwards the cureless invalid, marked out for an early death, to- 
wards which she progresses with a lingering but undeviating 
rapidity calm in conscience, bright and cheerful in mind, full of 
faith and hope for eternity, and of the gentlest charities of life for 
her brief residue of time. 

Tn 1818, before the departure of her husband, Mrs. Hemans 
had published a volume of poetical Translations ; and about the 
3ame time she wrote The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy, 
and Modern Greece, and other poems which were afterwards in- 
cluded in the series named Talcs and Historic Scenes. In 1820 
she brought out The Sceptic: a mild performance which some stiil 
milder-minded disbeliever found of convincing efficacy,' assuring 
Mrs. Hemans, in a personal interview not long before her death, 
that it had wrought his conversion to the Christian religion. In 
the same year she made the acquaintance of the Rev. Reginald 
(afterwards Bishop) Heber, then Rector of Hodnet the first emi- 
nent literary personage whom she knew well. He encouraged her 


in the composition of another poem destined to extirpate religious 
error, entitled Superstition and Revelation : it had been begun some 
while before this, and was never distinctly abandoned, but remained 
uncompleted. Towards this time also Mrs. Hemans wrote a set of 
papers in the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine on Foreign Literature ; 
almost the only prose that she ever published, and serving chiefly 
as a vehicle for poetic translations. She obtained two literary 
prizes for poems, and her ambition was equal to the composition 
of a five-act tragedy intended for stage representation The Ves- 
pers of Palermo. This was a work that occupied some time. At 
last, after she had received 210 for the copyright of the tragedy, 
it was produced at Covent Garden Theatre on the 1 2th of Decem- 
ber, 1823. No doubt the authoress's own hopes were not alto- 
gether low as to the success of the piece, and her friends were in 
high expectancy. Young and Charles Kemble took the principal 
male characters: Miss Kelly appeared as Constance. The acting 
of this lady is said, fairly or unfairly, to have been disastrous to 
the piece: it proved "all but a failure," and was withdrawn after 
the opening night, and never reproduced in London. Not long 
afterwards, however, the tragedy was acted in Edinburgh, and with 
a considerable measure of success. A dispassionate reader of the 
present day if indeed there exists a reader of The Vespers of l\i- 
lermo will probably opine that the London audience showed at 
least as much discrimination (apart from any question as to de- 
merit in Miss Kelly) as that in Edinburgh. Mrs. Hemans's talent 
was not of the dramatic kind. Perhaps there never yet was a good 
five-act stage tragedy written by a woman ; and certainly the 
peculiar tone and tint of Mrs. Hemans's faculty were not such as 
to supply the deficiency which she, merely as a woman, was almost 
certain to evince. Even as a narrative poet, not to speak of the 
drama, she shows to no sort of advantage : her personages not 
having anything of a full-bodied character, but wavering between 
the romantically criminal and the longwindedly virtuous poor 
supposititious creatures, inflated and diluted. Something better 
may nevertheless be said for the second of her tragedies, The 
Siege of Valencia, published in 1823 along with Bclshazzar's Feasi 
and some other poems. This play appears to have been written 
without any view to the stage : a condition of writing which acts 
detrimentally upon a drama composed by a born dramatist, but; 
which may rather have the opposite effect upon one coming from 
a different sort of author. In The Siege of Valencia the situation 


is in a high degree tragical even terrible or harrowing : and 
there is this advantage, no small one in the case of a writer such 
as Mrs. Hernans that, while the framework is historical, and the 
crisis and passions of a genuinely heroic type, the immediate in- 
terest is personal or domestic. Mrs. Hemans may be credited 
with a good and unhacknied choice of subject in this drama, and 
with a well-concerted adaptation of it to her own more special 
powers: the writing is fairly sustained throughout, and there are 
passages both vigorous and moving. As the reader approaches 
the denouement, and finds the authoress dealing death with an un- 
sparing hand to the heroically patriotic Gonzalez and all his off- 
spring, he may perhaps at first feel a little ruffled at noting that 
the only member of the family who has been found wanting 
in the fiery trial wanting through an excess of maternal love is 
also the only one saved alive : but in this also the authoress may 
be pronounced in the right. Reunion with her beloved ones in 
death would in fact have been mercy to Elmina, and would have 
left her undistinguished from the others, and untouched by any 
retribution : survival, mourning, and self-discipline, are the only 
chastisement in which a poetic justice, in its higher conception, 
could be expressed. Besides the two dramas of The Vespers of 
Palermo and The Siege of Valencia, Mrs. Hemans began likewise 
two others De Chatillon, or the Crusaders, and Sebastian of Portu- 
gal : neither of these was finished. 

Soon before the production of The Vespers of Palermo on the 
stage, she had taken up with great zest the study of the German 
language ; and her Lays of Many r.ands, published in 1826, were 
to a considerable extent suggested by Herder's work, Stimmcn der 
Volker in Licder. The same volume contained her poem of The 
Forest Sanctuary, which had occupied her in the latter part of 
1824 and commencement of 1825 : this she was disposed to 
regard as her finest work. It is the most important of her narra- 
tive or semi-narrative poems, and, as compared with the others of 
.hat class, may reasonably claim a preference, without our com- 
mitting ourselves to any very high eulogium upon it. The 
Records of Woman followed in 1828, being the first of the author- 
ess's works that Messrs. Blackwood published : into this series 
she put more of her personal feeling than into any of the others. 
In the summer of 1830 appeared the Songs of the Affections, being 
the last of her publications prior to her departure for Ireland. 

Meanwhile the course of her private life had been marked 


only by such variations as removal of residence, and by one deep 
and irreparable affliction in the death of her beloved mother on 
the nth of January, 1827, followed soon afterwards by the failure 
of her own health. The first removal, in the spring of 1825, had 
been from Bronwylfa to Phyllon, a house distant from the 
former only about a quarter of a mile : here she settled along with 
her mother, sister, and four boys the eldest son being then at a 
school at Bangor. For a time also her second brother, Major 
Browne, afterwards Commissioner of Police in Dublin, and his 
wife, resided in the same house, on their return from Canada. 
Rhyllon, though with attractive surroundings, was a much less 
picturesque house than Bronwylfa ; but this brief period of Mrs 
Hemans's life proved to be probably the happiest that she had 
passed since childhood. Besides many sources of tranquil do. 
mestic satisfaction, and for a while a somewhat firmer condition 
of her own health, she was in the enjoyment of a considerable 
reputation not now confined to her native country, for the fame of 
her poems had spread to America, and flourished there with ex- 
traordinary vigor. She was at one time invited to emigrate to 
Boston, and there conduct a periodical under an arrangement 
which would have secured her an income. Her literary corres- 
pondence became very large ; and gradually the urgencies of 
editors of annuals, owners of albums, and other such predacious 
assailants of leisure and patience, besieged and waylaid her to a 
burdensome and harassing extent. In the summer of 1828 she 
paid a visit to some friends at Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool. 
Her health was now exceedingly frail, with palpitation of the 
heart, and inflammatory and other distressing symptoms, fre- 
quently aggravated by her exceeding carelessness in all matters 
affecting herself. Her friends induced her to take medical advice, 
and she was directed to assume a reclining posture as often as 
practicable. Another consequence of this visit was her resolution 
to move to the village of Wavertree, chiefly with a view to the 
better education of her three younger boys : the two others, at 
the same time that their mother quitted Wales in the autumn, 
went away to Rome, to the care of their father. Mrs. Hemans's 
sister had married, her brother was appointed to a post in Ireland, 
and the cherished Welsh home was thus irremediably broken up. 
The residence at Wavertree, however, turned out unsatisfactory, 
Mrs. Hemans did not find it healthy for herself, nor its educational 
advantages equal ( .o her expectations. She had some friends i 

PREFA TORY .\'0 TfCE. I 9 

Liverpool whom she liked, more especially the Chorley family . 
but for the most part was oppressed by the importunities of un- 
discerning and uncongenial neighbors, upon whom, moreover, 
she often failed even to produce a favorable impression. She 
was regarded as odd "wore a veil on her head, like no one 
else " (as is shown indeed in Mr. West's portrait of her) : and 
she, for her part, could hardly be induced to go into any general 
society, and would fain have got a friend " to procure her a 
dragon to be kept in her court-yard," as a protection against 
intruders. Her house was itself very small, and on her arrival 
comfortless : but she managed to make it comparatively elegant. 
She now conceived a great passion for music, and, in the winter 
of 1830 and ensuing spring, applied herself to the study of the art 
under Zeugheer Herrmann, receiving also some assistance from 
a well-known amateur, Mr. Lodge. She so far cultivated her 
faculty in music as to be able to invent airs for some of her own 
lyrics. Playing on the harp and the pianoforte had been among 
her earlier accomplishments : and her voice was naturally good, 
but failed in youth owing to the weakness of her chest. 

The residence at Wavertree was varied by excursions to Scot- 
land and to the Lake country. In July, 1829, she paid a visit to 
Mr. Hamilton, the author of Cyril Thornton, at Chiefswood near 
Abbotsford, and saw a great deal of Sir Walter Scott. Two of 
his kindly compliments to Mrs. Hemans have been preserved in 
her sister's record. " I should say you had too many gifts, Mrs. 
Hemans ; were they not all made to give pleasure to those 
around you : " and afterwards at leave-taking, " There are some 
whom we meet, and should like ever after to claim as kith and 
kin ; and you are one of those." The Scotch trip included visits 
to Yarrow, Abbotsford, and Edinburgh, and sitting for a bust to 
Mr. Angus Fletcher. The excursion to the Lakes of Westmore- 
land took place in the following year, 1830 : the poetess went to 
Wordsworth's house, Rydal Mount, with her son Charles ; and, 
on afterwards moving to a neighboring cottage named Dove's Nest, 
overlooking Winandermere, was joined by hejr two other boys 
from Wavertree. Mrs. Hemans's letters show how much she 
liked Wordsworth, both poetically and personally : she found him 
more impulsive than she had expected, and greatly enjoyed his 
fine reading, and the frequent touches of poetry in his talk. Nor 
was her admiration unresponded to, as proved by the lines which 
Wordsworth devoted to her memorv but a few years afterwards - 


u Mourn rather for that holy spirit 

Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
For her who ere her summer faded 

Has sunk into a breathless sleep." 

She left Dove's Nest towards the middle of August, and revisited 
Scotland, and then re-entered Wales by way of Dublin and Holy- 

. As the experiment of Wavertree had proved disappointing, 
and as her brother Major Browne was now settled in Ireland, 
Mrs. Hemans determined to take up her residence in Dublin from 
the following spring. In the late autumn of 1830 therefore she 
saw her last of Bronwylfa, and towards the close of April, 1831, 
she quitted Wavertree and England, never (as it was fated ) to 
return. She passed a few weeks in Dublin ; then stayed at her 
brother's house, the Hermitage, near Kilkenny ; and in the early 
autumn was finally domiciled in the Irish capital. At first she 
dwelt iu Upper Pembroke Street ; afterwards in No. 36 Stephen's 
Green ; and thirdly at a house which proved more comfortable, 
and in which her life came to a close, 20 Dawson Street. In 
Dublin, as before at Wavertree, Mrs. Hemans lived retired from 
society, but in familiar intercourse with a few sterling friends, 
among whom were Sir William Rowan Hamilton, Archbishop and 
Mrs. Whately, and the Rev. Blanco White. Her health was in a 
very shattered state, the palpitation of the heart continuing, and 
being attended by frequent fainting-fits. Every now and then, 
however, she rallied, and it was still possible for her friends to 
flatter their hearts with hope ; and the gentle sweetness and even 
playfulness of her temper, mingled with tender sentiment and 
ever-deepening religious impressions never failed her. She now 
had to pass a great part of her time lying on a sofa. 

After her settlement in Ireland Mrs. Hemans published the 
following volumes of poetry her prevailing tendency being at 
this period towards themes of a religious character. Early in 
1834, the Hymns for Childhood were first issued from the home 
press, in Dublin, having previously, however, as far back as 
1824, appeared in an American edition. The National Lyrics 
were collected, and produced by the same Dublin publishers, 
almost simultaneously with the Hymns for Childhood ; and were 
succeeded, at no long interval, by the Scenes and Hymns of Life, 
which volume obtained much applause. This was the last pub- 
lication during her lifetime. She afterwards wrote Despondency 


and Aspiration, and dictated the series of sonnets named Thoughts 
during Sickness : the last composition of all was the Sabbath Son- 
net, produced on the 26th of April, only twenty days prior to her 

The other events of the last two years of Mrs. Hemans's life 
may be very briefly summarized: fatal illness, and the attentions 
of relatives and friends, are nearly all that the record includes. 
Not only her brother and his wife, but also her sister Mrs. 
Hughes, with the husband of the latter, were with her with more 
or less continuity. In May, 1833, her son Claude went to America, 
to engage in commercial life ; another son, Willoughby, was em- 
ployed on the Ordnance Survey in the north of Ireland : Charles, 
and during his holidays Henry, tended her affectionately. The 
latter, shortly before his mother's death, was unexpectedly ap- 
pointed to a clerkship in the Admiralty by Sir Robert Peel, who 
added " a most munificent donation." In July, 1834, Mrs. 
Hemans caught a fever : she went to the county of Wicklow for 
the sake of her health, but here another illness, scarlet fever, 
assailed her. Returning to Dublin, and being ordered to pass as 
much time as possible in the open air, she caught a cold, through 
having sat out too long reading in the gardens of the Dublin 
Society, where an autumnal fog overtook her : the cold was fol- 
lowed by ague, and this, with a hectic fever which supervened, 
may be regarded as the final stage in her disease, now mainly of 
a dropsical character. At the beginning of March, 1835, after 
spending some while at Redesdale, the seat of her attached friends 
the Whatelys, she returned to Dublin, having almost lost the use 
of her limbs ; and on the i6th of May, without a sigh or move- 
ment, she ceased to live. She lies buried in St. Anne's Church, 

Mrs. Hemans, while sprightly, versatile, and conversible, was 
not the less of a very retiring disposition, shrinking from self- 
display, and the commonplaces of a public reputation. Her char- 
acter was extremely guileless. Notwithstanding her exceeding 
sensitiveness which extended not only to the affections and 
interests of life, but to such outer matters as the sound of the 
wind at night, the melancholy of the sea-shore, and in especial 
(though there was no reason for this in any personal occurrences) 
to the sadness of burials at sea she was yet very free from mere 
ordinary nervous alarms. " My spirits," she once wrote, " are as 
variable as the lights and shadows now flitting with the winds over 


the high grass, and sometimes the tears gush into my eyes when 
I can scarcely define the cause. I put myself in mind of an Irish 
melody sometimes, with its quick and wild transitions from sad- 
ness to gayety." Her conversation was various and brilliant, with 
a total freedom from literary pretence. She had a strong percep- 
tion of the ludicrous, but abstained from sarcasm or ill-nature, 
more especially as weapons against any u no had injured or neg- 
lected her ; and personal or invidious literary gossip was her 
aversion. She would not permit herself to be vexed at small 
things : but was wont to quote the saying of Madame 1'Espinasse 
(applying it no doubt chiefly to the severance of her matrimonial 
ties) " Un grand chagrin tue tout le reste." She had a keen 
dislike to any sort of coarseness in conversation or in books, and 
would often tear out peccant pages from volumes in her posses- 
sion. Her accomplishments were considerable, and not merely 
superficial. She knew French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and 
in mature life German, and was not unacquainted with Latin. 
She had some taste and facility not only in music (as already 
referred to) but likewise in drawing ; and some of her sketches of 
localities have served for vignettes in the copyright edition of her 
complete works. 1 Her poetry was often written with a readiness 
approaching improvisation : this she felt as .in some degree a 
blemish, and towards the close of her life she regretted having 
often had to write in a haphazard way, so as to supply means for 
the education of her sons. Byron, Shelley, and Madame de Stael, 
were among the writers she was in the habit of quoting. Jealousy 
of contemporary female writers, prominent in the public eye, was 
unknown to her gentle and true-hearted nature : Miss Jewsbury 
(afterwards Mrs. Fletcher) was among her intimates, and she 
indulged herself in friendly correspondence with Miss Baillie, 
Miss Mitford, Mrs. Howitt, and others. The first-named of these 
ladies, Mrs. Fletcher (whose death preceded that of her friend by 
about a year), has, in her book named The Three Histories, de- 
scribed Mrs. Hemans under the name of Egeria ; and as the 
faithfulness of the portrait, allowing for some degree of ideali 
zation, is attested by Mrs. Hughes, I am induced to repeat it 
here : " Egeria was totally different from any other woman I had 
ever seen, either in Italy or England. She did not dazzle, she 

1 In the present edition some few poems have had to be omitted, as still copyright ; and 
others, (or the purpose of bringing the material into one moderate-sized volume. These ar 
rbiefiy early poems, or else dramatic works. 


subdued me. Other women might be more commanding, more 
versatile, more acute : 'but I never saw one so exquisitely femi- 
nine. Her birth, her education, but above all the genius with 
which she was gifted, combined to inspire a passion for the 
ethereal, the tender, the imaginative, the heroic in one word 
the beautiful. It was in her a faculty divine, and yet of daily 
life ; it touched all things, but, like a sunbeam, touched them 
with a ' golden finger.' Anything abstract or scientific was 
unintelligible and distasteful to her. Her knowledge was exten- 
sive and various ; but, true to the first principle of her nature, it 
was poetry that she sought in history, scenery, character, and 
religious belief poetry that guided all her studies, governed all 
her thoughts, colored all her conversation. Her nature was at 
once simple and profound : there was no room in her mind for 
philosophy, nor in her heart for ambition ; the one was filled by 
imagination, the other engrossed by tenderness. She had a pas- 
sive temper, but decided tastes ; any one might influence, but very 
few impressed her. Her strength and her weakness alike lay in 
her affections. These would sometimes make her weep at a word, 
at others, imbue her with courage ; so that she was alternately 
a ' falcon-hearted dove,' and ' a reed shaken with the wind.' Her 
voice was a sad sweet melody, and her spirits reminded me of an 
old poet's description of the orange tree, with its 

' Golden lamps hid in a night of green,' 

or of those Spanish gardens where the pomegranate grows beside 
the cypress. Her gladness was like a burst of sunlight; and, if 
in her depression she resembled night, it was night bearing her 
stars. I might describe and describe forever, but I should never 
succeed in portraying Egeria. She was a Muse, a Grace, a vari- 
able child, a dependent woman, the Italy of human beings." 

In Mrs. Hemans's poetry there is (as already observed) a 
large measure of beauty, and, along with this, very considerable 
skill. Aptitude and delicacy in versification, and a harmonious 
balance in the treatment of the subject, are very generally appar- 
ent : if we accept the key-note as right, we may with little mis- 
giving acquiesce in what follows on to the close. Her skill, how- 
ever, hardly rises into the loftier region of art : there is a gift, and 
culture added to the gift, but not a great native faculty working 
in splendid independence, or yet more splendid self-discipline. 


Her sources of inspiration being genuine, and the tone of hei 
mind feminine in an intense degree, the product has no lack 
of sincerity; and- yet it leaves a certain artificial impression, 
rather perhaps through a cloying flow of " right-minded " percep- 
tions of moral and material beauty than through any other defect. 
" Balmy " it may be : but the atmosphere of her verse is by no 
means bracing. One might sum up the weak points in Mrs. 
Hemans's poetry by saying that it is not only " feminine " poetry 
(which under the circumstances can be no imputation, rather an 
encomium) but also "female" poetry: besides exhibiting the 
fineness and charm of womanhood, it has the monotone of mere 
sex. Mrs. Hemans has that love of good and horror of evil 
which characterize a scrupulous female mind ; and which we may 
most rightly praise without concluding that they favor poetical 
robustness, or even perfection in literary form. She is a leader 
in that very modern phalanx of poets who persistently co-ordinare 
the impulse of sentiment with the guiding power of morals or 
religion. Everything must convey its " lesson," and is indeed set 
forth for the sake of its lesson : but must at the same time have 
the emotional gush of a spontaneous sentiment. The poet must 
not write because he has something of his own to say, but because 
he has something right to feel and say. Lamartine was a prophet 
in this line. After allowing all proper deductions, however, it 
may be gratefully acknowledged that Mrs. Hemans takes a very 
honorable rank among poetesses ; and that there is in her writ- 
ings much which both appeals, and deserves to appeal, to many 
gentle, sweet, pious, and refined souls, in virtue of its thorough 
possession of the same excellent gifts. According to the spiritual 
or emotional condition of her readers, it would be found that a 
poem by this authoress which to one reader would be graceful 
and tender would to another be touching, and to a third poign- 
antly pathetic. The first we can suppose to be a man, and the 
third a woman ; or the first a critic, the second a " poetical 
reader," and the third a sensitive nature, attuned to sympathy by 




' Ihr Platze aller memer stillen freuden, 
Euch lass" ich hinter mir auf immerdar! 

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

Die Jungfrau van Orleans, 

' Long time against oppression have 1 fought, 
And for-the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suffered bonds." 

Remorse; a Tragedy. 

(The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, 
of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth 
century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story is supposed ta 
be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.] 

THE voices of my home ! I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy night 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloyed delight ! . 
I hear them still, unchanged : though some from earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright- 
Have died in others ; yet to me they come 
Singing of boyhood back the voices of my home 1 


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


And find mine ark ! Yet whither ? I must bear 

A yearning heart within me to the grave. 

I am of those o'er whom a breath of air 

Just darkening in its course the lake's bright wave, 

And sighing through the feathery canes hath power 

To call up shadows, in the silent hour, 
VT-Yom the dim past, as from a wizard's cave ! 

So must it be ! These skies above me'spread : 
Are they my own soft skies ? Ye rest not here, my dead ! 

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

Peace ! I will dash these fond regrets to earth, 
>/Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain 

From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me birth 

And lineage, and once home, my native Spain ! 

My own bright land my father's land my child's 1 

What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds ? 

He hath brought marks of torture and the chain 

Traces of things which pass not as a breeze ; 
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe^thy gifts are thesf 

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


I? it not much that I may worship Him 
With naught my spirit's breathings to control, 
And feel His presence in the vast and dim, 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 


From the far cataracts ? Shall I not rejoice 
That I have learned z.t last to know His voice 
From man's ? I will rejoice ! my soaring soul 
Now hath redeemed her birthright of the clay, 
And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfettered way! 


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

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


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


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


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

But there was silence one bright, golden day, 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lorie, 
In the rich autumn lighc the vineyards lay, 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone ; 
And the red grapes untrodden strewed the ground ; 
And the free flocks, untended, roamed around. 
Where was the pastor ? where the pipe's wild tone ? 
Music and mirth were hushed the hills among, 
"While to the city's gates each hamlet poured its throng 

Silence upon the mountains! But within 

The city's gate a rush, a press, a swell 

Of multitudes, their torrent-way to win ; 

And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, 
,A dead pause following each like that which parts 
^ The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 

Fast in the hush of fear knell after knell ; 
J And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder rain 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane ! 


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

To this, man brings his brother ! Some were the*e, 
Who, with their desolation, had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
'Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind- 


The breastplate on for fight ; hut hrow and cheek 
Seemed theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 
And there were some, from whom the very mind 
Had been wrung out ; they smiled oh, startling smile, 
\Ylvence man's high soul is tied ! Where doth it. sleep the while ? 

Hut onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain 
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry ! 
Through thousands, thousands of their race they moved 
( >h ! how unlike all others! the beloved, 
The free, the proud, the beautiful ! whose eye 
Grew fixed before them, while a people's breath 
XY.i:-. hushed, and its one soul bound in the thought of death ! 

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

All still, youth, courage, strength ! a winter laid, 
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind ! 
vStill, as at noon a southern forest's shade, 
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind, 

\/ Still, as a frozen torrent ! But the wave 

Soon leaps to foaming freedom ; they, the brave, 
Endured they saw the martyr's place assigned 
In the red flames whence is the withering spell 

That numbs each human pulse ? They saw, and thought it well 


And I, too, thought it well ! That very morn 
From a far land I came, yet round we clung 
The spirit of my own. No hand had torn 
'With a strong grasp away the veil which hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw 
1 >imly, as through a glass. In silent awe 
I watched the fearful rites ; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, 
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison-cup. 


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

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

On thee ! with whom in boyhood I had played, 
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid 
VBare, as to heaven's, its glowing world of dreams ; 
And by whose side midst warriors I had stood, 
And in whose helm was brought oh, earned with blood'. 
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 
Smote on my fevered brow ! Ay, years had passed, 
Severing our paths, brave friend ! and thus we met at last 1 

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

T call the fond wish back for thou hast perished 
More nobly far my Alvar ! making known 
The might of truth ; and be thy memory cherished 
With theirs, the thousands that around her throne 


Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a t >:nb! 
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, 
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, 
Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead. 

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

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


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


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



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

He passed me, and what next ? I looked on two. 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place, 
For the same guilt his sisters ! Well I knew 
The beauty on those brows, though each young face 
"Was changed so deeply changed ! a dungeon's air 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. 
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, 
Queen-like Theresa 1 radiant Inez ! flowers 
So cherished ! were ye then but reared for those dark hours* 

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

And woe for you, midst looks and words of love, 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long 1 
How had I seen you in your beauty move, 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song! 
Yet sat, even then, what seemed the crowd to shun, 
Half-veiled upon the pale clear brow of one, 
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery sway 
Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay. 

And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar- 


Yet would she smile and that, too, hath its smile 
Circled with joy which reached her not the while, 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. 


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

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


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

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


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


But tliee that breath had touched not ; thee, nor him. 
The true in all things found ! and thou wert blest 
Even then, that no remembered change could dim 
The perfect image of affection pressed 
yLike armor to thy bosom! Thou hadst kept 
Watch by thy brother's couch of pain, and wept, 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest 
Fled from the sufferer ; thou hadst bound his faith 
Unto thy soul ; one light, one hope ye chose one death. 

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


And she to die ! she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers 1 
^was not her smile even as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow, coloring vernal showers ? 
Yes ! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, 
Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flowed from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull decay f 

Could this change be ? The hour, the scene, where last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind: 
A golden vintage-eve ; the heats were passed, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, 



Her father sat where gleamed the first faint star 
Through the lime-boughs ; and wit'h her light guitar, 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined, 
In his calm face laughed up ; some shepherd lay 
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play. 

And now oh, God the bitter fear of death, 
The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread, 
Had giasped her! panting in her quick drawn breath, 
And in her white lips quivering. Onward led, 
She looked up with her dim bewildered eyes, 
And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies, 
Far in their sultry southern azure spread, 
Glowing with joy, but silent! still they smiled, 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trembling child. 

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


No aid ? thou too didst pass 1 and all had passed, 
The fearful and the desperate and the strong I 
^Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, 
^Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along ; 
V^ And some as men, that have but one more field 
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield, 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng 
Rolled on, and bore me with their living tide, 
y Even as a bark wherein is bft no power to guide. 

Wave swept on wave. We reached a stately square, 
Decked for the rites. An altar stood on high, 
And gorgeous in the midst : a place for prayer, 
And praise, and offering. Could the earth supply 
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall ? 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die, 
As when before their God the patriarchs stood ? 
Lock down ! man brings thee, heaven ! his brother's guiltless 



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

Sounds of triumphant praise I the mass was sung 
Voices that die not might have poured such strains ? 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant hav2 rung 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, 
Had quelled her foes ! so full it swept, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free ! 
Oft when the wind, as through resounding fanes, 
Hath filled the choral forests with its power, 
Some deep tone brings me back the music of that hour. 

It died away ; the incense-cloud was tlriven 
Before the breeze the words of doom were said ; 
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven : 
He faded mournfully and dimly red, 
Parting in clouds from those that looked their last, 
And sighed " Farewell, thou sun ! " Eve glowed and passed 
Night midnight and the moon came forth and shed 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot 
Save one a place of death and there men slumbered not. 

within the city but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras, freely sweeping, 
With many an eagle's eyrie on the height, 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peeping 
Far off : and vales between, and vineyards lay, 
With sound and gleam of waters on their way, 
And chestnut woods, .that girt the happy sleeping 
In many a pleasant home ! the midnight sky 
Brought softly that rich world round those who came to die. 

LI I. 

The darkly glorious midnight sky of Spain, 
Burning with stars ! What had the torches' glare 
To do beneath that temple, and profane 
Its holy radiance ? By their wavering flare, 


I saw beside the pyres I see thee now, 
O bright Theresa ! with thy lifted brow, 
And thy clasped hands, and dark eyes filled with prayer I 
And thee, sad Inez! bowing thy fair head, 
And mantling up thy face, all colorless with dread! 


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

Why came I ? oh ! the heart's deep mystery ! Why 
In man's last hour doth vain affection's gaze 
Fix itself down on struggling agony, 
To the dimmed eyeballs freezing as they glaze ? 
It might be yet the power to will seemed o'er- 
That my soul yearned to hear his voice once more f 
But mine was fettered ! mute in strong amaze, 
I watched his features as the night-wind blew, 
And torch-light or the moon's passed o'er their marble hue. 


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

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



But she as falls a willow from the storm, 
O'er its own river streaming thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold, 
As if naught earthly might the embrace unbind! 
Alas 1 a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to kill! 

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

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

He wooed her back to life. " Sweet Inez, live ! 
My blessed Inez ! visions have beguiled 
Thy heart ; abjura them ! thou wert formed to give 
And to find joy ; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever ? Leave me not, mine own ! 
Or earth will grow too dark ! for thee alone, 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest ! from a child, 
And borne thine image with me o'er the sea, 
Thy soft voice in my soul. S.peak ! Oh ! yet live for met 


She looked up wildly; there were anxious eye 
Waiting that look sad eyes of troubled thoughx, 
Alvar's Theresa's ! Did her childhood rise, 
With all its pure and home-affections fraught, 


In the brief glance ! She clasped her hands the strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak 
Must, in the rending storm not quiver only break ! 

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

Joy for thee, trembler ! thou redeemed one, joy ! 
Voung dove set free ! earth, ashes, soulless clay, 
Remained for baffled vengeance to destroy. 
Thy chain was riven ! Nor hadst thou cast away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! though love was there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, 
And life seemed robed in beautiful array, 
Too fair to leave I but this might be forgiven, 
Thou wert so richly crowned with precious gifts of heaven J 

But woe for him who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain 
Breaking on his ! Scarce could the mortal chill 
Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye, 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die 
That she indeed could die ! for, wild and vain 
As hope might be, his soul had hoped : 'twas o'er 
Slowly his failing arms dropped from the form they bore. 

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


But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair I 

Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust ; 

I saw your features by the torch's glare, 

And they were brightening with a heavenward trust I 

I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay, 

Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away ; 

And peace was there the calmness of the just ! 

And, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss, 

Thy rest is won," he said, " sweet sister ! Praise for this J " 

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

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


Away away I rushed ; but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew, 
Till the transparent darkness of the sky 
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in their hue ; 
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seemed 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they streamed, 
With their wild splendor chasing me ! I knew 
The death-work was begun I veiled mine eyes, 
Yet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the victims' cries. 

What heard I then ? a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as forever haunts the tortured ear ? 
I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain 
Piercing the flame, untrcmnlous and clear ! 


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

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up fpom the unsounded gulfs of human woe ! 
Alvar ! Theresa ! what is deep ? what strong ? 
God's breath within the soul ! It filled that song 
From your victorious voices ! But the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased: 
Faint grew the sounds more faint : I listened they had ceased 

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

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave ! 
I could not weep there gathered round thy name 
Too deep a passion. Thou denied a grave ! 
T/IOH, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame ! 
Had I not known thy heart from childhood's time ? 
Thy heart of hearts ? and couldst thou die for crime? 
No ! had all earth decreed that death of shame, 
1 would have set, against all earth's decree, 
The inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee 1 

There are swift hours in life strong, rushing hours. 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers 
Unto the undoubting mind ; they pour in light 
Where it but startles like a burst of day 
For which the uprooting of an oak makes way ; 
They sweep the coloring mists from off our sight; 
They touch with fire thought's graven page, the roll 
Stamped with past years and lo! it shrivels as a scroll t 


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


I would have called, adjuring the dark cloud; 
To the most ancient heavens I %vould have said 
" Speak to me ! show me truth ! " through night aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
" Come back 1 and show me truth ! " My spirit seemed 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teemed 
With such pent storms of thought 1 Again I fled. 
I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, 
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely fane. 

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

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

For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed ! 
Dust imaged forms with cross, and shield, and crest; 
It seemed as if your ashes would have started 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 


Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore 
Bear to your thrilling presence what /bore 
Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast ! 
I could have poured out words, on that pale air, 
To make your proud tombs ring No, no I I could not thert 


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


I turned; what glimmered faintly on my sight 
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ? The moon, the night, 
Had waned, and down poured in gray, shadowy, slow, 
Yet dayspring still ! A solemn hue it caught, 
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; 
And, soft and sad, that coloring gleam was thrown 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone. 

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


So still thy white robes fell ! no breath of air 
Within their long and slumberous folds had sway. 
So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair 
From the clear brow flowed droopingly away ! 
Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour I dark 

' The gulfs, Deliverer ! round the straining bark ! 
But Thou ! o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was poured one stream of pale, broad, silvery light: 

Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding night ! 



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

But was it not a thing to rise on death, 
With its remembered light, that face of thine, 
Redeemer ! dimmed by this world's misty breath, 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine ? 
O ! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye, 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty ! 
And the pale glory of the brow ! a shrine 
Where power sat veiled, yet shedding softly round 
What told that Thou couldst be but for a time uncrowned ! 


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


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


" But didst Thou not, the deep sea brightly treading, 
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave ? 
And wert Thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shedding, 
Beheld a weeper at a mortal's grave ? 


And in this weight of anguish, which they bind 
On life this searing to the quick of mind, 
That but to God its own free path would crave 
This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth, 
Thy will, indeed ? Give light ! that I may know the truth. 


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


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

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


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



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

" Wie diese treue liebe seele 
Von ihrem Glauben Voll, 

Der ganz allein 

Ihr selig machend ist, sich heilig quaFe, 
Das sic den liebsten Mann verloren halten soil. 


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



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


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

There, fettered down from day, to think the while 
How bright in heaven the festal sun is glowing, 
Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile 
Flush like the rose ; and how the streams are flowing 


With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass, 
And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass ; 
And how the rich, dark summer trees are bowing 
With their full foliage : this to know, and pine, 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot 'twas mine I 

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


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

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


Because Thou didst not leave me, O my God ! 
Thou wert with those that bore the truth of old 
Into the deserts from the oppressor's rod, 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold ; 
And in the hidden chamber of the dead, 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed ; 
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with Thee, and Thou 
Wert in the midst, felt, owned the Strengthcner then as nw ! 


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

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


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

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

With their soft eyes of love and gladness raised 
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood 
Last by that river, and in silence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset. But a flood 


Of sadden tenderness my soul oppressed ; 
And I rushed forward, with a yearning breast, 
To clasp alas ! a vision ! Wave and wood, 
And gentle faces, lifted in the light 
Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from my sight. 

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

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

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

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



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

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

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


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

And with the arrowy lightnings ! for they flashed, 
Smiting the branches in their fitful play, 
And brightly shivering where the torrents dashed 
Up, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray ! 

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St. Anthony's Seminary 


And there to stand amidst the pealing strife, 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life, 
And all the mountain-voices on their way, 
Was it not joy? 'Twas joy in rushing might, 
After those years that wove but one long dead of night I 

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

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


Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow, 
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky, 
Nor the fair flower-scents, as they come and go 
In the soft air, like music wandering by ; 
Oh ! not by these, the unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have wrought ; 
But by the saddened eye, the darkened brow 
Of kindred aspects, and the long dim gaze, 
Which tell us we are changed how changed from other days ' 

Before my father, in my place of birth, 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth, 
The love that reared me, knew my face no more 1 
There hung the antique armor, helm and crest, 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast ; 
There drooped the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears; and I. the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was I ! another and the same 1 



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

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


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

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

And thou, my Leonor! that unrepining, 

If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me, 

When stars, the stars that earliest rise, are shining, 

How their soft glance unseals each thought of thee ! 

For on our flighl they smiled ; their dewy rays, 

Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze 


Back to the home we never more might see. 
So passed we on, like earth's first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above their Eden burning. 

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


O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep ! 
Strange heart of man ! that e'en midst woe swells high, 
When through the foam he sees his proud bark sweet, 
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 
Yes ! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind, 
His spirit rises with the rising win' 4 , 
For, wedded to the far futurity, 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main 
Seems rushing, like his hope, some happier shore to gain. 


Not thus is woman. Closely her still heart 
Doth twine itself with e'en each lifeless thing 
Which, long remembered, seemed to bear its part 
In her calm joys. Forever would she cling, 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children birth, 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may Spring 
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, 
But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell grief. 


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


Oh, could we live in visions ! could we hold 
Delusion faster, longer, to our breast, 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold, 


That which we see not, and are therefore blest ! 

But they, our loved and loving they to whom 

We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom, 

Their looks and accents unto ours addressed, 

Have been a language of familiar tone 

Too long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and unknown. 

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


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


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


Fallen, fallen, I seemed yet, oh ! not less beloved, 
Though from thy love was plucked the early pride, 
And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved, 

And seared with shame ! Though each young flower had died, 
There was the root, strong living, not the less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness ; 
Yet still such love as quits not misery's side, 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face. 



Yes ! them hadst followed me through fear and flight ! 
Thou wouldst have followed had my pathway led 
E'en to the scaffold ; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with dread, 
Thou, midst the hush of thousands, wouldst have been 
With thy clasped hands beside me kneeling seen, 
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head 
The shame! oh! making beautiful to view 
The might of human love fair thing ! so bravely true 1 


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

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

Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, 
Oh I the deep soul it breathed ! the love, the woe, 
The fervor, poured in that full gush of song, 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all their vesper voices, o'er the main, 
Which seemed responsive in its murmuring flow. 
" Ave sanctissima ! " how oft that lay 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr strength away I 

Ave, sanctissima! 
'Tis nightfall on the sea ; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee 1 


Watch us, while shadows lie 
O'er the dim waters spread ; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh 
Thine too hath bled ! 

Thou that hast looked on death. 

Aid us when death is near ! 
Whisper of heaven to faith ; 

Sweet Mother, hear! 

Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our sleep, 

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


Ora fro nobis, Mater!" What a spell 
Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying 
On the flushed waters seemed they not to swell 
From the far dust wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword ? Oh ! yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear I 
" Ora " with all the purple waves replying, 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain 
\.nd I had thought it much to bear the rack and chain 1 


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

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


Thoughts no more mingled ! Then came night the intense 

Dark blue the burning stars ! I saw thee shine 

Once more in thy serene magnificence, 

O Southern Cross! as when thy radiant sign 

77/7? FOKF.S T SAA'C TUAR Y. 57 

I irst drew my gaze of youth. No, not as then ; 
I had been striken by the darts of men 
Since those fresh days; and now thy light divine 
Looked on mine anguish, while within me strove 
The still small voice against the might of suffering love. 


But thou, the clear, the glorious ! thou wert pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave, 
"While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring, 
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave I 
Alas! I watched her dark religious glance, 
As it still sought thee through the heaven's expanse, 
Bright Cross ! and knew that I watched what gave 
But passing lustre shrouded soon to be 
A soft light found no more no more on earth or sea ! 

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

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


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



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


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

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

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


I called ! To call what answers not our cries 
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, 
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirred ; 
And in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze, 
All vainly searching for the parted rays 


This is what waits us \ Dead ! with that chill word 
To link our bosom-names ! For this we pour 
<\ir souls upon the dust nor tremble to adore ! 


But the true parting came ! I looked my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face : 
How could 1 think the lovely spirit passed, 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? 
Yet 2i dim awfulness was on the brow 
No ! not like sleep to look upon art tluu, 
Death, Death ! She lay a thing for earth's embrace, 
To cover with spring-wreaths. For earth's ? the wave- 
That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above her grave J 

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


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


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


Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low, 
What shall wake thence the dead ? Blest, blest, are thtv 
That earth to earth intrust, for they may know 


And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's clay 
Shall rise at last ; and bid the yeung flowers bloom, 
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb ; 
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! 
But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered thee ? 
Vain dreams ! oh ! art thou not where there is no more sea? 

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

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


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

Yes ! thou art now Oh ! wherefore doth the thought 

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


And if the love, which here was passing tight, 
Went with what died not oh ! that this we knew, 
But this ! that through the silence of the night, 
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true, 
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose, 
We are yet aught of what we were to those 
We call the dead 1 Their passionate adieu, 
Was it but breath, to perish ? Holier trust 
Be mine ! thy love is there, but purified from dust I 

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

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

But he went on in gladness that fair child ! 
Save when at times his bright eye seemed to dream 
And his young lips, which then no longer smiled, 
Asked of his mother ! That was but a gleam 
Of memory, fleeting fast ; and then his play 
Through the wild Llanos cheered again our way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream, 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn, 
From the mysterious rocks, the sun rise-music borne 

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


'Twas sweet ! yet those deep southern shades oppressed 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves: I sighed to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage fanned. 
And turned to seek the wilds of the red hunter's land. 


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

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

LXXI 1 1. 

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

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

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


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

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


(The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the Historia de las Giier 
ras Civilesde Granada. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish 
king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada by Ferdi- 
nand and Isabella is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencer- 
rages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, 
at the instigation of the Zcgris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed 
out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred ; and it still 
retains their name, being called the " Sala de los Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting 
old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.] 

" Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance 
seule peut ^carter de sa tete le ppids d'infamie dont il est accabld. II se venge, parce qu'a ses 
yeux il n'y a qu'une ame basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts ; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce 
que s'il la sentoit s'e'temdre, il croiroit avec elle, avoir perdu une vertu." 


LONELY and still are now thy marble halls, 

Thou fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er ; 
And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls, 

Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more. 

Hushed are the voices that in years gone by 

Have mourned, exulted, menaced, through thy towers, 

Within thy pillared courts the grass waves high, 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, 
Through tall arcades unmarked the sunbeam smiles, 

And many a tint of softened brilliance throws 
O'er fretted walls and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, 

So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, 
Some charmed abode of beings all unknown, 

Powerful and /iewless, children, of the air. 

For there no footstep treads the enchanted ground, 

There not a sound the deep repose pervades, 
Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, 

Through the light domes and graceful colonnades. 

Far other tones have swelled those courts along, 

In days romance yet fondly loves to trace ; 
The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 

The revels, combats, of a vanished race. 


And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call, 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; 
Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall, 

With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old 

The sun declines upon Nevada's height 
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in the empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour : 
Hushed are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep 
In light and stillness ; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven ; 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught 
Yes, Nature sleeps , but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark ! from the Alhambra's towers what stormy sound, 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around ? 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng, 
Not the light zambra, nor the choral song : 
The combat rages 'tis the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. 
Within the Hall of Lions, where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands: 
There the strife centres swords around him wave; 
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave, 
While echoing domes return the battle-cry, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still. 
Court, hall, and tower, the fierce avengers fill. 

But first the bravest of that gallant train, 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain; 
In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs there young Hamet leads ; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die !" 

Yes ! trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath 
By helm and corslet shattered in his path, 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain, 
And by the marble's deepest c imson stain 


Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries 
From '-riumph, anguish, or despair, arise ; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, 
And where the ground is reddest he is there. 
Yes, that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 

They perished not as heroes should have died 
On the red field, in victory's hour of pride, 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, 
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came : 
Oh ! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flowed, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
Not such their fate a tyrant's stern command 
Doomed them to fall by some ignoble hand, 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race, 
Summoned Abdallah's royal feast to grace, 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall to die. 
Betrayed, unarmed, they fel! the fountain wave 
Flowed crimson with the life-blood of the brave, 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate, 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be won. 

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life, 
Urging his followers still their foes, beset, 
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more, 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 

But lo ! descending o'er the darkened hall, 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall, 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased though scarce they knowr 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe ; 
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, 
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 

Where lurks Abdallah ? 'midst his yielding train, 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. 
He lies not numbered with the valiant dead, 
His champions round him have not vainly bled ; 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, 
And his last warriors found each effort fail, 
In wild despair he fled a trusted few, 
Kindred in crime, are still in drxnyer true ; 


And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, 
The Vega's green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. 
He passed the Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers,- 
In dew and starlight there, from grot and cave, 
Gushed, in wild music, many a sparkling wave ; 
There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose, 
And all was freshness, beauty and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ! in thy bosom reign 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. 
Oh ! vainly bright is Nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb ; 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair, 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves 
Fraught with rich odor, stolen from orange -groves ; 
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise, 
Wild notes of Nature's vesper-melodies ; 
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head, 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread ; 
But urges onward, till his weary band, 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fixed awhile remains 
In stern, deep silence o'er his feverish brow, 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, 
But waft, in fitful murmurs, from afar, 
Sounds indistinctly fearful, as of war. 
What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high, 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky? 
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm, 
Magnificently dread above, below, 
Spreads the wild splendor of its deepening glow. 
Lo ! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air ! 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

Oh Heaven ! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! 
Yet must he cease io gaze, and raving fly 
For life such life as makes it bliss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half revealed 
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent yet oft he turns, 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 


But paler grow the sinking flames at last. 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past ; 
And spiry vapors, rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reached that lonely pile, 
Where grief and terror may repose awhile ; 
Embowered it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on high, 
Through the gray rocks, a torrent sparkling nigh; 
He hails the scene where every care should cease, 
And all except the heart he brings is peace. 

There is a deep stillness in those halls of state 
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late ; 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed. 
Fearful the calm nor voice, nor step, nor breath, 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, 
Save the wild gush of waters murmuring round 
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, 
Breastplate, and shield; and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, 
And smile, in placid beauty o'er the dead : 
O'er features where the fiery spirit's trace 
E'en death itself is powerless to efface ; 
O'er those who, flushed with ardent youth, awoke, 
When glowing morn in gloom and radiance broke, 
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep; 
In the low silent house, the narrow spot, 
Home of forgetfulness and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars the night is o'er 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more ; 
Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
.Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. 
Yet smiles the day oh ! not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from her calm career ; 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, 
And skies are cloudless o'er a world of woe, 
And flowers renewed in spring's green pathway bloone, 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral-rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light ; 


And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gathered to the brave of other years : 
And Harriet, as beneath the cypress-shade 
His martyred brother and his sire are laid, 
Feels every deep resolve, and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought; 
Yet is the hour afar and he must brood 
O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hushed another day 
In still solemnity hath passed away, 
In the deep slumber of exhausted wrath, 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, 
His ravaged city traversing again. 
No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along, 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng. 
No voice is heard ; but in each altered eye, 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
And in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth to slumber with the dead, 
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone 
In youth's quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage, 
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil, 
And passion, like the hushed volcano's power, 
That 'waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion from Granada's walls, 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls ; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye ; 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, 
And song is hushed, and pageantry is fled. 
Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep 
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep ! 
Furled are their banners in the lonely hall, 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wallf 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er, 
The voice in battle shall be heard no more ; 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Whom he hath wronged too deeply to forgive, 
That race, of lineage high, of worth approved, 
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield' 
Condemned to bid the cherished scenes farewell 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, 


And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam, 
Their land the desert, and the grave their home. 
Yet there is one shall see that race depart, 
In deep, though silent, agony of heart ; 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, 
Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown, 
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear 
That smile, in which the spirit hath no share ; 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow 

Soft, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour, 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; 
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern Reason would efface* 
Hamet ! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race ! 

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love ; 
Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth consume. 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 
Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight, 
And the spring-morn of early genius blight ; 
Nor such her grief though now she wakes to weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep. 

A step treads lightly through the citron shade, 
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betrayed 
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot ? 
Tis he but changed that eye, whose.glance of fire 
Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardor fraught, 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought ; 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled, 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves now veiled in shade. 
And now in characters of fire portrayed. 
Changed e'en his voice as thus its mournful tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 

" Zayda, my doom is fixed another day 
And the wronged exile shall be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, 
His home of youth, and more than ail from thee. 
Oh ! what a cloud hath gathered o'er my lot, 
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot ! 
Lovely as then, the soft and silent hour, 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower ; 
But I my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, 
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 


Fare%vell, high thoughts ! inspiring hopes of praise ! 

Heroic visions of my early days! 

In me the glories of my race must end 

The exile hath no country to defend ! 

E'en in life's morn my dreams .of pride are o'er 

Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, 

And one wild feeling in my altered breast 

Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest. 

Yet fear not thou to thee in good or ill, 

The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still ! 

But when my steps are distant, and my name 

Thou nearest no longer in the song of fame i 

When Time steals on in silence to efface 

Of early love each pure and sacred trace, 

Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 

But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, 

Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth 

And all the fervor of affection's youth ? 

If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 

In lonely beauty o'er thy wanderer's way." 

" Ask not, if such my love ! Oh ! trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resigned ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought, 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget, 
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret ! 
Fostered in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learned to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower; 
No ! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, 
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! 
Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart, 
That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. 
We part ! and e'en this agonizing hour, 
When love first feels his own o'erwhelming power, 
Shall soon to Memory's fixed and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness for thou wert nigh ! 
Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, 
As days to days all wearily succeed, 
When doomed to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee. 

" But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blighted lot can know. 
Oh ! be thou still the high-souled and the brave, 
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave ; 
In thy proud fame's untarnishd beauty still 
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. 
So shall it soothe me, 'midst my heart's despair, 
To hold undimmed one clorlous image there ! " 


" Zayda, my best-beloved ! my words too well, 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveiled be shown, 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shall not be deceived for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervor given. 
I said my heart was changed and would thy thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, 
Crushed by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains j 
And such that heart where desolation's hand 
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand! 
But Vengeance, fixed upon her burning throne, 
Sits, 'midst the wreck, in silence and alone ; 
And I, in stern devotion at hci shrine, 
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 
Yes ! they whose spirits aJl my thoughts control, 
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul ; 
They, the betrayed, the sacrificed, the brave, 
Who fill a blood-stained and untimely grave, 
Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse 
In that stern cause are banished from my course. 
Zayda, thou tremblest and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest ; 
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power, 
And, oft recalled, thy voice beguile my lot, 
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot. 

" But the night wanes the hours too swiftly fly, 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh ; 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus in joy or pain, 
Oh ! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! 
Yes, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell ! " 

Is the voice hushed, whose loved, expressive tone 
Thrilled to her heart and doth she weep alone? 
Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o'er, 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more ? 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, 
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair ; 
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 
To wake once more that calm, serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath could blight- 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, 
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power 
Meanwhile through groves of deep luxurious shade, 
In the rich foliage of the South arrayed, 


Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, 

Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 

Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave 

On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave. 

Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves 

With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, 

To canopy the dead ; nor wanting there 

Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, 

Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream 

Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 

There sleep the chiefs of old their combats o'er, 

The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. 

Unheard by them the awakening clarion blows* 

The sons of war at length in peace repose. 

No martial note is in the gale that sighs, 

Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 

'Mid founts, and shade?, and flowers of brightest bloom, 

As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 

There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead ; 
Where two fair pillars rise, embowered and lone, 
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown, 
Young Hamet kneels while thus his vows are poured, 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword : 
" Spirit of him who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, 
And taught my steps the line of light to trace, 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear thou my voice for mine is with me still, 
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, 
Still murmuring ' vengeance ! ' nor in vain the call. 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall ! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, 
Within my heart ihere lives one only aim; 
There, till the oppressor for thy fate atone, 
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone- 
I will not weep revenge, not grief, must be, 
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee ; 
But the dark hour of stern delight will come, 
And thou shall triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother ! thou art passed away, 
Without thv fame, in life's fair-dawning day. 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line; 
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays 
That hold communion with the after-days. 
Yet, by the wreaths thou mightst have nobly won, 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun; 


By glory lost, I swear ! by hope betrayed, 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid ; 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, 
And, to avenge thy death, devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain I 
Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain! 
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, 
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died ! " 


" Oh ! ben provvide il Cielo 
Ch' Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia." 


FAIR land ! of chivalry the old domain, 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie 
In charms that fix the enthusiast's pensive eye ; 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought ; 
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. 
Those scenes are peaceful now : the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead ? 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there ; 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, 
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days 
By goatherd lone, and rude Serrano sung, 
Thy cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among: 
How oft those rocks have echoed to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale ; 
Oi" him, renowned in old heroic lore, 
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador ; 
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died 
When " Rio Verde " rolled a crimson tide; 
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might, 
On the green Vega won in single fight. 

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene, in pastoral bea-'t" lone ; 
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, 
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above. 


And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armor bright 
With gold, reflecting every tint of light, 
And many a floating plume, and blazoned shield, 
Diffused romantic splendor o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start 
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh, 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And, oh ! that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death ; 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour ; 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain ; 
And, 'midst the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broidered fold, 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold : 
There, imaged on the cross, His form appears 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears 
His form, whose word recalled the spirit fled, 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead I 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardor which, in days of yore, 
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, 
They come, the gallant children of Castile ; 
The proud, the calmly dignified : and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star. 

But thon, conspicuous 'midst the glitt'ring scene, 
Stern grandeur stamped upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest, 
Young Aben-Zurrah 1 'midst that host of foes, 
"Why shines t/iy helm, thy Moorish lance ? Disclose ! 
\\'hy rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
O.son of Afric, 'midst the sons of Spain ? 
Hast thot; with these thy nation's fall conspired, 
Apostate chief ! by hope of vengeance fired ? 
How art thou changed ! Still first in every fight, 
Hamet, the Moor ! Castile's devoted knight! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, 
But not the light that shone in days gone by j 
There is wild ardor in thy look and tone, 
But not the soul's expression once thine own. 


Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway ? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtained breast, 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpressed. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain; 
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield, 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field : 
But all is peaceful now the west is bright 
With the rich splendor of departing light; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, 
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
The eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head ; 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away, 
In silent musings wrapt; the slaughtered brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, 
The wounded sought a shelter and expired. 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose, and solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined, 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, 
The harassed warrior, yielding to the power, 
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, 
Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted bairn; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
The past, the future, are awhile forgot.; 
And Hope, scarce owned, yet stealing o'er his breast, 
Half dares to whisper, " Thou shalt yet be blest ! " 

Such his vague musings but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round ; 
A low, half-stifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns : Who shares with him that lonely shade ? 
A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid. 
All rent and stained his broidered Moorish vest, 
The corslet shattered on his bleeding breast; 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strained, 
With life's last force convulsively retained ; 
His plumage soiled with dust, with crimson dyed, 
And the red lance, in fragments, by his side ; 



He lies forsaken pillowed on his shield, 
His helmet raised, his lineaments revealed. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanished now 
The light once throned on that commanding brow; 
And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast, 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, 
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

" Oh ! is it thus," he cries, "we meet at last? 
Friend of my soul in years forever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold, 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath, 
And, with vain pity, soothe the pangs of death ? 
Yet let me bear thee hence ; while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive, 
Hope is not lost and Osmyn yet may live! 
And blest were he, whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head ; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague, uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance awhile bewildered strays ; 
Till, by degrees, a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, 
That seems too pure, too full of soul to die ; 
And the mind's grandeur, in its parting hour, 
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power. 

" Away ! " he cries, in accents of command, 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand. 
" Apostate, hence ! my soul shall soon be free, 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee : 
'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies ; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er, 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar : 
Be thine existence with a blighted name, 
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior \s fame 1"' 


The glow hath vanished from his cheek his eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting energy; 
Frozen and fixed it seems his brow is chill ; 
One struggle more that noble heart is still. 
Departed warrior ! were thy mortal throes, 
Were thy last pangs, ere Nature found repose, 
More keen, more bitter, than the envenomed dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart ? 
Thy pangs were transient ; his shall sleep no more, 
Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er ; 
But thou shall rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. 
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought 
In the high spirit and unbending thought ! 
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; 
While his soul rises, gathering all its force, 
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been 
Kis own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene ; 
Zayda ! to thee his heart for refuge flies ; 
Thou still art faithful to affection's ties. 
Yes ! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem ; 
And soon thy smile, and soft consoling voice, 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands 
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands ; 
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower, 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world. 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furled. 
That hour is come and, o'er the arms he bears, 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears : 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride ; 
But night befriends through paths obscure he passed, 
And hailed the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove, 
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove: 
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,' 
As formed alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts ? not such as hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute, with dark, unbraided hair; 
That maid of Zegri race, whose e ;. whose mien, 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat, 


Till his known accents every sense restore 

" My own "loved Zayda ! do we meet once more ? " 

She starts, she turns the lightning of surprise, 

Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes ; 

But that is fleeting it is past and now 

Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow ; 

Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe 

" Hence, Aben-Zurrah ! death surrounds thee here ! ' 

" Zayda ! what means that glance, unlike thine own? 

What mean those words, and that unwonted tone ? 

I will not deem thee changed but in thy face 

It is not joy, it is not love, I trace ! 

It was not thus in other days we met : 

Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget ? 

Oh ! speak once more these rising doubts dispel ; 

One smile of tenderness, and all is well ! " 

" Not thus we met in other days ! oh, no ! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe ! 
Those days are past we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. 
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, 
Leader of hostile bands ! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power, 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower." 

" And thoit too changed I thine early vow forgot I 
This, this alone was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorned, of every tie bereft, 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was ieft ; 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou, the good angel of each brighter dreant, 
Wert all the barrenness of life possest, 
To wake one soft affection in my breast ! 
That vision ended fate hath naught in store 
Of joy or sorrow e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zegji maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu ! 
If thou are faithless, who shall e'er be true ?" 

" Hamet ! oh, wrong me not ! I too could speak 
Of sorrows trace them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, and in i'ue wasted form, 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm ! 
But words were idle read my sufferings there, 
Where grief is stamped on* all that once was fair. 

" Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deemed, 
All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed, 
My love had been devotion til! *" death 
Thy name had trembled or ~r* v 


But not the chief who leads a lawless band, 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 
The apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stained the trophies of a glorious race ; 
Not him I loved but one whose youthful name 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonor's cloud 
O'er that young name had gathered as a shroud, 
I then had mourned thee proudly, and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A noble sorrow, cherished to the last, 
When every meaner woe had long been past. 
Yes ! let Affection weep no common tear 
She sheds, when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let Nature mourn the dead a grief like this, 
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss 1 " 

" High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn to recall, 
Hath urged me.onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe no meaner aim inspires 
My soul, .no dream of poor ambition fires 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, 
Behold me but the avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows, 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda ! wilt thou his stern accuser be ? 
False to his country, he is true to thee 1 
Oh, hear me yet ! if Hamet e'er was dear, 
By our first vows, our young affection, hear ! 
Soon must this fair and royal city fall, 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall ; 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe ? 
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war : 
Fly ! and repose in safety till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course and passed ! " 

"Thou that will triumph when the hour is come, 
Hastened by thee, to seal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety? Woman, too, can die! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismayed, to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, 
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Called i*to life **;, *r.:,it's latent power; 


But I have energies that idly slept, 

While withering o'er my silent woes I wept ; 

And now, when hope and happiness are fled, 

My soul is firm for what remains to dread ! 

Who shall have power to suffer and to bear, 

If strength and courage dwell not with Despair ? 

Hamet, farewell retrace thy path again, 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood, in mingling murmurs, tell 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
Yes ! on that soil hath Glory's footstep been, 
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene ! 
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air? 
Unheard, in vain, they call their fallen son 
Hath stained the name those mighty spirits won, 
An- to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeathed his own, through ages yet to be ! 

Still as she spoke, the enthusiast's kindling eye 
Was lighted up with inborn majesty, 
While her fair form and youthful features caught 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous ; awe-struck and aninzed, 
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, 
As on some lofty vision for she seemed 
One all inspired each 'look with glory beamed, 
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
Oh ! ne'er had Hamet deemed there dwelt enshrined 
In form so fragile that unconquered mind ; 
And fixed, as by some high enchantment, there 
He stood till wonder yielded to despair. 

"The dream is vanished^daughl;r of my foes'. 
Reft of each hope, the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul yet deem thou not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 
Oh, formed for happier love, heroic maid ! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismayed, 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! all words were vain 
From him who ne'er may view that form again : 
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss must be, 
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee ! " 
And is the warrior gone ? doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a lear ? 
Thou weepest not, lofty maid ! yet who can tell 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell ? 
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, 
Who best each feeling's agony control. 


Yes, we may judge the measure of the grief 

Which finds in Misery's eloquence relief ; 

But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe 

Whence breathes no .language, whence no tears may flow ? 

The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 

Scorning itself that thus it could be moved ? 

He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 

Views all its weakness, pities all its throes, 

He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 

Beholding anguish all unknown to them. 

Fair city ! thou that midst thy stately fanes 
And gilded minarets, towering o'er the plains, 
In Eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies; 
While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave, 
Thy citron-groves and mvrtle-gardens lave : 
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed the days of fear, 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! 
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves 
Of kings and chiefs their children shall be slaves- 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, 
But there a race that reared them not shall dwell ; 
For midst thy councils Discord still presides, 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides 
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeathed a throne, 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high, 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall, 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call. 
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught, 
To reach the source of pure exalted thought ! 

See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand ! 
His mien is all impassioned and his eye 
Filled with a light whose fountain is on high ; 
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, 
And inspiration beams upon his brow ; 
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze, 
As on some mighty seer of elder days. 

" Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed, 
The helmets glittering, and the line arrayed ? 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts ? " he cries; 
"Children of conquerors ! in your strength arise ! 
O high-born tribes ! O names unstained by fear ! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear ! 


Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 

Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands. 

Wake, princes of the land 1 the hour is come, 

And the red sabre must decide your doom. 

Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore, 

When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western shore ? 

When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain, 

And Afric's tecbir swelled through yielding Spain? 

Is the lance broken, is the shield decayed, 

The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed ? 

Shall no high spirit of ascendant wonh 

Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth ? 

To guard the regions where our fathers' blood 

Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood J 

Where long their dust hath blended with the soil 

Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil ! 

" O ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, 
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain ! ye saw their might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race, 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrae 
With each memorial of the past around, 
Each mighty monument of days renowned ? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold, 
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould ! 
And the last life-drop circling through my veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

"And yet one struggle ere our doom is sealed, 
One mighty effort, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be, 
In life the fettered, or in death the free !" 

Still while he speaks, each gallant heart beats high, 
And ardor flashes from each kindling eye ; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought, 
And all is hushed around as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

But when his voice hath ceased, the impetuous cry 
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress, ring around, 
And fair Alhambra's inmost halls resound. 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! lead us to the strife, 
To fame in death, or liberty in life ! " 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain displayed! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save, 


E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claim 
Your glorious trial on the field of fame, 
Your king hath yielded ! Valor's dream is o'er ; 
Power, wealth, and freedom, are your own no more; 
And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage the stranger's chains. 


" Fermossi al fin il cor che balz6 tanto." 


HEROES of elder days ! untaught to yield, 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field ; 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore, 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, 
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, 
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes ! 
Rejoice ! for Spain, arising in her strength, 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, 
And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain. 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour, 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, 
Conqueror of kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high. 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's bands 
Rushed from their palmy groves and burning lands, 
E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! 
Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound, 
By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound, 
As through her echoing streets, in dread array, 
Beings, once mortal, held their viewless way : 
Voices from worlds we know not and the tread 
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, 
Thou and thy buried chieftains from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, 
And join thy warriors with unearthly might 
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight. 
Those days are past the crescent on thy shore, 
O realm of evening ! sets, to rise no more. 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower? 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power 1 


What the glad shout of each exulting voice? 

Castle and Aragon ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, 

The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, 

And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance. 

Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. 

Oh ! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
High masque, or solemn festival of yore. 
The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies ; 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, 
Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers : 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, 
With helmets glittering as they move along 
With broidered scarf, and gem-bestudded mail, 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 
Shields, gold-embossed, and pennons floating far, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, 
All brightened by the rich transpa' ent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse; 
Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there, too, foremost 'midst the conquering brave. 
Your azure-plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. 
There Hanet moves ; the chief wi ose lofty port 
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court; 
Calm, stern, collected yet his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfessed ? 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn yet exulting sound 
Of the deep anthem floating far around ? 
The choral voices, to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise ? 
Lo ! where, surrounded by their princely train, 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence I 

Onward their slow and stately course they bend 
To where the Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, 
Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. 

They reached those towers irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast : 
They enter to their wondering sight is given 


A genii palace an Arabian heaven ! 

A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 

Its forms and color seem alike of air. 

Here, by sweet orange-bows, half shaded o'er, 

The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, 

Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues 

The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. 

There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend. 

Aerial columns, richly decked, ascend ; 

Unlike the models of each classic race, 

Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace, 

But answering well each vision that portrays 

Arabian splendor to the poet's gaze : 

Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all a mingling glow 

O rainbow-tints, above, around, below ; 

Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins 

Of precious marble, and the vivid stains 

Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade, 

In gay festoons and fairy knots displayed. 

On through the enchanted realm, that only seems 

Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, 

The royal conquerors pass while still their sight 

On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. 

Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, 

O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades ; 

Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high 

The vast sierra mingling with the sky. 

There, scattering far around their diamond spray, 

Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, 

Through pillared halls, where exquisitely wrought, 

Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, 

Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 

A wild romantic, Oriental mien : 

While many a verse, from Eastern bards of old, 

Borders the walls in characters of gold. 

Here moslem luxury, in her own domain, 

Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 

'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood 

And all be lone a splendid solitude. 

Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, 

From mingling voices of exulting throngs ; 

Tambour, and flute, aud atabal, are there, 

And joyous clarions pealing on the air ; 

While every hall resounds, " Granada won I 

Granada ! for Castle and Aragon ! " 

'Tis night from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; 
Through long arcades the quivering lustre gleams 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil : 


Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, 
Are hearts unsoothcd by those delusive hours, 
Galled by the. chain, though decked awhile with flowers ; 
Stern passions working in the indignant breast, 
Deep pangs untold, high teelings unexpressed, 
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet 
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret. 

From yon proud height, whose olive shaded-brow 
Commands the wide, luxuriant plains below, 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene, 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien ? 
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son, 
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won ; 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have sealed, 
Wavering alike in council and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, 
Still a fierce tyrant cr a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies; 
Yet pauses on his way, to weep in vain 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around for him too fair, 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires, 
The old majestic palace of his sires, 
The gay pavilions, and retired alcoves, 
Bosomed in citron and pomegranate groves ; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, 
All in one moment bursting on his sight, 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanished years, 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
Weepest thou, Abdallah ? Thou dost well to weep, 
O feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep ! 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. 

The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda's Lower 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. 
No voice, no step, is in her father's hails, 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate, 
But all is hushed, and void, .iv.d desolate. 


There, through each tower and solitary shade, 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zagri maid : 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And through the scenes she loved, unheeded flows 
The stream whose music lulled her to repose. 

But oh ! to him, whose self-accusing thought 
Whispers, 'twas he that desolation wrought 
He, who his country and his faith betrayed, 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale, 
Each wave, low rippling, tells a mournful tale 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind ; 
Each leat hath language to his startled sense, 
And seems to murmur, " Thou hast driven her hence! 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
Where hath lost love been once recalled again? 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, 
His name can rouse no feeling now but scorn. 
O bitter hour ! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude : 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest; 
The avenger's task is closed : he finds, too late 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 
He was a lofty spirit, turned aside 
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride. 
And onward, in its new tumultuous course, 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, 
And ask if such could be its native sphere ? 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er, 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more ; 
The feverish energies of passion close, 
And his heart sinks in desolate repose, 
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less 
From its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armor to the sunbeam's glare, 
'Midst the wild Alpuxarras ; there, on high, 
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirit yet unbroke, 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke. 

O ye dread scenes ! where Nature dwells alone, 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, 
Veiled by the mist, and girdled by the storms, 


Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, 
That hold communion with the torrent-waves; 
And ye, the unstained and everlasting snows, 
That dwell above in bright and still repose ; 
To you, in every clime, in every age, 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage, 
Hath Freedom led her sons untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 
She, like the mountain eagle, still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquered heights, 
And build her eyrie in defiance proud, 
To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud. 

. Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells, 
Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength had nerved each frame, ' 
And made each heart the temple of her flame, 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth, 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear, 
All undismayed, privation and distress, 
And smile the roses of the wilderness: 
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 
In the deep forest or the cavern cell, 
And rear their offspring 'midst the rocks, to be, 
If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band are veterans, o'er whose head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed ? 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O royal city and the wreck of all 
They loved and hallowed most : doth aught remain 
For these to prove of happiness or pain ! 
Life's cup is drained earth fades before their eye ; 
Their task is closing they have but to die. 
Ask ye, why fled they hither ? that their doom 
AJight be, to sink unfettered to the tomb. 
And vouth, in all its pride of strength, is there, 
And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare 
And suffer all things fallen on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze, 
As on the arena where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 
Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, 
The high in heart, unconquercd, uncontrolled 


By day, the huntsmen of the wild by night, 

Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light, 

They from their bleak majestic home have caught 

A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, 

While all around them bids the soul arise 

To blend with Nature's dread sublimities. 

But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 

Where tyranny is near : the bended knee, 

The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, 

And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires ; 

Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 

On regal conquerors, and defy their frqwn. 

What warrior-band is toiling to explore 

The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadowed o'er, 

Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, 

Where the deep echo slept in loneliness ! 

These are the sons of Spain ! Your foes are near, 

O exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 

Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost caves 

Pour like the torrent in its might of waves ! 

Who leads the invaders on? his features bear 
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. 
"Tis he ! 'tis he again ! the apostate chief ; 
He comes in all the sternness of his grief. 
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle field, 
Against his country's children though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds: 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 
To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. 
So shall remorse and love the heart release, 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. 
The mountain echoes are awake a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, 
Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stained till then : 
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada ! wait, 
In dread suspense, the tidings of their fate. 
But he whose spirit, panting for its rest, 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aimed at another's breast, would still advance 


Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, 
As if for him 'twere bliss too great to die. 
Yes, Aben-Zurrah ! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee ere Nature's last repose ; 
Thou knowcst not yet what vengeance fate can wreak, 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell ; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath past, 
And age, the weary, found repose at last; 
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, 
Borne down by numbers, and o'erpowered by toil. 
Dispersed, disheartened, through the pass they fly, 
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high ; 
While Harriet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair. 

Yet he, to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home, 
Still urges onward undismayed to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread. 
But fear is for the happy they may shrink 
From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink ; 
They to whom earth is paradise their doom 
Lends no stem courage to approach the tomb : 
Not such his lot, who schooled by fate severe, 
W r ere but too blest if aught remained to fear. 
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below ; 
And by the fall, whose miny-tinctured spray 
Half -in a mist of radiance veils its way, 
He holds his venturous track : supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough; 
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell 
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. 
Now hath his footstep gained the summit's head, 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle there the heath-flowers rise. 
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies ; 
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain-side ; 
But all is wild beyond and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's chartered guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray 
Around, untrodden woods ; and far above, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove, 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fixed, inherent dyes 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies ; 
And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, 
That seems a part of Heaven's eternity. 


There is no track of man where Hamet stands, 
Pathless the scene as Lybia's desert sands ; 
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown, 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear 
He follows, reckless if his bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends, 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends ; 
Piercing the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, 
Eternal twilight's reign : those mazes past, 
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, 
And the lone wanderer now hath reached the source 
- Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. 
What earthly feeling unabashed can dwell 
In Nature's mighty presence ? 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods ? 
These their own grandeur on the soul impress, 
And bid each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty ca\'e 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave ; 
Shadowed by giant oaks, and rude and lone, 
It seems the temple of some power unknown, 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamlet! at the tone ? 
Came it not o'e<r thee as a spirit's moan ? 
As some loved sound, that long from earth had fled, 
The unforgotten accents of the dead ? 
E'en thus it rose and springing from his trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor ; 
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er : 
He rushes on and lo ! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughtered sire she bends 
Lost in despair ; yet, as a step draws nigh, 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity. 


She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, 
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; 
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, 
And every woe forgetting but the last. 

" Comest thou to weep with me ? for I am left 
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. 
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier; 
His child may call, but he no more shall hear. 
He sleeps but never shall those eyes unclose ; 
'Twas not my voice that lulled him to repose ; 
Nor can it break his slumbers. Dost thou mourn ? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn ? 
Weep, and my soul a joy of grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow ! " 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name 
When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance by affliction's power 
Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour, 
To wake with tenfold strength: 'twas then her eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow. 

" Away ! I dream ! Oh, how hath sorrow's might 
Bowed down my soul, and quenched its native light- 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thy tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier 1 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, 
In the last Combat with thy ruthless band ? 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair : 
'Twas then he fell he fell ! and thou wert there 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge 'midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee ? Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! 
'Twill soon be past I bow to heaven's decree, 
Which bade each pang be ministered by thee." 

" I had not deemed that aught remained below 
For me to prove of yet untasted woe ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda ! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
Oh, hear me yet ! I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave, 
But, in the fierce confusion of the strife, 
In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 


And let me share thy sorrows ! hadst thou known 
All I have felt in silence and alone, 
E'en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last, 
A grief like mine might expiate all the past 

" But oh ! for thee, the loved and precidus flower, 
So fondly reared in luxury's guarded bower, 
From every danger, every storm secured, 
How hast thmi suffered ! whaf hast thou endured ! 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ! 
These rocks thy dwelling ! thou, who shouldst have known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone I 
Oh, yet forgive ! be all my guilt forgot, 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot ! " 

"That lot is fixed ; 'twere fruitless to repine 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine, 
I may forgive but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 
No, Hamet, no ! too deeply are these traced, 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep : 
E'en now, prophetic of my early doom, 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died ; 
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, 
In pain and peril I forsook him not. 

* And now, farewell ! behold the summer-day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, 
With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
Oh, yet in time, away ! 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare! 
This hour they come and dost thou scorn to fly ? 
Save me that one last pang to see thee die ! " 
E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave they enter slow their pace, 
And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's face 
And all is hushed, till he who seems to wait 
In silent, stern devotedness, his fate, 
Hath met their glance then grief to fury turns ; 
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns : 
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath, 
Blood must atone for blood and death for death 1 


They close around him : lofty still his mien, 
His cheek unaltered, and his brow serene. 
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry : 
Fruitless her prayer, unmarked her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend, 
Wildly she darts between each feeling past, 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
Oh, not in vain its daring ! for the blow 
Aimed at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow ; 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast, 
Where, in that hour, her head may calmly rest, 
For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band, 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand : 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er, 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm : a fading smile, 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while ; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

" Xow is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! 
Yes ! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried : 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrilled, 
But sterner duties called and were fulfilled : 
And I am blest ! To every holier tie 
My life was faithful, and for thee I die ! 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Severed on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell ! And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, 
.Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and spare ! 
Oh ! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, 
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang 'tis past her task on earth is done, 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died Oh ! who may paint 
The grief, to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, 
By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed; 
These have no words nor are by words portrayed. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear 
Fai o'er the Alpuxarras ; wild its tone, 
And rocks and caverns echo, " Thou art gone ! " 


Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 

To share his tomb who gave thee birth ; 
Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 

It was not formed for earth. 
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 
Which brightly passed, and left no trace. 
But calmly sleep ! for thou art free, 

And hands unchained thy tomb shall raise. 
Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 

Life's few and evils days ! 
Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, 
The lingering death of liberty. 
Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 

Didst early to the storm resign : 
\Ve bear it still and dark their doom 

Who cannot weep for thine ! 
For us, whose every hope is fled, 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 
The days have been when o'er thy bier 

Far other strains than these had flowed \ 
Now, as a home from grief and fear, 

We hail thy dark abode ! 
We, who but linger to bequeath 
Our sons the choice of chains or death. 
Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years ; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee,who ne'er shalt weep again. 
Have we not seen, despoiled by foes, 

The land our fathers won of yore ? 
And is there yet a pang for those 

Who gaze on this no more ? 
Oh, that like them 'twere ours to rest ! 
Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest 1 

A few short years, and in the loneiy cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. 
Severed in life, united in the tomb 
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom I 
Their dirge, of woods and waves the eternal moan 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze, 
Amidst those rocks, in long departed days 
(When freedom fled, to hold, sequestered there, 
The stern and lofty councils of despair), 
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, 
Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, 
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those 
Who thus have suffered, and who thus repose. 


' In the reign of Otho III., Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, 
Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold at- 
tempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the Popes, whose vices rendered them 
objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, 
which long afterwards continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many ur." 
availing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations ; and, pledging his imperial 
word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate 
leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. 
Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which she 
had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho 
from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, "vhich, perhaps, a feeling of remorse had induced him to 
undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence ; and a poison 
idministered by her was soon afterwards the cause of bis painful death." See SISMONDI, 
^fistory of the Italian Republics, vol. i. 

' L'orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiennent encore la t6te levee." 


MIDST Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song, 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears, 
But o'er the wrecks of other years, 
Temples and domes, which long have 

The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig-tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; 
The cypress, in funereal grace, 
Usurps the vanished column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine and ruined frieze 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide 
They once adorned in sculptured pride ; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ? 
Now Athens weeps her shattered fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains; 

And the proud fabrics Hadrian reared 
From Tibur's vale have disappeared. 
We need no prescient sibyl there 
The doom of grandeur to declare ; 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time; 
Each relic utters Fate's decree, 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tibur's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home ? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record 
There dwelt the world's departed lord, 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty o'er decay, 
And sunshine on each glowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom. 
Though vanished with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould : 
And the fair forms by sculpture 


Each bodying some immortal thought, 


Which, o'er that temple of the dead, 
Serene but solemn beauty shed, 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In Time's abyss, or Tiber's wave : 
Vet dreams more lofty and more fair 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind, 
Expai ding when all else declined, 
In tuiiight years, when only they 
Recalled the radiance passed away, 
Have made thai ancient pile their home, 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove in evil days 
Again to kindle glory's rays, 
Whose spirit sought a path of light, 
For those dim ages far too bright, 
Crescentius long maintained the strife 
Which closed but with its martyr's life, 
And left the imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame, 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die ; 
And thou, whose Roman soul the last 
Spoke with the voice of ages past, 
Whose thoughts so long from earth 

had fled, 

To mingle with the glorious dead, 
That 'midst the world's degenerate race 
They vainly sought a dwelling-place. 
Within that house of death didst brood 
O'er visions to thy ruin wooed. 
Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, 
Rienzi, be thy faults forgot ! 
For thou, when ail around thee lay 
Chained in the slumbers of decay 
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 
Had scarce a tear for liberty 
Alone, amidst the darkness there, 
Couldst gaze on Rome yet not de- 
spair ! 

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies ; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow clad Apennine; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height, 
And yellow Tiber winds in light, 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have 


The wide Carhpagna's solitude, 
Tis sad amidst that scence to trace 
Those relics of a vanished race ; 

Yet o'er the ravaged path of time 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, 
Where Nature still, though empires 


Holds her triumphant festival 
E'en Desolation wears a smile, 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the 

while ; 
And heaven's own light, earth's richest 

Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air, 
Heeds not how fair the scene below, 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 
Though throned 'mklst Latium's classic 


The Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And they, the Pleiades of earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth. 
Lie spread beneath : not now her glance 
Roves o'er that vast sublime expanse. 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'til 


On Adrian's massy tomb alone : 
There, from the storm, when Freedom 


His faithful few Crescentius led ; 
While she, his anxious bride, who now 
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 
Sought refuge in the hallowed fane, 
Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er, 
And liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore, 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound; 
Could burst the dead repose around, 
Again his native Rome shall see, 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress tower, 
Her ardent heart with joy elate, 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above, 
All vivified with hope and love. 



Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy ; 
A meaning lofty and inspired, 
As by her native day-star fired ; 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassioned thought, 
As fancy sheds, in visions bright, 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ; 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace, 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling 


Seem from the fire within to rise, 
liut deepened by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw, 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high- wrought dreams of loveli- 

Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see ! the banner of the brave 
O'er Adrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
"Tis lowered and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry, 
\Vh'>, issuing from that ancient dome, 
I'uur through the crowded streets of 

Now from her watch-tower on the 

With step as fabled wood-nymph's 


She flies and swift her way pursues, 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress groves, and fields o'er- 


With records of the conquering dead, 
And paths which track a glowing waste, 
She traverses in breathless haste ; 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined, 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind, 
Still passing on, hath reached the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Thronged are the streets, and, still re- 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 

Is it their high-souled chief to greet, 
That thus the Roman thousands meet ? 

With names that bid their thoughts 


Crescentius, thine in song to blend; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall the inspiring pageantry ? 
There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round, 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almos' 


Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Quick is each step, and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high, 
Till rose suspense to agony ! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall 

And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct 


With fearless mien, but fettered hands 
The ministers of death are nigh, 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; 
And jn his glance there lives a mind 
Which was not formed for chains to 


But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, the ascendant ones~of old. 
Crescentius ! freedom's daring son, 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won ? 
O worthy to have lived and died 
In Fiie bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, 
The soul of Rome indignant woke ? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields arc 


Sunk is the crowning city's throne' 
The illusions, that around her cast 
Their guardian spells, have long been 


Thy life hath been a short-star's ray, 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at freedom's ruined shrine 
Must rivet every chain but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fixed upon the deep-blue sky, 



Now on those wrecks of ages fled, 
Around in desolation spread 
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, 
Recording triumphs passed away; 
Works of the mighty and the free, 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be, 
Though their bright course hath left a 


Nor years nor sorrows can efface. 
Why changes now the patriot's mien, 
Ere while so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death control 
The might of that commanding soul ? 
No ! Heard he not that thrilling cry 
Which told of bitterest agony ? 
He heard it, and at once, subdued, 
Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 
He heard it, and his heart too well 
Whence rose that voice of woe car. 


And 'midst the gazing throngs around 
One well-known form his glance hath 


One fondly loving and beloved, 
In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 
Yes, in the wildness of despair, 
She, his devoted bride, is there. 
Vale, breathless, through the crowd she 


The light of frenzy in her eyes: 
But ere her arms can clasp the form, 
Which life ere long must cease to warm, 
Ere on his agonizing breast 
Her heart can heave, her head can rest, 
Checked in her course by ruthless 


Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 
With blofldless cheek and vacant 


Frozen and fixed in horror's trance ; 
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, 
And thought o'erwhelmed, and feeling 


And the light waving of her hair, 
And veil, far floating on the air, 
Alone, in that dread moment, show 
She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more : 
Uut hers so vainly formed to prove 
The pure devotcdness of love, 

And draw from fond affection's eve 
All thought sublime, all feeling high ; 
When consciousness again shall wak^ 
Hath now no refuge but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain ; 
Survive its darkest hour and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride, 
If each warm hope at once hath died, 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower . 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scattered ne'er to reunite. 


Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy hlory fled ? 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell ? 
Italia ! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, 
And nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on earth 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they 

When thou wert freedom's favored 

child : 

Though fane and tomb alike are low. 
Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's 

glow ; 

And, robed in that exulting ray, 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay. 
Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, 
In nature's pomp magnificent; 
What marvel if, when all was lost, 
Still on thy bright, enchanted coast, 
Though many an omen warned him 


Lingered the lord of eloquence ? 
Still gazing on the lovely sky, 
Whose radiance wooed him but to 

die : 

Like him, who would not linger there, 
Where heaven, earth ocean, all are 

Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could 

Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell ? 



Hath not thy pure and genial air 
j"..i,m for all sadness but despair? 
No ! there are pangs, whose deep-worn 


Not all thy magic can efface ! 
Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn 
The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 
Time may steal on with silent tread, 
And dry the tear that mourns the dead, 
May change fond love, subdue regret, 
And teach e'en vengeance to forget: 
But thou, Remorse ! there is no charm, 
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 
Vain are bright suns and laughing skies 
To soothe thy victim's agonies ; 
The heart once made thy burning 

Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
The imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius, on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light, 
Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower, 
With awful voice and frowning mien, 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
Ch ! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

Where through Gargano's woody 


O'er bending oaks the north wind swells, 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosomed in umbrageous gloom. 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
' 1'vvas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 
Around that dweller of the wild 
There " bright appearances " have 


And angel wings, at eve, have been 
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 
And oft from that secluded bower 
Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer 


A swell of viewless harps, a sound 
Of warbled anthems pealing round. 

Oh, none but voices of the sky 
Might wake that thrilling harmony, 
Whose tones, whose very echoes made 
An Eden of the lonely shade ! 
Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ; 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrosvn, 
And veiled his low sepulchral stone : 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 
Aerial vesper-hymns may hear 
Around those forest precincts float, 
Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. 
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint, 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet influence o'er het 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To soothe hi; soul with vows and 

prayers ; 

And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests by the bed, 
Where, calmly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With Nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search his troubled 


N9r vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er, 
The hopes that cheered it are no moro 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown, 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
' Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour . 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; 
And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow, 
From him alone their power withhold, 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 



Earth blooms around him, heaven is 

He only seems to perish there. 

Yet, sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile, 
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain 
Of power to lull all earthly pain ; 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
The ethereal music of a dream, 
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 
Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 
Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 
Hath language only given to woe ; 
And if at times its wakening swell 
Some tale of glory seems to tell, 
Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 
Lost in a dirge's harmony. 
Oh I many a pang the heart hath 


Hath deeply suffered, fondly loved, 
Ere the sad strain could catch from 


Such deep impassioned eloquence ! 
Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel boy 
He is no child of hope and joy ! 
Though few his years, yet have they 


Such as leave traces on the mien, 
And o'er the roses of our prime 
Breathe other blights than those of 


Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, 
By grief unsoftened and unbowed. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart, 
And, rushing with an earthquake's 


That makes a desert in an hour, 
Rouse the dread passions in their course 
As tempests wake the billows' force ! 
'Tis sad, on youthful Guide's face, 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind, 
Dark as the ruins of the mind ? 

His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays; 
His full dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light, 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow : 

And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wc.i: , 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still unex. 


Dwells that sad secret in his breast ; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals, 
All other passions well conceals 
He breathes each wounded feeling's 


In music's eloquence alone ; 
His soul's deep voice is only poured 
Through his full song and swelling 


He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along, 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scattered o'er the si'.nt plains; 
Or, lingering 'midst each ruined shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad genius of the scene, 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
When hushed is every meaner sound, 
And the deep moonlight-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flown, 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb 
He wanders through the sacred gloom, 
And, 'midst those dwellings of decay. 
At times will breathe so sad a lay, 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone 

Awake thy pealing harp again, 
But breathe a more exulting strain, 
Young Guido ! for awhile forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 
And rouse the inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along! 



The feast is spread, the music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall, 
And banners wave and trophies shine 
O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 
And Otfio seeks awhile to chase 
The thoughts he never can erase, 
And bid the voice, whose murmurs 


Rise like a spirit on his sleep 
The still small voice of conscience die, 
Lost in the din of revelry. 
On his pale brow dejection lowers, 
But that shall yield to festal hours : 
A gloom is in his faded eye, 
But that from music's power shall fly : 
His wasted cheek is wan with care, 
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson 


Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, 
Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 
And pour upon the enraptured ear 
Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 
Let the rich mantling goblet flow, 
And banish all resembling woe ; 
And, if a thought intrude, of power 
To mar the bright convivial hour, 
Still must its influence lurk unseen, 
And cloud the heart but not the mien ! 

Away, vain dream ! on Otho'sbrow, 

Still darker lower the shadows now; 

Changed are his features, now o'er- 

With the cold paleness of the dead ; 

Now crimsoned with a hectic dye, 

The burning flush of agony ! 

His lip is quivering, and his breast 

Heaves with convulsive pangs op- 
pressed ; 

Now his dim eye seems fixed and 

And now to heaven in anguish raised; 

And as, with unavailing aid, 

Around him throng his guests dismayed, 

He sinks while scarce his struggling 

Hath power to falter "This is death !" 

Then rushed that haughty child of 


Dark Guido, through the awe-struck 
throng : 

Filled with a strange delirious light, 
His kindling ey> shone wildly bright; 
And on the sufferer's mien awhile 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish glow of triumph dyed 
His burning cheek, while thus he 

cried : [brow 

" Yes ! these are death-pangs on thy 
Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 
Oh! well was mixed the deadly 


And long and deeply hast thou quaffed ; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be, 
They are but guerdons meet from me ! 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shall thou yield thy fleeting 


My life hath been a lingering death ; 
Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 
A blood-spot on the page of time ' 

" Deemest thou my mind of reason 

void ? 

It is not frenzied, but destroyed ! 
Ay! view the wreck with shuddering 


That work of ruin thou hast wrought! 
The secret of thy doom to tell, 
My name alone suffices well ! 
Stephania ! once a hero's bride! 
Otho ! thou knowest the rest he ilicJ. 
Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 
And thou, whose every pledge was 

How couldst thou trust in aught i.gain ! 

" He died, and I was changed my 


A lonely wanderer, spurned control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurled, 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown, 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed, fulfilled the vow 
The hand of death is on thee now. 
Betrayer! In thy turn betrayed, 
The debt of blood shrill soon be paid I 
Thine hour is come the time hath 
been [scene ; 

My heart had shrunk from such 3 


That feeling long is past my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

"Ye that around me shuddering 


Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom ? 
Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb 1 
He sleeps unhonored yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home, 
His grave is that of glory Rome ! 
Are not the great of old with her, 
That city of the sepulchre ? 
Lead me to death ! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there ! " 

The day departs that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away : 
From purple heavens its lingering 


Seems melting into Tiber's stream, 
And softly tints each Roman hill 

With glowing light, as clear and still 
As if, unstained by crime or woe, 
Its hours had passed in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly it hath been 
Marked with a strange and awful scene 
One guilty bosom throbs no more, 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run, 
Released from anguish by thy foes, 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. 
Yes, on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh ! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away, 
Like the wild billows as they sweep, 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 


[" Antony, concluding that he could not die more honorably than in battle, determined to attack 
Cassar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this de- 
sign, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill 
the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst 
he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His 
friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus ; which when he perceived, he encouraged 
them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victorv were at least equal to those of an 
honorable death. At the dead of night, when universal sife ice reigned through the city a 
silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day on a sudden was heard the 
sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. 
This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate 
which led to the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, 
the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him. 1 ' LANGHORNE'S Plutarch.} 

THY foes had girt thee with their dead array, 

O stately Alexandria ! yet the sound 
Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swelled from thy splendid fabrics, far around 
O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, 

In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 


O'er many a column, rich with precious dyes, 

That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burning skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance played 

O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillared scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art arrayed 

In goldlike beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! in every face 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, 
Though vainly masked in smiles which are not mirth, 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes of earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreathes, whose transient bloom 

May still survive the wearers and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be withered when the tomb 

Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle, and may set 

In death but fill the mantling wine-cup high I 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possessed, 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest 

Its joys ! oh, mark yon proud triumvir's mien, 

And read their annals on that brow of care ; 
*Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been ; 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by ; 
There is delusion in its meteor-fire, 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow, 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

O lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow 
To that ascendant and undying name, 

Pleads with stern loftiness that right e'en now. 
Thy glory is departed, but hath left 

A lingering light around thee in decay 
Not less than kingly, though of all bereft, 

Thou seem'st as empire had not passed away 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate, 
A deep, prophetic dread of still mysterious fate ! 

But thou, enchantress-queen ! whose love hath made 

His desolation thou art by his side, 
In all thy sovereignty of charms arrayed, 

To meet the storm with still unconquered pride. 


Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 

Of error be upon thee, there is power 
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 

O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour ; 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. 

Thine aspect, all impassioned, wears a light 

Inspiring and inspired thy cheek a dye, 
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feve-ish energy. 
Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

With an immortal fire in every beam 
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 
For thou with death hast communed, to attain 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chaia. 

And the stern courage by such musings lent, 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes ; 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored, 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, 
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soared, 

Can deem the day-star of its glory set ; 
Scarce his charmed heart believes that power can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around, 

Which marked that ruined leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound 

Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests ! " he cries ; 

"Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep I 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies, 

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep, 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, 
And the red bowl again is crowned but not for me. 

" Yet weep not thus the struggle is not o'er 

O victors of Philippi ! many a field 
Hath yielded palms to us : one effort more 

By one stern conflict must our doom be sealed I 
Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world 

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurled, 

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head I 
Yet sovereign still, if banished from the sky, 
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop but die." 


The feast is o'er. 'Tis night, the dead of night 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep ; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep. 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom, 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams 

Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb, 
Dreams, dark and ominous, but there to cease, 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers, wake ! Hark ! heard ye not a sound 

Of gathering tumult ? Near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around, 

Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria ! through thy streets the tread 

Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 
Of pipe and lyre and trumpet, wild and dread, 

Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; 
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, 
Mingled their thousand tones, which are not of the earth. 

These are no mortal sounds their thrilling strain 

Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high; 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern, terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

O ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals thy doom " Despair and die ! ' 


After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hcrdes united 
under the command of Alaric, the historian of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire 
thus proceeds:" Whether fame, or conquest, or riches were the object of Alaric, he pursued 
that object with an indefatigable ardor which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated 
by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the 
neighboring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he con- 
sidered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditateri 
against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in 
length, and in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad ; and the fabulous 
monsters ' '.he deep, the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis, could terrify none 
but the ; iojt timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had 
embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their 
courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element ; and the whole design was defeated by 
the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatil term of his coir 



quests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, 
whose valor and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labor of a captive 
multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Eiusentinus, a small river that washes the 
walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of 
Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed ; the waters were then restored to their natural 
channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was forever con- 
cealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the 
work." See The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.] 

HEARD ye the Gothic trumpet's blast ? 
The march of hosts as Alaric passed ? 
His steps have tracked that glorious 


The birth-place of heroic time ; 
But he, in northern deserts bred, 
Spared not the living for the dead, 
Nor heard the voice, whose pleading 


From temple and from tomb arise. 
He passed the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian 


And woke they not, the brave, the free, 
To guard their own Thermopylae ? 
And left they not their silent dwelling, 
When Scythia's note of war was swell- 
ing ? 
No! where the bold Three Hundred 


Sad freedom battled not but wept ! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred 


Nor one high soul from slumber broke, 
When Athens owned the Northern 


But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair ? 
O city of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle-call 
Didst thou too, ancient empress, fall ? 
Did no Camillus from the chain 
Ransom thy Capitol again ? 
Oh ! who shall tell the days to be, 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee ? 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's 

blast ? 

The march of hosts, as Alaric passed ? 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep, 
Burst on the eternal city's sleep : 

How woke the mighty ? She, whose 


Sc long had bid the world be still, 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 
The ascendant star of destiny ! 
She woke to view the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Poured from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, thai 


A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and 


Revealed the throngs, for aid divine 
Clinging to many a worshipped shrine : 
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword, with carnage red, 
Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas, that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 
The time hath been when thy distress 
Had roused up empires for redress ! 
Now, her long race of glory run, 
Without a combat Rome is won, 
And from her plundered temples forth 
Rush the fierce children of the north, 
To share beneath more genial skies 
Each joy their own rude clime denies. 

Ye who on bright Campania's shore 
Bade your fair villas rise of yore, 
With all their graceful colonnades, 
And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, 
Along the blue Hesperian deep, 
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep ; 
Beneath your olive and your vine 
Far other inmates now recline, 
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fad 
With rich libations duly sked, 



O'er guests, unlike your vanished 


Its bowery canopy extends. [ing, 

For them the southern heaven is glow- 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; 
For them the marble halls unfold 
Where nobler beings dwelt of old 
Whose children for barbarian lords 
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding 


Or wreaths of Paestan roses twine, 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Yet, though luxurious they repose 
Beneath Corinthian porticoes, 
While round them into being start 
The marvels of triumphant art ; 
Oh : not for them hath genius given 
To Parian stone the fire of heaven, 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought. 
In vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise, 
And sculptured nymphs of fount or 


People the dark-green laurel shade; 
Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity ; 
And rude his hand which dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 

Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 
Chieftains ! the war-note's call invites ; 
And other lands must yet be won, 
And other deeds of havoc done. 
Warriors ! your flowery bondage break, 
Sons of the stormy north, awake ! 
The barks arc launching from the 


Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep, 
And Afric's burning winds afar 
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. 
Where shall his race of victory close ? 
When shall the ravaged earth repose ? 
But hark ! what wildly mingling cries 
From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise ? 
Why swells dread Alaric's name on 

air ? 

A sterner conqueror hath been there ! 
A conqueror yet his paths are peace, 
He comes to bring the world's release ; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath, 
The avenger, the deliverer Death ! 

Is then that daring spirit fled ? 
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? 
Tamed are the warrior's pride and 


And he and earth are calm at length. 
The land 'where heaven unclouded 

Where sleep the sunbeams on th 

vines ; 

The land by conquest made his own, 
Can yield him now a grave alone. 
But his her lord from Alp to sea 
No common sepulchre shall be ! 
Oh ! make his tomb where mortal eye 
Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! 
Where mortal foot may never tread 
Above a victor-monarch's bed. 
Let not his royal dust be hid 
Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; 
Nor bid the gathered mound arise, 
To bear his memory to the skies. 
Years roll away oblivion claims 
Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 
And hands profane disturb the clay 
That once was fired with glory's ray; 
And Avarice, from their secret gloom, 
Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 
But thou, O leader of the free ! 
That general doom awaits not thee : 
Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 
Shalt rest in regal solitude, 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 
The Awakener's final trumpet sound. 
Turn ye the waters from their course, 
Bid Nature yield to human force, 
And hollow in the torrent's bed 
A chamber for the mighty dead 
The work is done the captive's hand 
Hath well obeyed his lord's command. 
Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past, 
The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plundered 

Rome ; 

And when the midnight stars are beam- 

And ocean waves in stillness gleam- 

Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The Chastener of the Nations there ; 
To rest, at length, from victory's toil, 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil 1 


Then the freed current's rushing 


Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the martyred captives' 


I'o crimson that sepulchral'flood, 
vVhose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath passed on since then and 


From earth the urns where heroes 

slept ; 

Temples of gods and domes of kings, 
Are mouldering with forgotten things ; 
Yet shall not ages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest : 
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing 

The guardian of his dust forever. 


[" This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sntl 
should never see him survive Carthage this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come 
alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror's feet. The general, pleased to see his 
proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians 
in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they 
thrrw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now 
no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, re- 
tired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first : there the pro- 
consul attacked them ; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set 
fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they 
got to the roof of the building; then Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day 
of her death had been a day of triumph ; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations 
against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus, ' Base coward ! ' said 
she, ' the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee : thou shah die this 
instant, at least in thy two children.' Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed 
them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the '.emple, 
and leaped down after them into the flames." Ancient Universal History.] 

THE sun sets brightly but a ruddier glow 

O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw ; 

Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire 

lu lurid splendor from her domes aspire ; 

Swayed by the wind, they wave while glares the sky 

As when the desert's red simoom is nigh ; 

The sculptured altar and the pillared hall 

Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall ; 

Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams, 

Rock, wave, and isle are crimsoned by its beams ; 

While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, 

Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; 

And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, 

Svrell from ttie victors' tents with ivy crowned. 1 

But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest height 

What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 

All regal in magnificent attire, 

And sternly beauteous in terrific ire ? 

1 It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy. 


She might be deemed a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power ; 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendancy. 
The flames are gathering round intensely bright, 
Full on her features glares their meteor-light; 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there, 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair ; 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate, 
Mightier than death, untameable by fate. 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound, 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flushed is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien, 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. 
Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry 
Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws nigh, 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast ? 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, 
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign ? 

Fixed is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands 
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him who left her to that burning tomb, 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; 
Who, when his country perished, fled the strife, 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor, live ! " she cries, " since dear to thee, 
E'en in thy fetters, can existence be ! 
Scorned and dishonored live ! with blasted name, 
The Romans triumph not to grace, but shame. 
O slave in spirit ! bitter be thy chain 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes of thy children rise 
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes 
Still may their voices on the haunted air 
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, 
Till vain remorse thy withered heart consume, 
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! 
E'en now my sons shall die, and thou, their sire, 
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not ? 'Twas thine to fly 
'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their fate ! the arms that cannot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave." 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, 

Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood streams 

With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast 

Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 

Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, 

Then deep 'midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye. 



safe and sure, for those that had committed them- 23. Nevertheless Hehodorus executes 
that which was decreed. 24. Now as he was there present himself, with his guard about the 
treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great apparition, so that ail 
that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and 
were sore afraid. 25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, 
and adorned with a very fair covering, and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his 

speechless, without all hope of life."] 

A SOUND of woe in Salem ! mournful cries 

Rose from her dwellings youthful cheeks were pale. 

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 

Hands raised-to heaven in agony of prayer, 

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 

The regal splendor of their fair array, 
With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride, 

And thronged the streets in hurrying, wild dismay; 
While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine, 
Who made, of old, renown and empire thine. 

But on the spoiler moves the temple's gate, 
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold; 

And all the scene reveals its solemn state, 

Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold ; 

And man, with eye unhallowed, views the abode, 

The severed spot, the dwelling-place of God. 

Where art thou, Mighty Presence ! that of yore 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veiled in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest ? 

Thou ! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne, 

And call the oracle's recess thine own! 

Angel of God ! that through the Assyrian host, 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, 

To tame the proud, to hush the invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power 


Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, 
And death alone revealed where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not \vake, O Chastener! in thy might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, 

\Vhere oft from heaven the tul Shechinah's light 
Hath streamed the house of holiness to fill ? 

Oh ! yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal one ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer, undismayed, 
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore 

'Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, 
The orphan's portion, and the widow's store; 

What recks his heart though age unsuccored die, 

And want consume the cheek of infancy ? 

Away, intruders I hark! a mighty sound I 
Behold, a burst of light ! away, away I 

A fearful glory fills the temple round, 
A vision bright in terrible array ! 

And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 

His path a whirlwind, and his breath a flame I 

His neck is clothed with thunder * and his mane 
Seems waving fire the kindling of his eye 

Is as a meteor ardent with disdain 

His glance his gesture, fierce in majesty! 

Instinct with light he seems, and formed to bear 

Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, 

Throned on that burning charger ? bright his form, 
Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm I 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest and fear 
Shrinks from the splendor of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand 
All-armed, and kingly in commanding grace 

Oh ! more than k>ngly codlike ! sternly grand; 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to inmortals given, 

Magnificent in a'.l the'wrath of heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart each knee is bowed 
In trembling awe but, as to fields of fight, 

The unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd. 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might , 

And the stern angels of that dread abode 

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

1 "Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunderf 
Job xxxix. 19. 


Darkness thick darkness ! low on earth he lies, 
Rash Heliodorus motionless and pale 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil ; 

And thus the oppressor, by his fear-struck train, 

Is borne from that inviolable fane. 

The light returns the warriors of the sky 

Have passed, with all their dreadful pomp, away; 

Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high 
Triumphant as in Judah's elder day ; 

Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill ! 

Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee stilL 



[" En meme temps que les Ge'nois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils e'toient 
djchires eux-memes par une discorde civile. Les consuls de 1'annee 1 169, pour retablir la paix 
dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes a leur voix et plus puissantes qu'eux. furent 
obliges d'ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils commencerent par s'assurer secrete- 
ment des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant e'toient entraine's dans 
les emeutes par leur parent^ avec les chefs de faction ; puis, se concertant avec le veWrabie 
vieillard, Hugues, leurarcheveque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever.du soleil. appeler au son 
des cloches les citoyens au parlement ; ils se flattoient que la surprise et 1'alanne de ceite cor.- 
yocation inattendue, au milieu de 1'obscurit^ de la nuit, rendroit 1 assemblee et plus complete et 
plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement general, virent, au milieu de ia place 
publiqvie, le vieil archeveque, entoure 1 de son clerge" en habit de ce're'monies, et p^rtant des tor- 
ches allume'es, tandis que les reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, e'toient 
expose'es devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient a tears mains des cr^:x 
suppliantes. Des que 1'assemblde f ut forme'e, le vieillard se leva, et de sa roix cassec il conjura 
les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de lenrsames, au nom de leur pa- 
tne et de la liberte, dont leurs discordes entrainaroient la mine, de jurer sur I'e'vangile 1'ovbli 
de leurs querelles, et la paix a venir. 

" Les herauts, des qu'ii eut fini de parler, s'avancerent aussitot vers Roland Avogado. le chef 
de 1'une des factions, qua ^toit pre"sent a i'assembl^e, et, seconddspar les acclamations de tout 
le peuple, et par les prieres de ses parens eux-memes, ils le sommerent de se confonner au 
vceu des consuls et de la nation. 

" Roland, a leur approche, d^chira ses habits, et, s'asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, 
ilappelaahaute yoix lesmortsqu'il avoit jur^ de venger, et qu nelui permettoient pasde par- 
donner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le determiner a s'avancer, les consuls 

aTassemblde, mais le peuple et le emerge" seporterent en foule a leurs maisons: ils lestrouve- 
rent d(5ji ebranl^s par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre,et, prpfitant de leur emotion, ils leur firent 
j:irer une reconciliation sincere, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposee. 
Alors les cloches de la ville sonnerent en tdmoignage d'all^gresse, et I'archeveqtie de retour 
ur la place publique entonna un Te Deem avec tout le peuple, en honneur du Dieu de pa'x 
qui aroit sauve leur patrie." Histoire des Refubliques flalitnnes, vol. ii. pp. 14+, 150.] 


IN Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last warm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear, 
Was heard, announcing danger near ; 
Though deadliest foes were there, whose 


But slumbered till its hour of fate, 
Vet calmly, at the twilight's close, 
Sunk the wide city to repose. 

But when deep midnight reigned 


All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, 
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. 
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; 
Then mingled with the awakening peal 
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 
Arm, warriors, arm ! for danger calls, 
Arise to guard your native walls ! 
With breathless haste the gathering 


Hurry the echoing streets along ; 
Through darkness rushing to the scene 
Where their bold counsels still convene, 
Hut there a blaze of torches bright 
Pours its red radiance on the night, 
O'er fane, and dome, and column play- 

With every fitful night-wind swaying : 
Now floating o'er each tall arcade, 
Around the pillared scene displayed, 
In light relieved by depth of shade : 
And now with ruddy meteor-glare, 
Full streaming on the silvery hair 
And the bright cross of him who stands 
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, 
Girt with his consecrated train, 
The hallowed servants of the fane. 
Of life's past woes, the fading trace 
Math given that aged patriarch's face 
Expression holy, deep, resigned, 
The calm sublimity of mind. 
Vcars o'er his snowy head have passed, 
And left him of his race the last ; 
Alone on earth yet still his mien 
Is bright with majesty serene ; 
And those high hopes, whose guiding- 

Shines from the eternal worlds afar, 
Have with that light illumed his eye, 

Whose fount is immortality, 

And o'er his features poured a ray 

Of glory, not to pass away. 

He seems a being who hath known 

Communion with his God alone, 

On earth by naught but pity's tie 

Detained a moment from on high ! 

One to sublimer worlds allied, 

One, from all passion purified, 

E'en now halt mingled with the sky, 

And all prepared oh ! not to die 

But, like the prophet, to aspire, 

In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 

He speaks and from the throngs 


Is heard not e'en a whispered sound ; 
Awe-struck each heart, and fixed each 


They stand as in a spell-bound trance ; 
He speaks oh ! who can hear noi 

The might of each prevailing tone ? 

" Chieftains and warriors ! ye, sc 


Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, 
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate 
Hath made your country desolate ; 
Now by the love ye bear her name, 
By that pure spark of holy flame 
On freedom's altar brightly burning, 
But, once extinguished, ne'er returning 
By all your hopes of bliss to come, 
When burst the bondage of the tomb; 
By Him, the God who bade us live 
To aid each other, and forgive 
I call upon ye to resign 
Your discords at your country's shrine, 
Each ancient feud in peace atone, 
Wield your keen swords for her alone, 
And swear upon the cross, to cast 
Oblivion's mantle o'er the past 1 " 

No voice replies. The holy bands 
Advance to where yon chieftain stands, 
With folded arms, and brow of gloom 
O'ershadowed by his floating plume. 
To him they lift the cross in vain : 
He turns oh ! say not with disdain, 
But with a mien of haughty grief, 
That seeks not, e'en from heaven, J> 


He rends his robes he sternly speaks 
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 

" Father ! not thus the wounds may 


Inflicted by eternal foes. 
Deemest thou thy mandate can efface 
The dread volcano's burning trace ? 
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 
Be smiling as it once hath been ? 
No ! for the deeds the sword hath 


Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 
The words by hatred spoke may not 
Be as a summer breeze forgot ! 
'Tis vain we deem the war-feud's rage 
A portion of our heritage. 
Leaders, now slumbering with their 


Bequeathed us that undying flame ; 
Hearts that have lonp been still and 


Yet rule us from their silent mould; 
And voices, heard on earth no more, 
Speak to our spirits as of yore. 
Talk not of mercy blood alone 
The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 
Naught else can pay that mighty debt, 
The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses from the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now ; 
His revernd form, his aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command, 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Filled with prophetic majesty. 

" The dead I and deemest thou they 


Aught of terrestrial passion's stain ? 
Of guilt incurred in days gone by, 
Aught but the fearful penalty ? 
And sayest thou, mortal 1 blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone ? 
There hath been blood by Him 'twas 


To exp ate every crime who bled ; 
The absolving God who died to save, 
And rose in victory from the grave ! 
And by that stainless offering given 
Alike for all on earth to heaven- 
By that inevitable hour 

When death shall vanquish pride and 


And each departing passion's force 
Concentrate all in lato remorse ; 
And by the day when doom shall be 
Passed on earth's millions, and on 


The doom that shall not be repealed, 
Once uttered, and forever sealed 
I summon thee, O child of clay ! 
To cast thy darker thoughts away, 
And meet thy foes in peace and love, 
As thou wouldst join the blest above." 

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing; 
Oh ! not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise ; 
He yields devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence, 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows, 
And that best incense to the skies, 
Each evil passion's sacrifice. 

Then tears from warriors' eyes were 
flowing, [ing ; 

High hearts with soft emotions glow- 
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greet- 
ing, [ing; 
And ardent throngs in transport mcet- 
And eager footsteps forward pressing, 
And accents loud in joyous blessing ; 
And when their first wild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo " Peace ! " 

Twilight's dim mist hath rolled away, 
And the rich Orient burns with day ; 
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth, 
Rises the choral hymn of earth 
The exulting strain through Genoq 

Of peace and holy rapture telling. 

Far float the sounds o'er vale and 


The seaman hears them on the deep, 
So mellowed by the gale, they seem 
As the wild music of a dream. 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone; 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial' joy to hear. 





' Not only the place of Richard's confinement " (when thrown into prison by the Duke ol 
Austria), "if we believe the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance of his cap- 
tivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies : and both might have remained un- 
known but for the grateful attachment of a Provencal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who 
had shared that prince's friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the 
European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Bipndel accidentally got in- 
telligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and 
guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King 
of England, the minstrel repaired to the place : but the gates of the castle were shut against 
him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person 
it secured. In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired 
discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed 
partly by himself, partly by Richard; and to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he 
heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive. Hist. Trotibadovrs, To this dis. 
covery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release." See RUSSKL'S 
Modern Europe, vol- i. p. 369.] 

THE Troubadour o'er many a plain 
I huh roamed unwearied, but in vain. 
O'er many a rugged mountain-scene 
And forest wild his track hath been ; 
Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 
He hath sung the songs of chivalry; 
His voice hath swelled on the Alpine 


And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 
From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, 
He hath sought his prince, the loved, 

the brave : 

A 1 yet, if still on earth thou art, 
f ';, monarch of the lion-heart ! 
The faithful spirit, which distress 
But heightens to devotedness, 
By toil and trial vanquished not, 
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 

He hath reached a mountain hung 

with vine, 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely 

Rhine : 

The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown in unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state 
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate 

To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, 

At the chieftain's board a welcome 

guest ; 

Vainly rich evening's parting smile 
Would chase the gloom of the haught\ 

That 'midst bright sunshine lowers on 

Like a thunder-cloud in a summer 


Not these the halls where a child of 


Awhile may speed the hours along ; 
Their echoes should repeat alone 
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner'* 


Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, 
When his phantom-train are hurryi:>; 


The weary minstrel paused his eye 
Ro.ved o'er the scene despondingly : 
Within the lengthening shadow, cast 
By the fortress-towers and ramparts 


Lingering he gazed. The rocks around 
Sublime in savage grandeur frowned; 


Proud guardians of the regal flood 
In giant strength the mountains stood 
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, 
Vet mingling still with the calm blue 

Their peaks were bright with a sunny 


But the Rhine all shadowy rolled be- 

In purple tints the vineyards smiled, 
But the woods beyond waved dark and 

wild : 

Nor pastoral pipe, nor convent's bell, 
Was heard on the sighing breeze to 

swell ; 

But all was lonely, silent, rude, 
A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark ! that solemn stillness 


The Troubadour's wild song is waking. 
Full oft that song, in days gone by, 
Hath cheered the sons of chivalry ; 
It hath swelled o'er Judah's mountains 

Hermon ! thy echoes have learned its 

tone ; 

On the Great Plain its notes have rung, 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among; 
'Twas loved by the Lion heart, who 


The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 


* Thine hour is come, and the stake is 

The Soldan cried to the captive 

'* And the sons of the Prophet in 

throngs are met 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy lips professed, 
The faith of Mecca's shrine, 

Cast down the red-cross that marks thy 

And life shall yet be thine." 

" I have seen the flow of my bosom's 


And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have born the bright cross through 

fire and blood 
And think'st thou I fear to die ? 

" I have stood where thousands, by 

Salem's towers, 

Have fallen for the name Divine ; 
And the faith that cheered their closing 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of 


And the glow of youth's fresh bloom ? 
Thou art offered life, and pomp, and 

Or torture and the tomb." 

" I have been where the crown of thorns 

was twined 

For a dying Saviour's brow ; 
He spurned the treasures that lure man- 
And I reject them now ! " 

"Art thou the son of a noble line 
In a land that is fair and blest ! 

And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! 

Again on its shores to rest ? 

" Thine own is the choice to hail once 


The soil of thy father's birth, 
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs 
are o'er, 
Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that 


In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native 

There's a brighter clime above ! " 

The bard hath paused for another 


Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope 

As a well-known voice prolongs the 




'Are there none within thy father's 


Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Young Christian ! left to deplore thy 

With sorrow deep and vain ? " 

There are hearts that still, through 

all the past, 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
i here are eyes whose tears were 

streaming fast 
\Yhen I bade my home farewell. 

Better they wept o'er the warrior's 


Than the apostate's living stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved 

when here, 
Shall meet to love again." 

'Tis he ! thy prince long sought, long 


The leader of the red-cross host ! 
'Tis he ! to none thy joy betray, 
Young Troubadour! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave, 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil, 
To win their Lion from the toil ; 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow, 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; 
The festal board shall be richly 

While knights and chieftains revel 

And a thousand harps with joy shall 

When merry England hails her king. 



La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni a ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du 
roi (Charles d'Anjou). L'amour du peuple pour 1'heritier legitime du trone, avoit eclate 
d'une maniere eff rayante ; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles revolution, si Conradin demeuroit 
en vie : et Charles, revetant sa defiance et sa cruaute des formes de la justice, resolut de 
faire perir sur 1'echafaud le deraiw rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, 1'unique esperance de 
son parti. Un seul juge proven^al et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n'ont pas voulu 
conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d'autres se renfermerent dans untimideet coupable 
silence ; et Charles, sur 1'autorite de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, proto- 
notaire du royaume, la sentence de mort centre Conradin et tous ces compagnons. Cette 
sentence fut a Conradin, comme il jouoit aux tehees ; on lui laissa peu de 
temps pour se preparer a son execution, et la 26 d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, 
sur la Place du March^ de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles e'toit present, avec 
toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamn. Con- 
ratlin etoit er.tre les mains des bourreaux ; il ddtacha lui-meme son manteau, et s'etant mis 
a genoux pour pner, il se releva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, ma mere, quelle profonde douleur te 
causera la nouvelle qu'on va te porter de moi ! ' Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui 
1'entouroit ; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors. detachant son 
pant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d'un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au 
bourreau. Apres lui, sur le meme echafaud, Charles fit trancher la tete an Due d'Autriche, 
aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard tt Gaivano Dono- 
ratico de Par un rafinement de cruaute, Charles voulut que le premier, fi's du second, 
precedat son pere, et mourut entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres ses indre--, furent ex- 
clus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes sans pompe sur le rivage de la meV. Charles II., cepen- 
dant fit dans la suite, batir sur le meme lieu uue eglise de Carmelites, comino pour appaiser 
ces ombres irnt^es."] 

No cloud to dim the splendor of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charmed the great of yore 


The imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en Ocean's realm' invade. 

That race is gone but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires passed away. 

THE beam of heaven expands its kindling smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, 
Whose image floats, in softer coloring drest, 
With all its rocks and vines, on Ocean's breast. 
Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray, 
On Roman streamers there no more to play; 
Still as of old unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 
With all Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While, far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrowed and dark with many a lava streak. 

Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse 
Rich with all Nature's and all fiction's hues ; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet erred to paint Elysium there ? 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside ; 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scattered, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn, 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around, 
Hovering in beauty o'er the enchanted ground : 
His lays are murmured in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange groves ; 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witnessed many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral-wail, 
Mourning for buried heroes-^-while to her 
That glov/ing land was but her sepulchre. 


And there, of old, the dread mysterious, moan 
Swelled from strange voices of no mortal tone ; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard at midnight, o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died, 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 

Passed are those ages yet another crime, 
Another woe, must strain the Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore 
It- must be crimsoned ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp arrayed, 
A scene of death from thence must be surveyed. 
Marked ye the rushing throngs ? each mien is pale, 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale : 
But the deep workings of the indignant breast, 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppressed ; 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
The avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 
Behold the conqueror ! Vainly in his face, 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace ; 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament ; 
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, 
May read at once her sentence to despair ! 

Bui thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance Can it be ? 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee ? 
Young, royal Conraclin ! who shoulclst have knovm 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, arrayed so richly for the tomb, 
Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, 
Crowned with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, 
Who, from the oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy if to the? denied ? 


There is dead silence on the breathless throng, 

Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 

As on the captive moves the only sound, 

To break that calm so fearfully profound, 

The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, 

Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; 

While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 

The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 

Is passing to his fate : the eyes are dim 

Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. 

He mounts the scaffold doth his footstep fail ? 

Doth his lip quiver ? doth his cheek turn pale ? 

Oh ! it may be forgiven him if a thought 

Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, 

To all the hopes that promised glory's meed, 

And all the affections that with him shall bleed ! 

If, in his Kfe's young day-spring, while the rose 

Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, 

One human fear convulse his parting breath, 

And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels but not to man his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with that sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour ? 
How the still voice, that answers every moan, 
May speak of hope when hope on earth is gone ! 

That solemn pause is o'er the youth hath given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven : 
The sun rejoices in the unclouded sky. 
Life all around him glows and he must die ! 
Yet 'midst his people, undismayed, he throws 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance that, like their own volcano's fire, 
May sleep suppressed awhile but not expire. 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret and all shall be at rest ! 
" Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, 
When thy lost child is gone ? "that thought can thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun 
It falls the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 
A voice shall cry to heaven nnd not in vain ! 


Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou! but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed the throngs depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, 
High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. 
Oh, vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by Ocean's wave; 
Marked by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonored, unadorned but unforgot ; 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, 
Now mutely suffering never to forgive! 

The sun fades from purple heavens away 
A bark hath anchored in the unruffled bay ; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm ; 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, 
And her soft eyes a chastened heart bespeak, 

Inured to woes yet what were all the past! 

She sank not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 

While one bright hope remained who now shall tell 

The uncrowned, the widowed, how her loved one fell ? 

To clasp her child, to ransom and to savj, 

The mother came and she hath found his grave ! 

And by that grave, transfixed in speechless grief, 

Whose deathlike trance denies a tear's relief, 

Awhile she kneels till roused at length to know, 

To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, 

On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard " My Conradin ! my child !" 


THB following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each is intended to be commemo- 
rat;vL- of some national recollection, popular custom, or tradition. Tne idea 
Herder's "Stimmen der Vdlker in Ludern. ; " the execution is, however, diifercnt, as the poems 
in his collection are chiefly translations. 


[" It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies unmarried is clothed for intermen 
in wedding apparel, and the bridal-song is sung over her remains before they aie borne Irorn hei 
home." See M* Narrative of a Ten Years' Residence in Tripoli, by the lister- in-law tf Mr. 

THE citron-groves their fruit and flowers were strewing 
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh 
Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing 
With music through their shadowy bower; went by; 


Music and voices, from the marble halls 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls. 

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling 
To' blend with fragrance in those southern shades, 
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crowned maid J 
And thus it flowed : vet something in the lay 
"Belonged to sadness, as ft died away. 

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

Pour the rich odors round! 

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

Now may the timbrel sound 1 

Know'st thou for -whom they sang the bridal numbers ? 
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more ! 
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers, 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. 
Weep for the young, the beautiful, the dead 1 


fThe Indians of Bengal and of the coast of Malabar bring cages filled with birds to the graves o 
their friends, over which they set the birds at liberty. This custom is alluded to in the de- 
scription of Virginia's funeral. See Paul and Virginia.} 

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

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

Her voice hath passed away ! 
It hath passed away like a summer breeze, 
When it leaves the hills for the fair blue seas, 

Where we may not trace its way. 

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

And what is our grief to thee ? 


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

Or float, on the light wind borne ? 

We know not but she is gone \ 
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, 
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng ; 
She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

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

But we shall not know 'tis -thine! 

Even so with the loved one flown ! 
Her smile on the starlight may wander by, 
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh, 

Around us but all unknown. 

Go forth, we have loosed thy chain ! 
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers 
Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers ; 

But thou wilt not be lured again. 

Even thus may the summer pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast, 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, 

But it wins her back no more 1 



[The idea oi this ballad is taken irom a scene in Starkolher, a tragedy by the Danish poet 
Ochlensch'.ager. The sepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the ashes ot 
deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the 
departed spirit were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists to be the consquence of 
any profanation of the sepulchre. See OCHLBNSCHLAGER'S Play*.} 

"VoiCE of the gifted elder time! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme ! 
Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose 
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes ; 
Voice of the buried past 1 

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


Then the torrents of the North 
And the forest pines were still, 
While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

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

" There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom,' 
But soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 
For the viewless have fearful might 1 " 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

But the gleaming sword and shield 
Of many a battle-day 
Hung oer that urn, revealed 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray ; 

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

With a beating heart his son drew near, 
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear. 
" Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep; 
For the viewless have fearful might 1 " 

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

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

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, 
And the urn lay shivered in fragments round ; 
And a rush, as of tempests, quenched the fire, 
And the scattered dust of his warlike sire 
Was strewn on the champion's head. 

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

The stars were just fading one by one, 

The clouds were just tinged by the early sun, 


When there streamed through the cavern a torch's flame, 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 
To seek him in the tomb. 

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

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

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

" In the mantle of death he was here with me now 
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow j 
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell 
With an icy ray and a withering spell 
Oh ! chill is the house of sleep ! " 

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

"He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown ! 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown 
The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand 
They have chased him far from the glorious land 
Where the feast of the gods is spread ! 

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

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest ; 
But its fiercest work was done 
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast 1 




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

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

" Tremblingly flashed the inconstant meteor-light, 
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth ; 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seemed 
On the fixed brightness of each dazzling cheek 
Strange and unnatural." MII.MAN. 

THE Sea-king woke from the troubled 


Of a vision-haunted night, 
And he looked from his bark o'er the 

gloomy deep, 

And counted the streaks of light ; 
For the red sun's earliest ray 
Was to rouse his bands that day 
To the stormy joy of fight 1 

But the dreams of rest were still on 


And the silent stars on high, 
f^nd there waved not the smoke of one 

cabin hearth 

'Midst the quiet of the sky; 
And along the twilight bay, 
In their sleep the hamlets lay, 
For they knew not the Norse were 
nigh ! 

The Sea-king looked o'er the brooding 


He turned to the dusky shore, 
And there seem'd, through the arch of 

a tide-worn cave, 
A gleam, as of snow, to pour; 
And forth in watery light, 
Moved phantoms, dimly white, 
Which the garb of woman bore. 

Slowly they moved to the billow -side ; 
And the forms, as they grew more 

Seemed each on a tall pale steed to 


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

Then a stillness on his spirit fell, 

Before the unearthly train, 
For he knew Valhalla's daughter 


The Choosers of the slain ! 
And a sudden rising breeze 
Bore, across the moaning seas, 
To his ear their thrilling strain. 

" There are songs in Odin's Hall 
For the brave ere night to fall ! 
Doth the great sun hide its ray ? 
He must bring a wrathful day ! 
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath ? 
Swords must do the work of death! 
Regner ! Sea-king ! thee we call 1 
There is joy in Odin's Hall. 

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



" Regner ! tell thy fair-haired bride 
She must slumber at thy side ! 
Tell the brother of thy breast 
Even for him thy grave hath rest ! 
Tell the raven steed which bore 


When the wild wolf fled before thee 
We too with his lord must fall, 
There is room in Odin's Hall ! 

" Lo ! the mighty sun looks forth 
Arm ! thou leader of the North! 
Lo ! the mists of twilight fly 
We nmst vanish, thou must die 1 

By the sword and by the spear, 
By the hand that knows no fear. 
Sea-king ! nobly thou shalt fall ! 
There is joy in Odin's Hall ! 

There was arming heard on land and 


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

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



[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the 
Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells ; and say that they lie there in 
their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will 
awaken and regain the liberties of the land. See Quarterly Review, No. 44. 

The Griitli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the 
shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest-Sea-] 

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

For there the Patriot Three, 
In the garb of old arrayed, 
By their native Forest-Sea 
On a rocky couch are laid. 

The Patriot Three that met of yore 

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

Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep 
Till their country's hour of need. 

They start not at the hunter's call, 

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry, 
Kor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 
Nor the Lauwine thundering by; 
And the Alpine herdsman's lay, 
To a Switzer's heart so dear ! 
On the wild wind floats away, 
No more for them to hear. 


But when the battle-horn is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tont 
Through their eagles' lonely sky ; 

When the spear-heads light the lakes, 

When trumpets loose the snows, 
When the rushing war-steed shakes 
The glacier's mute repose, 

When Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlet's light 
Then from the cavern of the dead 
Shall the sleepers wake in might ! 

With a leap, like Tell's proud leap 

When away the helm he flung, 
And boldly up the steep 

From the flashing billow sprung ! * 

They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea, 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they linked the hands that made us free. 
On the Griitli's moonlight shore ; 

And their voices shall be heard, 

And be answered with a shout, 

Till the echoing Alps are stirred, 

And the signal-fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day 
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain, 
Through the serried spears made way ; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morgarten dell, 
And the crowned casques, 2 o'erthrown, 
Before our father's fell I 

For the Kiihreihen's 3 notes must never sound 

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

And the yellow harvests wave 

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

1 The point of rnck on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and 
railed the Tettensprmig. 

3 Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland. 
* The Kiihreihen the celebrated Raw des Vaches, 




The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of their ancient 
battles with much solemnity ; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors 
fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shaivci it 
the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chape. s, .i.w.iyi 
erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the depaiteu. 
See PLANTA'S History of the Helvetic Confederacy.} 

LOOK on the white Alps round ! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where Freedom's voice and step are 

Forget ye not the band, 
The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here in the narrow battle-dell 1 

If yet, the wilds among, 

Our silent hearts may burn, 
When the deep mountain-horn hath 


And home our steps may turn, 
Home ! home ! if still that name be 

Praise to the men who perished here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to their shining snows 
That day the stormy rolling sound, 

The sound of battle rose ! 
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's 

Their dark pines trembled as it passed! 

They saw the princely crest, 

They saw the knightly spear, 
The banner and the mail-clad breast, 

Borne down, and trampled here ! 
They saw and glorying there they 

Eternal records to the land I 

Praise to the mountain-born, 
The brethren of the glen ! 
By them no steel array was worn, 

They stood as peasant-men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field, 
To break an empire's lance and shield ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet, along their steeps, 
Our children's fearless feet may 


Free as the chamois leaps : 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood-fire's blaze, 

When winter stars gleam cold, 
The glorious tales of elder days 

May proudly yet be told, 
Forget not then the shepherd race, 
Who made the earth a holy place I 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet the Sabbeth-bell 
Comes o'er them with a gladdening 


Think on the battle-dell ! 
For blood first bathed its flowery sod, 
That chainless hearts might worship 


ome of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully ir; 
the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations hav- 
sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. See PICART'S Ceremonies <tna 
Religious Customs.} 

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

Thou art come from the spirit's land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard* 

And tell of the shadowy band I 


We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer shore ; 
Ami \ve know that the friends we have lost are there, 

They are there and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst 

From the fountain of youth ere now, 1 
For there must the stream in its freshness burst 

Which none may find below! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 

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

Though their hearts were once with ours: 

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

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

Which are told to others now I 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget ? 
We call and they answer not again : 

Do they love do they love us yet ? 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

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

His wandering through the wild? 

We call them far through the silent night, 

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

But say, do they love there still ? 2 

1 An expedition was actually undertaken Vy Juan Ponce de Leon, in the sixteenth century, 
with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring 
in <.ne of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in i 
. See ROBERTSON'S History of America. 



YES ! I came from the spirits' land, 

From the land that is bright and fair ; 
1 came with a voice from the shadowy band, 

To tell that they love you there. 

To say, if a wish or a vain regret 

Could live in Elysian bowers, 
'Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget, 

The beloved of their youthful hours. 

To whisper the dear deserted band, 

Who smiled on their tarriance here, 
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land 

Are the friends they li :ve loved so dew. 



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

u J'ai passe moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Souvenirs (TAmcrique, "chez une 
peuplade Indienne qui se prenait a pleurer a la vue d'un voyageur, pnrce qu'il lui rappelail 
lies amis partis Dour la Contre'e des Ames, et depuis long-temps en voyage"\ 

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept. 
WE looked for the youth of the sunny glance 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance : 
The light of his was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee. 
But there came a voice from a distant shore 
He was called he is found midst his tribe no more : 
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, 
But we look for him still he will yet return ! 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : 
We roused him we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step but the step was thine ! 

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

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept. 
We looked for the chief, who hath left the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here : 
We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 

Tis true, in the silent night you call, 

And they answer you not again ; 
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all 

Sound only was made for pain. 
That their land is bright and they weep no more, 

I have warbled from hill to hill ; 
But my plaintive strain should have told before. 

That they love, oh ! they love you still. 
They bid me say that unfading flowers 

You'll find in the path they trode ; 
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers. 

Pronounced by the voice of God. 


We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky ! 
Where are they ? Thou'rt seeking some distant coast 
Oh ask of them, stranger ! send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, 
And to watch for a step but the step was thine ! 



t" The river St. Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which lies between Flint and 
Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a spa e of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast ac- 
cumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or 
knolls of rich high land ; one of which the present generation of tVe Creek Indians represent 
to be a most blissful spot of earth. They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, 
whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial paradise 
has been sten by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game ; but that in 
their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted 
land, still (as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately 
appeal ing and disappearing. They resolved at length to leave the delusive pursuit, and to 
return ; which, after a number of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their ad- 
ventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire to 
invade and make a conquest of so charming a country ; but all their attempts have hitherto 
proved abortive, never having been able again to find that enchanting spot." BERTRAM'S 
Travels through North and South Carolina. 

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

SON of the stranger ! wouldst thou 


O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way, 
To reach the still and shining lake 
Along whose banks the west winds 

play ? 

Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile 
Oh 1 seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty serpent-king, 1 

Midst the gray rocks, his old 

domain ; [spring 

Ward but the cougar's deadly 

Thy step that lake's green shore 

may gain ; 
And the bright Isle, when all is passed, 

Yes ! there, with all its rainbow 


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

And breathings from their sunny 

Which are not of the things that 


And singing voices from their bowors 
Shall greet thee in the purple sky; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 

Shall vainly meet thine eye at last ! I Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

1 The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and 
cedars, and covered with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of latllesn.ikes, 
whom they denominate the "bright old inhabitants." They represent them as snakes of an 
i-noimous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes 
within tlie reach of their eyes. Their heads are said to be downed wiili a carbuncle of daiuliug 
brightness See Notes to L^YUEN'S Scfttei oj Infancy. 


Or hast thou heard the sounds that 

From the deep chambers of the 

earth ? 

The wild and wondrous melodies 
To which the ancient rocks gave 

birth ? ' 

Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the 

The emerald waves ! they take their 

hue [shore ; 

And image from that sunbright 

But wouldst thou launch thy light 


And wouldst thou ply thy rapid 
oar. [speed, 

Before thee, hadst thou morning's 
The dreamy land should still recede 1 

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst 


The music of its flowering shades, 
And ever should the sound be near 
Of founts that ripple through its 

glades ; 

The sound, and sight, and flashing ray 
Of joyous waters in their play 1 

But woe to him that sees them burst 
With their bright spray-showers to 

the lake ! 
Earth has no spring to quench the 

That semblance in his soul shall 


Forever pouring through his dreams 
The gush of those untasted streams ! 

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn. 

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

Parched with the fever's agony ! 
From the blue mountains to the main 
Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 

E'en thus our hunters came of yore 

Back from their long and weary 

quest ; [shore ? 

Had they not seen the untrodden 

And could they midst our wilds 

find rest ? 

The lightning of their glance was fled, 
They dwelt amongst us as the dead ! 

They lay beside our glittering rills 
With visions in their darkened 

Their joy was not amidst the hills 

Where elk and deer before us fly 
Their spears upon the cedar hung, 
Their javelins to the wind were flung. 

They bent no more the forest bow. 
They armed not with the warrior 
band, slow 

The moons waned o'er them dim and 
They left us for the spirits' land ! 
Beneath our pines yon greenward heap 
Shows where the restless found their 

Son of the stranger ! if at eve 

Silence be 'midst us in thy place, 
Yet go not where the mighty leave 
The strength of battle and ox 

chase ! 

Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile 
Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain Isle 1 


{It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in different 
directions through the land, each bearing a bended bow ', and that peace was in like mannei 
announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight. See the Cambrian Antiquities. 

THERE was heard the sound of a com- 
ing foe, 

There was sent through Britain a 
bended bow ; 

And a voice was poured on the free 

winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war 

1 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries Laxat 
dfc Afusica, and alluded to in a former note. 


. learcl yon not the battle-horn? 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn : 
Leave it for the birds of heaven 
S winds must Hash and spears be 

riven ! 

Leave it for the winds to shed 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red." 

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's 

son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice 

passed on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain- 

Take the falchion from its place ; 
Let the wolf go free to-day, 
Leave him for a nobler prey ; 
Let the deer uncalled sweep by 
Any thee ! Britain's foes are nigh !" 

And the hunter armed ere the chase 

was done ; 
And the bended bow and the voice 

passed on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming 

Though the fires give ruddy light, 

Leave the hearth, and leave the 

Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall." 

And the chieftain armed, and the horn 

was blown ; 
And the bended bow and the voice 

passed on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds arc 


In the bower and in the hold, 
Where the gotherd's lay is sung, 
Where the minstrel's harp is 

strung ! 

Foes are on thy native sea 
Give our bards a tale of thee ! " 

And the prince came armed, like a 

leader's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice 

passed on. 

" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy, 
He must learn the battle's joy: 
Sister ! bring the sword and spear 
Give thy brother words of cheer: 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part: 2 
Britain calls the strong in heart !' 

And the bended bow and the voico 

passed on, 

And the bards made song for a battl 


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

THE bark that held a prince went down, 

The sweep-ng waves rolled on ; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
lie lived for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; 
Why comes not death to those who 
mourn ? 

1 Ie never smiled again J 

Tbrre str^d proud forms around his 

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

That one bencnth the wave ? 
Before him passed the young and fair, 

In pleasure's reckless train ; 
But seas dashed o'er his pon's brighi 

He never smiled again ! 


He sat where festal bowls went round, 

He heard the minstrel sing, 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned 

Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

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

He never smiled again ! 

Hearts, in that time.closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly poured, 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed 
with tears, 

Were left to heaven's bright rain, 
Fresh hopes were born for other year 

He never smiled again 1 


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

TORCHES were blazing clear, 

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

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

And warriors slept beneath; 
And light, as noon's broad light, was 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare, 
Though dimmed at times by the censer's 

Yet it fell still brightest there : 
As if each deeply furrowed trace 

Of earthly years to show. 
Mas ! that sceptred mortal's race 

Had surely closed in woe 1 

The marble floor was swept 
By many a long dark stole, 
As the kneeling priests round him that 


Sang mass for the parted soul : 
And solemn were the strains they 


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

and sword, 
And the silent king in sight. 

There was heard a heavy clang, 
As of steel-girt men the tread, 

And the tombs and the hollow pave- 
ment rang 

With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
And the holy chant was hushed awhilp, 

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

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with haughty look, 

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

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

And clasped hands o'er it raised ; 
For his father lay before him low 

It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed ! 

And silently he strove 

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

Than steel may keep suppressed ! 
And his tears brake forth, at last, like 

Men held their breath in awe ; 
For his face was seen by his warrioi 

And he recked not that they saw. 

He looked upon the dead 

And sorrow seemed to lie, 
A weight of sorrow, even like lead, 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 


He stooped and kissed the frozen 

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

Gave his soul's passion way. 

" O father ! is it vain, 

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

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

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

To hear thee bless thy son. 

" Speak to me ! Mighty grief 

Ere now the dust hath stirred ! 
Hear me, but hear me ! father, chief, 

My king ! I must be heard ! 
Hushed, hushed how is it that I call 

And that thou answerest ^ot ? 
When was it thus ? Woe, woe for all 

The love my soul forgot 1 

" Thy silver hairs I see, 
So still, so sadly bright ! 

And father, father ! but for me, 
They had not been so white ! 

/bore thee clown, high heart ! at last : 
No longer couldst thou strive. 

Oh ! for one moment of the past. 
To kneel and say ' forgive ! ' 

" Thou wert the noblest king 

On royal throne e'er seen ; 
And thou didst wear in knightly ring 1 , 

Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
And thou didst prove, where spears art 

In war, the bravest heart: 
Oh! ever the renowned and loved 

Thou wert and there thou art I 

" Thou that my boyhood's guide 

Didst take fond joy to be ! 
The times I've sported at thy side, 

And climbed thy parent knee I 
And there before the blessed shrine, 

My sire ! I see tbee lie, 
How will that sad stiil face of thine 

Look on me till I die ! " 


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

YES ! I have seen the ancient oak 

On the dark deep water cast, 
And it was not felled by the wood- 
man's stroke, 

Or the rush of the sweeping blast; 
For the axe might never touch that 

And the air was still as a summer sea. 

I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
By an arrow in the fight, 
And the old woods shook to their 

loftiest leaf, 

At the crashing of its might ; 
And the startled deer to their coverts 

drew, [flew ! j But on his brow the mark is set 

And the spray of the lake as a fountain's Oh ! could my life redeem him yet ! 

'Tis fallen ! But think thou not I 


For the forest's pride o'ert hr< >\vn 
An old man's tears lie far too deep 

To be poured for this alone ; 
But by that sign too well I know, 
That a youthful head, must soon be 
low ! 

A youthful head, with its shining hair. 

And its bright quick-flashing eye- 
Well may I weep ! for the boy is 

Too fair a thing to die ! 



He bounded by me as I gazed 

Alone on the fatal sign, 
And it seemed like sunshine when 

he raised 

His joyous glance to mine. 
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, 
o full of life but he must die 1 

He must, he must ! in that deep dell 

By that dark water's side, 
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree 


But an heir of his fathers' died. 
And he there's laughter in his eye, 
Joy in his voice yet he must die ! 

I've borne him in these arms, that 

Are nerveless and unstrung ; 
And must I see, on that fair brow. 

The dust untimely flung ? 

I must ! yon green oak, branch and 

Lies floating on the dark lake's breast I 

The noble boy ! how proudly sprung 

The falcon from his hand ! 
It seemed like youth to see him 


A flower in his father's land ! 
But the hour of the knell and the dirge 

is, nigh 

For the tree had fallen, and the flower 
must die. 

Say not 'tis vain ! I tell thee, some 

Are warned by a meteor's light, 
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them 


Or a voice on the winds by night; 
And they must go ! And he too, he ! 
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree I 


fit is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces tha 
approach of war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodensteio, 
and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the 
sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the com- 
mencement of the second war hi Germany.] 

THY rest was deep at the slumberer's 


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

As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed, 
And the roar of the stormy chase went 

Through the dark unquiet sky I 

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed 

When he caught the piercing sounds, 

And the oak-boughs crashed to his 

antlered head, 

As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 
And the falcon soared from her craggy 


Away through the rushing night I 
The banner shook on its ancient hold, 

And the pine in its desert place, 
As the cloud and tempest onward rolled 

With the din of the trampling race ; 
And the glens were filled with the 

laugh and shout, 
And the bugle, ringing out ! 

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup 


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


Of the harp's triumphant chord ; 
And the Minnesinger's ' thrilling lay 
In the hall died fast away. 

'Minnesinger, love-singer the wandering 
minstrels of Germany were so called in the mid* 
die ages. 



The convent's chanted rite was stayed, 

And the hermit dropped his beads, 
And a trembling ran through the forest- 

At the neigh of the phantom steeds, 
And the church-bells pealed to the 

rocking blast 
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed. 

The storm hath swept with the chase 


There is stillness in the sky ; 
tfut the mother looks on her son to-day 

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

Midst the gleam of her golden hair ! 

The Rhine flows bright ; but its waves 

ere long 

Must hrir a voice of war, 
And the clash of spears our hills among, 

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

For the Huntsman hath gone by! 

SONG. 1 


THE corn in golden light 
Waves o'er the plain ; 

The sickle's gleam is bright ; 
Full swells the grain. 

Now send we far around 

Our harvest lay ! 
Alas ! a heavier sound 

Comes o'er the day ! 

Earth shrouds with burial sod 

Her soft eyes blue, 
Now o'er the gifts of God 

Fall tears like dew ! 

1 For the year of the Queen of Prussia's 

On every breeze a knell 

The hamlets pour : 
We know its cause too well 
She is no more ! 



KNOW ye not when our dead 

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

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

Had crushed our vines and flowers, 
When jewelled crests arose 

Through the holy laurel bowers; 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

There was one, a leader crowned, 

And armed for Greece thai day ; 
But the falchions made no sound 

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

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

Though their path was through his 

Wh n banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

His sword was seen to flash 

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

The stroke was heard by none I 
1 [is voice was not of those 

That swelled the rolling blast. 
And his steps fell hushed lik<- sn\vs 

'Twas the Shade of Theseus pa.^ed ! 

I 4 2 


When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

Far sweeping through the foe, 
With a fiery charge he bore ; 

\nd the Mede left many a bow 
On the sounding ocean-shore. 

And the foaming waves grew red, 
And the sails were crowded fast, 

When the sons of Asia fled, 
As tkc Shade of Theseus passed ! 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 


WHERE is the summer with her golden sun ? 
That festal glory hath not passed from earth : 

For me alone the laughing day is done ! 

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

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

Through the wild places bearing melody ? 
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves ? 
Far in my own bright land ! 

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

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

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

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

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

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



'Les Chants Funebres par lesquels on deplore en Grece la mortde sesproches.prennent 1 
nom particulierde Myriologia comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Uu 
malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mere, ses filles, ses sceurs, celles, en UB 
mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont la, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, ene'panchant 
librement, cliacune selon son naturel et samesurede tendresse pour le de'funt, la douleur qu'elle 
ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirem toutes chez une de leurs paren- 
tes ou de leurs amies. La elles chaugcnt de vetemens, s'habillent de blanc. comme pour la ce 
remonie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'elles gardent la tete nue, les cheveujc e'pars et pen- 
. dams. Ces apprets termmes, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil ; toutes se rarc 
' gei.t en cercle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et comme la premiere fois, 
sans regie et sans contraiute. A ces plaintes spontanees succedent bientot des lamentations 
d' une autre espece: ce spnt les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parentequi 
prononce le sien la premiere ; apres elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples yoisines. 
Lt.-.-. Myriologues sont toujours composes et chantes par les femmes. Ilssont toujours improvi- 
se.--, toujours en vers, et toujours chantes sur un air qui differe d'un lieu a un autre, mais qui, 
dans un lieudonne, rcste invanablement consacre a ce genre de poesie." Chants Pofiiiaire* 
de la Grtce Maderite, par C. FAURIEL.] 

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young- 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung : 
" lanthis ! dost thou sleep ? Thou sleepest ! but this is not the rest* 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillowed on my breast? 
I lulled thee not to this repose, lanthis ! my sweet son ! 
As, in thy glowing childhood's time, by twilight I have done. 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now ? 
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow ? 

" I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave I 

I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave. 

Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye ^ 

Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie ; 

And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed on breezes borne. 

When to thy couch I came and said, 'Wake, hunter, wake ! 'tis morn!" 

Yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! untouched by slow decay, 

And I, the withered stem, remain. I would that grief might slay I 

" Oh ! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that this would be ! 

I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee ! 

I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high; 

A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die ! 

That thou must die, my fearless one ! where swords were flashing redl 

Why doth a mother live to say My first-bor and my dead ! 

They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won : 

Speak thou, and I will hear, my child 1 lanthis 1 my sweet sonl" 

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

A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung : 

" lanthis ! lookest thou not on me? Can love indeed be fled? 

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

I would that I had followed thee, lanthis, my beloved ! 

And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts arc proved ; 

That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side ! - 

It would have been a blessed thing together had we clied, '," 


" But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword ? 

Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board ? 

Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine, 

Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine ? 

And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart 

Fast gushing, like a mountain spring ! And couldst thou thus depart ? 

Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath ? 

Oh ! I was with thee but in joy, that shouldst have been in death ! 

"Yes ! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led, 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread ; 
But not where noble blood flowed forth, where sounding javelins flew 
Why -:lid I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last adieu ? 
Wha* now can breathe of gladness more, what scene, what hour, what tone? 
Tht blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone 1 
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved : 
Take me from this dark world with thee, lanthis ! my beloved I " 

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young- - 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung : 
" lanthis I brother of my soul ! oh ! where are now the days 
That laughed among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays ? 
When we two sported by the streams, or tracked them to their source, 
And like the stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course 1 
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, 
But see thy bounding step no more my brother and my friend ! 

" I come with flowers for spring is come ! lanthis ! art thou here f 

I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier. 

Thou shouldst be crowned with victory's crown but oh I more meet they seen 

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream 

More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low. 

Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow 

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send : 

Woe ! that it smiles, and not for thee ! my brother and my friead 1 " 


IThis piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his " Chansons Popnlaires de la Grec 
Moderne," and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting tlie extempoe*. 
parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs us, they are called, in which the modi 
ern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their countrf 
and friends.] 

A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a hone 
Such as to early thought gives images, 
The longest treasured, and most oft recalled, 
And brightest, kept of love ; a mountain home, 
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines, 
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 


Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, 

And half-unconscious prayer ; a Grecian home, 

With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung, 

And, through the dimness of its olive shades, 

Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 

Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. 

And this was what he left ! Yet many leave 

Far more the glistening eye, that first from theirs 

Called out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle hand, 

Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps 

To where the violets lay ; the tender voice 

That earliest taught them what deep melody 

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

Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 

With all a mother's love ! A bitter grief 

Was his to part unloved! of her unloved 

That should have breathed upon his heart, like spring, 

Fostering its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friend*, 

And they went forth to cheer him on his way 

Unto the parting spot, and she too went, 

That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. 

The parting spot was reached a lone deep glen, 

Holy, perchance, of yore ; for cave and fount 

Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes ; and above, 

The silence of the blue still upper heaven 

Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore 

Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, 

The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 

Through the wild laurels back ; but then a light 

Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, 

A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 

A burst of passionate song. 

" Farewell, farewell ! 

I hear thee, O thou rushing stream ! thou'rt from my native dell, 
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound a murmur of farewell ! 
And fare thee well flow on, my stream ! flow on, thou bright and free 
I do but dream that 'in thy voice one tone laments for me ; 
But I have been a thing unloved from childhood's loving years, 
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears ! 
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known : 
The woods can tell where he wept, that ever wept alone ! 

" I see thee once again, my home ! thou'rt there amidst thy vines, 
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines. 
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves 
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves. 
The hour the mother loves ! for me beloved it hath not been ; 
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest, a blessed scene ! 
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will corn* 
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home ? 



" Not as the dead ! no, not the dead ! We speak of them \ve keep 
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep : 
We hallow even the lyre they touched, we love the lay they sung, 
We pass with softer step the place they filled our band among I 
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth 
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth ! 
I go 1 the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell 
When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, mountains, home, farewell ! 

' And farewell, mother ! I have borne in lonely silence long, 
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong ; 
And I will speak ! though but the wind that wanders through the sky, 
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply. 
Yes ! I will speak ! Within my breast, whate'er hath seemed to be, 
There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gushed for thee ! 
Brightly it would have gushed but thou, my mother ! thou hast thrown 
Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own ! 

"Then fare thee well ! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine, 

Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine. 

Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! it may be that a tone 

Yet fro"r. my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone ; 

And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smiled, 

And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child ! 

Might but my spirit then return, and midst its kindred dwe'l, 

And quench its thirst with love's free tears ! 'Tis all a dream farewell J " 

" Farewell 1 " the echo died with that deep word ; 
Yet died not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quickened in the mother's breast ! 
There had passed many changes o'er her brow, 
And cheek, and eye ; but into one bright flood 
Of tears at last all melted ; and she fell 
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, 
" Return, return, my son ! " The echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring, " Return, my son 1 " 


is related, in a French life of All Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the arlvnnce 
of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty sun. mil, am', aftef 
chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves with their children, into the chasm below, to 
avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.] 

SHE stood upon the loftiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky ; 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 


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

For in the rocky strait beneath, 

Lay Suliote sire and son : 
They had heaped high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

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

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 

And now the cymbal's clang, 
Till even the upper air was stirred, 

As cliff and hollow rang. 

" Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ! 
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ? 
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 
- As if at a glance of thine armed sire ? 

Still ! be thou still ! there are brave men low : 
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now I " 

But nearer came the clash of steel, 

And louder swelled the horn, 
And farther yet the tambour's peal 

Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth t 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, 
Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath blessed thee, as I have done ! 
Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me ! " 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung, 

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

A cry and all was o'er 1 



{The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral service, in which rela- 
tives and friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid 
their final adieu. See Christian Researches in the Mediterranean^ 

" Tis hard to lay into the earth 
A countenance so benign ! a form that walked 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! " WILSON 

COME near ! Ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of. the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 

Come near ! once more let kindred lips be pressed 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 

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

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed. 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest I 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings 1 Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved the welcome and the blessed 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

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

The beings born to die ? 

but not where death has power may love be blessed. 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

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

The lovely must depart I 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early called to rest ! 

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

Yet that, even that must fade : 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest. 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

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

At the gay bridal-feast ! 

Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest. 


Yet mourn ye not as they 

Whose spirit's light is quenched ! For him the past 
Is sealed : he may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and blessed. 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest I 



nil. nuaii; ctiiu nmuu ilia bVuiMMWlu&l 111.111 wdmilg W1L11 .1 uu.ii, aim d[l 

time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella was not there ; but in the di 

"And is not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? " 


" Fermossi al fin il cor che balzfc Unto.'' 


TWAS but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 
Under the boughs where early birds were singing ; 


I stood o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree. 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a roval forest. Then the fawn 
Shot like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert : and the smooth tuff shook, 
And l :i es quivered by the glade's lone brook, 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
V A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all passed by 
Save one I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou weft there, 
Seymour ! A soft wind blew the clustering hair 
l^Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away, 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array, 
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted 

Even in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted. 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour 
VEven like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest-flowers. 


Tis past ! I wake, 

A captive, and alone, and far from thee. 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be; 
And feeling still my woman-spirit strong, 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervor, and prevail 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, 
Through hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright face. 
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase 
The characters of anguish. In this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
"Mating p^t sorrow, by communion, sweet 


And thou too art in bonds ! Yet droop thou not, 
O my beloved ! there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles op its head, 


Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight 
Covers its beautiful ! If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now 
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken 
Forever from this world oh ! thus forsaken 
Could I bear on ? Thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, 
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hoars of care ! 
I have not watched in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss ? 
Yet shall I fear that lot the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, 
After long suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 


Sunset ! I tell each moment. From the skies 
The last red splendor floats along my wall, 

Like a king's banner ! Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star I hear 'twas not the call, 

The expected voice ; my quick heart throbbed too soon, 

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 

Showers down less golden light. Beneath her beam 

Through my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 

Of summer-lands afar, where holy love, 

Under the vine or in the citron grove, 

May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. Hark ! a bell's slow chime I 
My heart strikes with it. Yet again 'tis time ! 
A step ! a voice ! or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark ! haste ! I come, to meet thee on the seas ! 


Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly never more ! The hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed 
That spoke 1 sweet oracles ; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks no billow tossed ; 
Yet were they severed, even as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain in vainl 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The formed it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : it drew near 
Fraught with our foes ! What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour ! thee ! 

I will not sink 

Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee ! 
And this shall be my strength the joy to think 

That thou mayest' wander with heaven's breath around thee 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken ; 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 


My friend ! my friend ! where art thou ? Day by day, 
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away, 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; summer with her smile 

Fills the green forest ; young hearts breathe their vows 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; hope laughs from loving eyes : 
All this is in the world I These joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path ! On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall the stricken deer 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 


Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent, 
Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath been, 
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill. My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream the green, the free, 
The full of all sweet sound the shut from me ! 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell 

O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 

And by the streams. But I the blood of kings, 
A proud unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains! 
Kings 1 I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant ; and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crushed ! Oh ! heaven is far 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am proved 

So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved 1 

There are such tales of holy marvels done 

By strong affection, of deliverance won 

Through its prevailing power ! Are these things told 

Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 

Wonder, yet dare not doubt ; and thou ! oh, thou ! 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? 
Thou canst not ! Through the silent night, even now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 

Aid ! comes there yet no aid ? The voice of blood 

Passes heaven's gate, even ere the crimson flood 

Sinks through the greensward ! Is there not a cry 

From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 

To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! hear me ! None 

That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 

Have heavier cause ! Yet hear ! my soul grows dark ! 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark 

On the rnid seas, and with the storm alone, 

And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown, 

Its freight of human hearts ? The o'ermastering wave 

Who shall tell how it rushed and none to save J 


Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is poured, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! A magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ; 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all 

Thine ! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair ? 
It is not well of thee ! My love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying : 
Even thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf 
Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief ! 

Death ! What ! is death a locked and treasured thing, 

Guarded by swords of fire ? a hidden spring, 

A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 

As if the world within me held no cure ? 

Wherefore not spread free wings - Heaven, heaven control 

These thoughts ! they rush I look into my soul 

As down a gulf, and tremble at the array 

Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray 1 

So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilled. 

Father in Heaven ! thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled, 

For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if thy child, 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath gown wild 
And sinned in her despair. It well may be 
Tkat thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world poured 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in thy place I Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to p_ace 1 

And peace at last is nigh. 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
The o'erwearied dust from home : no breeze flits by, 

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens its word is Death ! Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart, 
owing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 


Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Even in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, 
Thee, its first love ! O tender still, and true! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment ! 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth : but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee} the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send 
Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend I 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Though bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it, then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell ! The passion of long years I pour 
Into that word I Thou hearest not but the woe 
And fervor of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place : there let them dwell. 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell ! 


" Fear ! I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

I will not live degraded." 


COME from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crowned, 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 

1 Founded on a circumstance related in the second series of the Curiosities of Littratttrt^ 
led forming part of a picture in the "Painted Biography" there described. 


J.ewels flashed out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone. 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervent beam. 

She looked on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 

She turned and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her earlyyears ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall ; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true : 

Mute be the song and the choral strain. 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 

She lifted her graceful head at last 

The choking swell of her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 


WHY do I weep ? To leave the vine 

. Whose clusters o'er me bend ; 
The myrtle yet, oh, call it mine ! 

The flowers I love to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dew 

Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 
Oh ! therefore let me weep I 


I leave thee, sister ! we have played 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes ! thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more 

Kind sister, let me weep 1 

I leave thee, father 1 Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet, 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child, 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! on thy breast 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain! 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again ? 

Sweet mother ! let me weep ! 

And like a slight young tree that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs, 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart as a mountain spring 
That works its way, through the torrent's foam, 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 
It is well ! the cloud on her soul that lay, 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother 1 on earth it must still be so : 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng, 

Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 

Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes' gleam, 

Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream ; 

Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 

Is over the deep-veined violet's bed ; 

They have light leaves around them, blue skies above, 

An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 


Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood, 


With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed, 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river ; 
Stars of jasmine its pillars crowned, 
Vine-stalks its lattice and the walls had bound ; 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay, 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride, 
And the guests were met by that fountain side. 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 
With lips of love, and a brow serene, 
Meet for the soul of the deep-wood scene. 
Bring wine, bring odors! the board is spread; 
Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head ! 
The wine-cups foamed, and the rose was showered 
On the young and fair from the world embowered ; 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade, 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! Was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore ? 
Silence ! did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet I 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword ! 
The groves are filled with a pirate horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ! 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, 

The woods with the shrieks of the maidens rang ; 

Under the golden-fruited boughs 

There were flashing poniards and darkening brows- 

Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled, 

And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, 

Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe, 

And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 

That sought his voung bride out mournfully. 

She knelt down beside him her arms she wound 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 


As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp 

But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 

The sea's fierce rovers they left him there : 

They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 

And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 

And a hush of fear through the summer grove. 

So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 

Gloomy lay the shore that night, 

When the moon, with sleeping light, 

Bathed each purple Sciote hill 

Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 

O'er the wave no gay guitar 

Sent its floating music far ; 

No glad sound of dancing feet 

Woke the starry hours to greet. 

But a voice of" mortal woe, 

In its changes wild or low, 

Through the midnight's blue repose, 

From the sea-beat rocks arose, 

As Eudora's mother stood 

Gazing o'er the /Egean flood, 

With a fixed and straining eye 

Oh I was the spoiler's vessel nigh ? 

Yes ! there, becalmed in silent sleep, 

Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 

On a sea of molten silver, dark 

Brooding it frowned, that evil bark I 

There its broad pennon a shadow cast, 

Moveless and black from the tall still mast; 

And the heavy sound of its flapping sail 

Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 

Hushed was all else had ocean's breast 

Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ? the waves tremble ! what piercing cry 

Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ! 

What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire, 

Shoots from the deck up ? Fire I 'tis fire ! 

There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 

Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 

There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, 

And the dashing of water but fruitless all I 

Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 

The might and wrath of the rushing flame 1 

It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake, 

That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 

It hath touched the sails, and their canvas rolls 

Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls ; 


It hath taken the flag's high place in the air, 

And reddened the stars with its wavy glare ; 

And sent out bright arrows, and soared in glee, 

To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea, 

The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow 

Eudora ! Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 

The slave and his master alike are gone 

Mother! who stands on the deck alone? 

The child of thy bosom ! and lo ! a brand 

Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 

And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 

Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare; 

And her fragile form to its loftiest height 

Dilated, as if by the spirit's might ; 

And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught 

Oh 1 could this work be of woman wrought ? 

Yes 1 'twas her deed ! by that haughty smile, 

It was hers : she hath kindled her funeral pile ! 

Never might shame on that bright head be, 

Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free I 

Proudly she stands like an Indian bride, 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear, 

As the flames to her marriage robe draw near, 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never infold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasped 

Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasped 

Her sinking knee unto heaven is bowed, 

And her last look raised through the smoke's dim shroud, 

And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move ; 

Now the night gathers o'er youth and love ! 


(Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of Griitli, had been alarmed bjr 
the e'nvy with which the Austrian bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth 
and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the 
entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of a heroic spirit, that he was in- 
duced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally de- 

" Nor look nor tone revealeth aught 
Save woman's quietness of thought ; 
And yet around her is a light 
Of inward majesty and might." M. J. J. 

" Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen driickt, 
Der kann fur herd und hof mil freuden fecliten." 


IT was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 


And when the herd's returning bells are sweet, 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, 
And the last note of that wild horn swells by 
Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 

Touched with the crimson of the dying huur, 
Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, 

And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bowr ; 
But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 
Then first looked mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree, 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 

Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

The accustomed joy in all which evening brings, 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hushed before him sad, yet mild 

In her beseeching mien ! he marked it not. 
The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child 

Rang from the greensward round the sheltered spot, 
But seemed unheard ; until at last the boy 
Raised from his heaped-up flowers a glance of joy, 

And met his father's face. But then a change 

Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 
And a quick sense of something dimly strange 

Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 
So often climbed, and lift his loving eyes 
That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 

Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey- 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away ? 

* It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 
Missing the smile from thine ! Oh, cheer thee I bend 

To his soft arms : unseal thy thoughts e'en now 1 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He looked up into that sweet earnest face, 

But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 
Was loosened from his soul ; its inmost place 

Not yet unveiled by love's o'ermastering hand, 
" Speak low ! " he cried, and pointed where on high 
The white Alps glittered through the solemn sky : 


" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couched by forest rills, 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chained, and thee 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see ? " 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek ; 

Back on the linden stem she leaned her form; 
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harp string shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness passed, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness the while, 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly that hour 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might 

As it found language : " Are we thus oppressed ? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

" I know what thou wouldst do ; and be it done ! 

Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. 
Trust me to heaven, my husband ! this, thy son, 

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength if aught be strong on earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 

To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. 


God shall be with thee, my beloved ! Away ! 
Bless but thy child, and leave me I can pray I " 

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking 

To clarion sounds upon the ringing air; 
He caught her to hrs breast, while proud tears breaking 

From his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair ; 
And " worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 
That man for thee should gird himself to die I 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armor to my heart : 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell : 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Farewell ! " 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake, 

In the clear starlight : he the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs, 

Singing its blue half-curtained eyes to sleep 

With a kw hvmn, amidst the stillness deep. 


tlVoperzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry 
and music, died in consequence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, repre- 
sents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Anadne, to a Roman knight, the object ot 
her affection, who regards it with indifference.] 

'Tell me no more, no more 



One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its burden of affections? I depart, 
Unknown, though Fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious." 


ONE dream of passion and of beauty more ! 

And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 

My soul away I Let earth retrain a trace 

Of that which lit my being, though its race 

Might have bee lo'ftier far. Yet one more dreamt 

From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 

Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 

May this last work, this farewell triumph be 


Thou, loved so vainly ! I would have enshrined 

Something immortal of my heart and mind, 

That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 

Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 

Of lost affection, something that may prove 

What she hath been, whose melancholy love 

On thee was lavished ; silent pang and tear, 

And fervent song that gushed when none were near, . 

And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 

Stealing the brightness from her life away 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me die ! 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness my spirit, wake ! 

Even for thy sorrowful affection's sake, 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! that he may yet, 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 


It comes ! the power 

Within me born flows back my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : they throng they press 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness 
I shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolded as a rose, 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, 
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows! and now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shall wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh ! more fair, 
Touched into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am passed away. Thou art the mould, 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, the untold, 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye 
Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully, 
Of all my love and grief ! Oh ! could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice a sweet, and low, 
And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom on its tones to bear 
My life's deep feeling as the southern air 


Wafts the faint myrtle's breath to rise, to swell, 

To sink away in accents of farewell, 

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 

Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 

If love be strong as death ! 


Now fair thou art, 

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee. Oh I I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought ; 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ! A heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below , 
An eye to be my star ; a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of spring 
These are denied me dreamt of still in vain. 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 


Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work 1 in thee. 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the reed 
From storms a shelter give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine 

Give the parched flower a rain-drop, and the meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
The abiding place it asked ! Yet how my heart, 
In its own fairy world of song and art 
Once beat for praise ! Are those high longings o'er ? 
That which I have been can I be no more ? 
Never ! oh, never more ! though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thin air with soul, be wandering past me still ; 
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet dreams. 
Never ! oh, never more ! Where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, 
When there the blight hath settled ! But I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow .wasting, from the lonely pain. 
The inward burning of those words " in vain" 



Seared on the heart I go. 'Twill soon be past ! 
Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, oh ! th'ou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth who knowest not what was given 
In that devotedness the sad, and deep, 
And unrepaid farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest I 
But that were happiness ! and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was formed to be 
So richly blessed ! With thee to watch the sky, 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh ; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept even as part of our sweet air along 
To listen silently ; with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days 
This had been joy enough ; and hour by hour, 
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, 
How had my spirit soared, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow ! Dreams, dreams ! the fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name 

,As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hushed awhile to live, 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound ; 
I leave it on my country's air to dwell 
Say proudly yet " 'Twos hers who loved me well! 9 ' 


[The Baron Von tier Wart, accused though it is believed unjustly as an accomplice in the as- 
sassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife 
Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing .hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own 
sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter 
which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published s> me years ago 
t Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude l*'on der Wart ; or, Fidelity until DtiitA.] 

" Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which serves thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law, 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee." JOANNA HAILI.IB. 

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed 

All that she loved was there. 

The night was round her clear and 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 
She bathed his lips with dew." Page 167. 


"And bid me not depart," she cried; 

My Rudolph, say not so ! 
1'nis is no time to quit thy side 

Peace ! peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow ? 
die world ! what means it? Mine is 

I will not leave thee now. 

' I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
i )oubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this! 
Aiid thou, mine honored love and 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek 
Love, I.ove ! of mortal agony 

Thou, only tttou % shouldst speak \ 

The wind rose high but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought re- 

To happy bosoms near ; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayei 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his 

With her pale hands and soft, 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low 

Had stilled his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his lips with dew, 
And on his cheeks such kisses pressed 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed one smile in death 

And his worn spirit passed ! 
While even as o'er a martyr's grave 

She Hnelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, blessed the God who 

Strength to forsake it not I 


" Sometimes 

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, 
And loved when they should hate like thee, Imelda! 

Italy, a Pten. 

" Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma." TASSO. 

WE have the myrtle's breath around us here, 

Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How bnghtly clear, 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells, 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar ! That sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death ; 


Yet once the wave was darkened, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops but not of rain 
On the dim viol ts by Its marble bed, 
And the pale shining water-lily's head. 

Sad is that 1 gcnd's truth. A fair girl met 

On;' whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair 

With the blue heaven of Italy above, 
And citron-odors dying on the air, 
And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. What recked their souls of strife 
Between their fathers ! Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world brings forth. They stood that hour 
Speaking of hope ; while tree, and fount, and flower, 
And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs, 
Seemed holy things, as records of their vows. 

But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twilight : pausing there, she caught 
Was it the clash of sworcls ? A swift dark thought 

Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it passed, 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more, 
She stilled her heart .to listen all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng 
Peopling her father's halls That fatal night 
Her eye looked starry in its dazzling light, 
And her cheek glowed with beauty's flushing dyes, 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Followed h'.r form beneath the clear lamp's blaze, 
And marvelled at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue 
With something of dim fear ; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, 

\Vhere thought, if present, an unbidden guest, 


Comes not unmasked. Howe'er this were, the time 

Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 

Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 

Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft ; 

When trembling stars looked silvery in their wane, 

And heavy flowers yet slumbered, once again 

There stole a footstep, fleet, light, and lone, 

Through the dim cedar shade the step of one' 

That started at a leaf, of one that fled, 

Of one that panted with some secret dread. 

What did Imelda there ? She sought the scene 

Where love so late with youth and hope had been. 

Bodings were on her soul ; a shuddering thrill 

Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill 

Met her with melody sweet sounds and low: 

IVe hear them yet, they live along its flow 

Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 

She gained the wave flashed forth 'twas darkly dyed 

Even as from warrior-hearts ; and on its edge, 

Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, 
There lay, as lulled by stream and rustling sedge, 

A youth, a graceful youth. " Oh ! dost thou sleep ? 
Azzo ! " she cried, " my Azzo ! is this rest ? " 
But then her low tones faltered : " On thy breast 
Is the stain yes, 'tis blood ! And that cold cheek 
That moveless lip : thou dost not slumber ? speak, 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! No sound no breath 
What hath come thus between our spirits? Death ! 
Death ? I but dream I dream ! " And there she stood, 
A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustained by that dark stem alone, 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimmed eye caught a gleam 
'Twas where a sword lay shivered by the stream 
Her brother's sword ! she knew it ; and she knew 
'Twas with a venomed point that weapon slew ! 
Woe for young love ! But love is strong. There came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame; 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and pressed 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast, 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! 
So the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 

Through the green forests of the Apennines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, 

And steps and voices out amongst the vines. 


What found that dayspring here ? Two fair forms laid 

Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 

Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 

Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave ? 

Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl, 

Decked as for bridal hours ! long braids of pearl 

Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light ; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining; 

And her pale graceful arms how sadly bright! 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. 
But she died first the violet's hue had spread 

O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppressed ; 
She had bowed heavily her gentle head, 

And on the youth's hushed bosom sunk to rest. 
So slept they well ! the poison's work was done ! 
Love with true heart had striven but Death had won. 



" Du Heilige ! rufe dein Kind zuriick! 
Ich habe genossen das irdische Cluck, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet-" WALLBNSTBW. 

THE woods oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great western world when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines. 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismayed while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darkened with the night. 
Alone she sate ; though many lay around, 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, 
Were severed from her need and from her woe, 

Far as death severs life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 
Unto the forest oaks a fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 

1 Founded on incidents related in an American work, Sketches of Connecticut. 


Midst the fair halls of England 1 But the love 

Which filled her soul was strong to cast out fear ; 
And by its might upborne all else above, 

She shrank not marked not that the dead were near 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming woun.' - 
Yet hoped, still hoped I Oh ! from such hope Ix.w long 

Affection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong !> 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall. So bowed she there 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Filled all her soul. Now poured the moonlight down, 
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, 
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face, 
Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, 

The eye that faded looked through gathering haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, 

Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze, 
When voice was not ; that fond, sad meaning passed 
She knew the fulness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard arid mute she lay 
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death ! 

Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad ! but airs of heavenly breath 

Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light of richer hue 

Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds played ; 
Bright-colored birds with splendor crossed the shade, 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 

From reed, and spray, and leaf the living strings 
Of earth's ^iolian lyre, whose music woke 

Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance, 
The widowed Edith: fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flashed o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now. 


Where was she ? Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire an aged chief, 
Whose home looked sad for therein played no cb".d 

Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods; and there, 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 

Or touched with thoughts from some past sorrow s, ./'ing, 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung ; 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 
And leaning on his bow. 

And life returned, 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead, 

To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferer learned 
Her task of meek endurance well she wore 
The chastened grief that humbly can adore 
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Even as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 
A daughter to the land of spirits go ; 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years : but Edith's face 
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place, 
And they again seemed parents. Oh ! the joy, 
The rich deep blessedness though earth's alloy, 
Fear, that still bodes, be there of pouring fortli 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, 
On something all its own ! that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain, 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, 
When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares 
The adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; yet still she prayed 
E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warned her hence. 

And now, by many a word 

Linked unto moments when the heart was stirred 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and dim 


By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 

All eloquent with childlike piety 

By the still beauty of her life she strove 

To win for heaven, and heavenrborn truth, the love 

Poured out on her so freely. Nor in vain 

Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 

The soul in gentle bonds ; by slow degrees 

Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 

Parts the deep masses of the forest shade, 

And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was made 

Even such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 

By faith and sorrow raised and purified, 

So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 

Until their prayers were one. When morning spread 

O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 

Touched into golden bronze the cypress bough, 

And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 

Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 

Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one. 

Now might she pass in hope her work was done I 

And she was passing from the woods away 

The broken flower of England might not stay 

Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright 

Even yet with something of a starry light, 

But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 

Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 

A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 

Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 

And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 

Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 

Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been 

Amidst the pines ; and now a softer green 

Fringed their dark boughs: for spring again had come, 

The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 

Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad 

To part with life when all the earth looks glad 

In her young lovely things when voices break 

Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake : 

Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime 

Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, 

If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 

Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ? 

So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day, 

And sounds and odors, with the breezes' play, 

Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door, 

Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore. 

Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 

" My father ! '' to the gray-haired chief she spoke 

"Knowest thou that I depart ? " " I know, I know," 

He answered mournfully, "that thou must go 

To thy beloved, my daughter ! " " Sorrow not 


For me, kind mother ! " with meek smiles once more 
She murmured in low tones: "one happy lot 

Awaits us, friends ! upon the better shore 1 , 
For we have prayed together in one trust, 

And lifted our frail spirits from the dust 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, 
* Under the cedar shade: where he is gone, 

Thither I go. There will my sisters be, 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learned the Saviour's prayer 
Which now ye know and I shall meet you there. 
Father and gentle mother ! ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye 
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply. 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep 
Solemnly beautiful a stillness deep, 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in woe, 
" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters rolled. 

"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away : 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 

Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

" Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear : 
The corn-month's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

"And we shall nibs thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

" A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

"But thou, my bright one ! thou shall be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see 
No fear of parting more. 

"The mossy grave thy tears have wet. 

And the wind's wild moanings by, 
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 

Midst flowers not such as die. 


* The shadow from thy brow shall melt 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
Bur where thine earthly smile hath dwelt 

Our heart shall thirst in vain. 

" Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

" And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side 

Go to the better land I " . 

The song had ceased the listeners caught no breath ; 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 


" What deep wounds ever closed without a sear ? 
The heart s bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it." 

Childe Harold. 

RoYAt in splendor went down the day 

On the plain where an Indian city lay, 

With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 

Red, as if fused in the burning sky ; 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Till the pillared vaults of the banian stood 

Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood ; 

And the plantain glittered with leaves of gold, 

As a tree midst the genii gardens old, 

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire, 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus flowers, 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 

With the water-vase from the palmy snacfe, 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps, to the tanks below ; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard, 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirred, 

' From a uk in Forbes's 


And a murmur, thrilling the scented air, 

Told where the Bramin bowed in prayer. 

There wandered a noble Moslem boy 

Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy ? 

He gazed where the stately city rose, 

Like a pageant of clouds, in its red repose ; 

He turned where birds through the gorgeous gloom 

Of the woods went glancing on starry plume ; 

He tracked the brink of the shining lake. 

By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake ; 

Till the path he chose, in its mazes, wound 

To the very heart of the holy ground 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind, 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west, 
Spread out like a metal mirror's breast ; 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
Seemed made for the swimmer's joyous leap, 
For the stag athirst from the noontide's chase 
For all free things of the wild wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky, 
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye ; 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave j 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white, 
O'er the glossy leaves in its young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother looked from her tent the while, 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stayed the march of her pilgrim train, 

Calmly to linger a few brief hours 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers ; 

For the pomp of the for.est, the wave's bright fall, 

The red gold of sunset she loved them all. 


The moon rose clear in the splendor given 

To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; 

The boy from the high-arched woods came back 

Oh ! what had he met in his lonely track ? 

The serpent's glance through the long reeds bright? 

The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 


No 1 yet as one by a conflict worn, 

With his graceful hair all soiled and torn, 

And a gloom on the lids of his darkened eye, 

And a gash on his bosom he came to die ! 

He looked for the face to his young heart sweet, 

And found it, and sank at his mother's feei. 

M Speak to me ! whence does the swift blood run ? 

What hath befallen thee, my child, my Bon ? " 

Tne mist of death on his brow lay pale, 

But his voice just ingered to breathe the tale, 

Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn. 

And wounds from the children of Brahma borne. 

This was the doom for a Moslem found 

With a foot profane on their holy ground 

This was for sullying the pure waves, free 

Unto them alone 'twas their god's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look 

The mother shrieked not then nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood ; 

But it rushed like a river which none may stay, 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain, 

Fearfully striving with heaven in vain 

That which fades from us while yet we hold, 

Clasped to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment the soul from the face had passed I 

Are there no words for that common woe ? 

Ask of the thousands its depth that know ! 

The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest, 

Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast ; 

He had stood, when she sorrowed, beside her knee 

Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 

He had kissed from her cheek the widow's tears, 

With the loving lip of his infant years: 

He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring day 

Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 

Murdtred ! Alas ! and we love so well 

In a world where anguish like this can dwell! 

She bowed down mutely o'er her dead 
They that stood round her watched in dread; 
They watched she knew not they were by 
Her soul sat veiled in its agony. 
On the silent lips she pressed no kiss 
Too sterr was the grasp of her pangs for this : 
She shed no tear, as her face bent low 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow : 


She looked but into the half-shut eye 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And, shrieking, mantled her head from sightf 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might. 

And what deep change, what work of power, 
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour? 
How rose the lonely one ? She rose 
Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 
And proudly flung from her face the veil, 
And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 
And midst her wondering handmaids stood, 
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood- 
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 
A brow in its regal passi in high, 
With a close and rigid grasp she pressed 
The blood-stained robe to her heaving breast, 
And said " Not yet, not yet I weep, 
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep ! 
Not till yon city, in ruins rent, 
Be piled for its victim's monument. 
Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 
It shall visit those temple gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turned, 
The strength of her step was the heart that burned ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, 
As the mother passed with her slaughterd child. 


Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Through the woods'round the Indian city borne, 
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar 
War ! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war ! 
The Bramin looked from the leaguered towers 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers 
And the lake that flashed through the plaintain shade 
As the light of the lances along it played ; 
And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering banian-tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
Oh I deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had passed, 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast 


There had been words from her pale lips poured, 

Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. 

The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 

And the dark chief of Araby grasped his spear, 

Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 

And a vow was recorded that doomed its fall. 

Back with the dust of her son she came. 

When her voice had kindled that lightning rtime; 

She came in the might of a queenly foe, 

Banner, and javelin, and bended bow ; 

But a deeper power on her forehead sate 

There sought the warrior his star of fate: 

Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 

Was hailed as a spirit and a sign, 

And the faintest tone from her lip was caught 

As a sybil's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! the gift of grief, 

That lights up vengeance to find relief, 

Transient and faithless ! it cannot fill 

So the deep void of the heart, nor still 

The yearning left by a broken tie, 

That haunted fever of which we die! 

Sickening she turned from her sad renown, 
As a king in death might reject his crown. 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way 
She withered faster from day to day; 
All the proud sounds of that bannered plain, 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born, 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, 

As on that eve, when the fair boy died : 

She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 

O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 

She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone, 

Hnd an echo of feelings that long seemed flown. 

She murmured a low sweet cradle-song, 

Strange midst the din of a warrior throng 

A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 

Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek. 

But something which breathed from that mournful strain 

Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again ; 

And starting, as if from a dream, she cried 

"Give him proud burial at my side ! 

There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 

When the'temples are fallen, make there our grave." 

And the temples fell, though the spirit passe 

That stayed not for victory's voice at last ; 


When the day was won for the martyr dead, 
For the broken heart and the bright blood shed. 

Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar steed 

Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 

Free swept the flame through the idol fanes-, 

And the streams glowed red, as from warrior veins ; 

And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 

Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, 

Till a city of ruin begirt the shade 

Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left, 

Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft ; 

The wild vine mantled the stately square, 

The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair, 

And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung 

This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 


" There is but one place in the world 

Thither, where he lies buried I 

There, there is all that still remains of him : 
That single spot is the whole earth to me." 

COLERIDGE'S Wallenstcin, 
" Alas J our young affections run to waste 
Or water but the desert." Childe Harold." 

THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night, 

A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 

Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 

From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 

Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, 

Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread 

In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 

As chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell 

Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 

Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver, 

Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly, but of one, 
Oh, who shall speak ? What words his brow unveil ? 

A father following to the grave his son ! 
That is no grief to picture ! Sad and slow, 
Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low 
Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretched by its broken lance. They reached the lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 


Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shuddered through the pile, 
Till crested heads at last in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given : and Aymer slept 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line, 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine. 
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave ; 
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. Then all was done 
And still around the dead- His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flowed and hearts were stirred 

By some old song, or tale of battle won 
Told round the hearth But in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
\Vas gay as when the voice whose sounds had oeaJ 
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tid 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side ; 
Alas ! to think of this ! the heart's void place 
Filled up so soon ! so like a summer cloud, 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace I- 
He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? not of all ! The sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, 
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness lying 

Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep, 
And all the music with that young voice dying, 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay. 
Through the dim fane soft summer odors breathing. 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 

Might speak of love a secret love and lowly ; 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair ; 

And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band ? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells. 


To blush through every season ? Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods ; but duly still 
For years those gorgeous coronals renewed, 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, 
Even through mid-winter, filled the solitude 

With a strange smile a glow of summer's realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness I 

One spring morn rose, 

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid 
Oh ! not as midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon a dark-haired peasant maid. 
Who could reveal her story ? That still face 

Had once been fair ; for on the clear arched brow 
And the curved lip there lingered yet such grace 

As sculpture gives its dreams ; and long and low 
The deed black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye 
For death was on its lids fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimmed, the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight ? Her kindred's place 
Was not amidst the high T)e Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! She grasped a wreath- 
The tomb's last garland ! This was love in death. 


tAn Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's d 

** Non, je ne puis viyre avec un coeur brisi. II faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je i 
iuz esprils libres de 1'air." Bride of Messina Translated by MADAME DE STAEL. 

" Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman." 

The Prairit. 

DOWN a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within, 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood ! Upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 


As if triumphantly. She pressed her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear, 
Wafting a wild proud strain a song of death. 

"ROLL swiftly to the spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, roll ! and bear our lives with thee ! 
The weary bitd that storms have tossed would seek the sunshine's calm. 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to the woods of balm. 

" Roll on ! my warrior's eye hath looked upon another's face, 
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam's trace: 
My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to his dream, 
He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, thou stream! 

" The voice that spoke of other days is hushed within his breast, 
But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest ; 
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone 
I cannot live without that light. Father of waves ! roll on ! 

" Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase ? 
The heart of love that made his home an ever-sunny place? 
The hand that spread the hunter's board, and decked his couch of yore ?- 
He will not ! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore J 

*' Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow, 
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this woe ; 
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away 
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day. 

" And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, for woman's weary lot, 
Smile ! to that wasting of the heart, my own ! I leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love away 
Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn 1 from sorrow and decay. 

1 She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep, 
And where the unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep ; 
And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream : 
One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, dark rolling stream 1" 



f" Jeanne d'Arc avail eula joie de voir a Chalons quelquas amisde son enfance. Une joie plus 
ineffable encore I'attendait a Rhenns, au sein de son triomphe : Jacques d'Arc, son pere, y 
se trouva, aussitot que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entries ; etcomme les deux freres 
de notre heroine 1'avaient accompagnee, elle se vit pour un instant au milieu de sa faaiiJH 
daiis les bras d'un pere vertueux." Yie de Jeanne a' Arc.} 

"Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away ! to me a woman bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring ! 

THAT was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ? Within, the light, 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing, 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight 

The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing 
In martial vassalage ! While midst that ring, 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn 

Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 

As through long aisles it floated o'er the array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproached, beside the altar stone, 
With the white banner forth like sunshine streaming, 
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance gleaming, 
Silent and radiant stood ? The helm was raised, 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed, 
Intensely worshipping a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 
Yet glorified, with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seemed bending o'er her votaress. That slight form I 
Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye 
Guided the warrior where the swords flashed high ? 
Twas so, even so ! and thou, the shepherd's child. 
Joanne, the lovely dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour, 
Hath woman, mantled w-ith victorious power, 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land, 


And, beautiful with joy and with renown, 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransomed for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 

Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken, 

And come thou forth, that heaven's rejoicing sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, 

Daughter of victory ! A triumphant strain, 
A prou6 vich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gushed through the portals of the antique fane, 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound: 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! The- shouts that filled 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were stilled 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her honie had blown, 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. "Joanne ! " Who spoke 

Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew 
Under one roof ? " Joanne 1 " that murmur broke 

With sounds of weeping forth ! She turned she knew 
Beside her, marked from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair, 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth whose joy, 
Fronvhis dark eye flashed proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest born, that ever loved her best : 
" Father ! and ye, my brothers 1 " On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank and swiftly back, 
Even in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp no more, 
The plumes, the banners ; to her cabin-door, 
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade, 
Where her young sisters by her side had played, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turned. The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech leaves hung, 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt, 
Winning her back to nature. She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head, 
"tnd, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the ground, 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said 
1 Bless me, my father ! bless me ! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen tree. 
Let me return ! " 


Oh ! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! Too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home, with all its loves doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 


"To die for what we love! Oh! there is power 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this ' 
It is to live without the vanished light 
That strength is needed." 

'Cosl trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde." TASSO. 

ALONG the starlit Seine went music swelling, 
Till the air thrilled "with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 
For cares of stricken hearts were found on earth ; 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

For in a palace of the land that night, 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung, 
And from the painted walls a stream of light 

On flying forms beneath soft splendor flung ; 
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 
Was one the lady from the Danube side. 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! though now no more 

Her clear eye flashed with youth's all-tameless glee, 
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, 

There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 
A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught- 
The blending of deep love and matron thought 

Though the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky 

Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair, 
As her young daughter in the dance went by, 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast ? 

Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 
Such oft awake when mst the heart seems blest 

Midst the light Inughter of festivity. 


Whence come those tones ? Alas ! enough we know 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil when young feet were flying 

In fairy rings around the echoing hall ? 
Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, 

Glad pulses beating unto music's call ? 
Silence I the minstrels pause and hark ! a sound, 
A strange quick rustling which their notes had drowned! 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaking 

Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed ! 

From the gay dream of revelry awaking, 

One moment holds them still in breathless dread. 

The wild fierce lustre grows : then bursts a cry 

Fire! through the hall and round it gathering fly! 

And forth they rush, as chased by sword and spear, 
To the green coverts of the garden bowers 

A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, 

Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers : 

While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 

Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she Pauline ? the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 

Calling her child but no sweet voice replies. 

" Bertha ! where art thou ? Speak ! oh, speak, my own 1 " 
Alas ! unconscious of her pangs the while, 

The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, 
Powerless had sunk within the blazing pile ; 

A young bright form, decked gloriously for death, 

With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce breath! 

But oh ! thy strength, deep love ! There is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 

Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 
And forth like banners from each lattice wave : 

Back, back she rushes through a host combined 

Mighty is anguish, with affection twined I 

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? 

None ! Courage there stood still and never more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes I 

Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? 

And died they heart to heart ? Oh ! who can tell ? 


Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 
On that sad palace, midst its pleasure shades ; 

Its painted roofs had sunk yet black with smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 

But yester eve their shafts with wreaths were bound, 

Now lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around ! 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 

Of all that woman's heart had dared and done ? 

Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone ! 

Those had the mother, on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest. 

And they were all ! the tender and the true 

Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 
Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, 

To deep lone chastened thoughts of grief and love. 
Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries of such woe I 


Quana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Hand 
some of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed ol 
state in a magnificent dress ; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watche-1 
it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.] 

" It is but dust thou lookst upon. This love, 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave ? 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish." 

THE night wind shook the tapestry around an -ancient palace room, 
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom, 
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red, 
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead. 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see, 

Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free ; 

No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay, 

Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watched by the cold slumberer's side-, 
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no prids ; 
Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that clay she bent, 
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent. 


And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like shadows of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke aloud; 
She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, " Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watcbings and my tears, beloved one ! for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of death for thee ? 
They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy gallant form around 
But I forbade and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crowned I 

" With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath, 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful who said that this was death ? 
Silence hath been upon tliy lips, and stillness round thee long, 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed and strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not fair like thee, 
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of glee I 
A frail and drooping form is mine a cold unsmiling cheek 
Oh ! I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy heart to seek. 

But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord I and hearest how I have kept 
A lonel" vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed and wept 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights and days have past 
Surely that humble patient love must win back love at last ! 

"And thou wilt smile my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile, 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine 
Oh ! years of hope deferred were paid by one fond glance of thine ! 

" Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face ! 
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless 
In thy kind eyes, this deep, deep love shall give'me loveliness. 

"But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of thy voice. 
Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone, 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured forth clay by day, 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way, 
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every grace, 
Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast, 
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest, 
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind- 
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind. 



" A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 
Woman ! A power to suffer and to love ; 
Therefore thou so canst pity." 

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke 
" Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come." 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-haired youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son ; though from his cheek had flown 

The mantling crimson of the island blood, 
And his pressed lips looked marble. Fiercely bright 
And high around him blazed the fires of ni^ht, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : but who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, 
Known but to heaven that hour ? Perchance a thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony, 
Rose clear as day ! and he might see the band 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand 
Where the laburnums drooped ; or haply binding 
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth, 
Where sat their mother ; and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled I Perchance the prayer 
Learned at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good-night!" might breathe from boyhood gone 
He started and looked up : thick cypress boughs, 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red 
In the broad stormy firelight ; savage brows, 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dungeon bars, 
Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! Idle fear \ 
Would the winds tell it ? Who might dream or hear 
The secret of the forests ? To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young soldier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! the fondly reared the fair, 


Gladdening all eyes t( ee ! And fettered there 

He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 

Flamed up to light in the chieftain's hand. 

He thought upon his God. Hush ! hark ! a cry 

Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity 

A step hath pierced the ring ! Who dares intrude 

On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? 

A girl a young slight girl a fawn-like child 

Of green savannas and the leafy wild, 

Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower, 

Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 

Yet, one that knew how early tears are shed, 

For hers had mourned a playmate-brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 

Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 

And, by its passion's deepening fervor swayed, 

Even to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 

His bright head on her bosom, and around 

His form her slender arms to shield it wound 

Like close Liannes ; then raided her glittering eye, 

And clear-toned voice, then said, " He shall not die 1 * 

" He shall not die ! " the gloomy forest thrilled 

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were stilled. 

Struck down as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed : their dark souls bowed before the maid. 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 
And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, 
Something o'ermastered them from that young mien- 
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath j 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quenched the brand beneath the cypress tree : 
"Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art frael" 


COSTA >, ^A. 

" Art thou then desolate ? 
Of friends, of hopes forsaken ? Come to me ! 
I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false? 
Flatterers deceived thee ? Wanderer, come to me ! 
Why didst thou ever leave me ? Knowest thou all 
I would have borne, and called it joy to bear. 
For thy sake ? Knowest thou thnt thy voice hath power 
To shake me with a thrill of happiness 
By one kind tone ? to fill mine eyes with tears 
Of yearning love ? And thou oh ! thou didst throw 
That crushed affection back upon my heart ; 
Yet come to me ! it died not." 

SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 

Through the stained window of her lonely cell, 

And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, 

Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, 

While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 

Bright waves of gold the autumn forest's hue 

Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread 

By painting's touch around some holy head, 

Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye 

Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 

What solemn fervor lived ! And yet what woe, 

Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 

The glassy tide ! Qh i he that could reveal 

What life had taught that chastened heart to feel, 

Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, 

And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 

But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 

And of the gentle saint no more was known, 

Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made 

A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 

Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 

Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, 

And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 

Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dream*- 

Music for weary hearts ! 'Midst leaves and flowers 

She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, 

All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 

To the sick peasant on his lowly bed 

Came and brought hope ! while scarce of mortal birth 

He deemed the pale fair form that held on earth 

Communion but with grief. 

Ere long, a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 

Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, 
And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, 

Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there 

Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 


And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again 

Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 

That made the cypress quiver where it stood, 

In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 

Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 

Other and wilder sounds in tumult met 

The floating song. Strange sounds ! the trumpet's peal, 

Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel ; 

The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass 

There had been combat ; blood was on the grass, 

Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 

And the pine branches crashed before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home : there entered hurrying feet, 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow mail-clad men, 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor 
Gave back deap echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him : then for flight. 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 
Sped breathless again. They passed ; but he, 
The stateliest of a host alas! to see 
What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep, 
Tiill joy, for very fulness, turned to weep, 
Thus changed! a fearful thing! His golden crest 
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his breast 
Some costly love-gift rent : but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven locks the breeze, 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them ; steeped in bloody shower*, 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray, 
Where was it ? And the lips! they gasped apart, 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! but that white hue- 
Was it not death's ? that stillness that cold dew 
On the scarred forehead ? No! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, 
The haughty chief of thousands the forsaken 
Of all save one. She fled not Day by day 
Such hours are woman's birthright she, unknown, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourned the strong man's raving. 
He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled form 
Still hovering nigh ! yet sometimes, when that storm 


Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing, 
Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery giow 
Fbbed from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 

Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams, 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmured forth, " Where am I ? What soft straia 
Passed like a breeze across my burning brain ? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one 
Where is she now ? and where the gauds of pride, 
Whose hollow splendor lured me from her side ? 
All lost ! and this is death ! I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye! 
Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she bora 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
My first, my holiest love ! her broken heart 
Lies low, and I unpardoned I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale, 
And stood before him with a smile oh I ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear- 
And said, " Cesario 1 look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled ; and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust, 
As should be heaven's alone and heaven is justl 
I bless thee be at peace ! " 

But o'er his frame 

Too fast the strong tide rushed the sudden shame. 
The joy, the amaze ! He bowed his head it fell 
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there 
His list faint breath just waved her floating hair. 




** Who should it be ? Where shouldst thou look for kindneM? 

When we are sick, where can we turn for succor ; 

Whn we are wretched, where can we complain ; 

And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 

Where can we go to meet a warmer eje 

With such sure confidence as to a mother? " 


" MY child, my child, thou leavest me ! I shall hear 
The gentle voice no roore that blest mine ear 
With its first utterance : I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy 'Good-night ' at parting for repose. 
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 
Mv child ! and thou, along the moonlit sea. 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, 
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's woe 
From thy young heart be far ! And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be w'ith me. Now, farewell ! farewell I 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wert pillowed there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : these moments are gone by 
Thou too must go, my flower ! Yet with thee dwell 
The peace of God ! One, one more gaze : farewell I* 

This was a mother's parting with her child 
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, 
And wooed her with a voice of love away 
r rom childhood's home : yet there, with fond delay, 
She lingered on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellised rose-leaves float 
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept, 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long 
Poured forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song, 


Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar, 
And duly rising with the first pale star, 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
The sounding ocean solitudes were passed, 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. Alas ! we trace 

The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, 

On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears ! 
That home was darkened soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas : 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn ! 
To her that, widowed in her marriage morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side 
Bv the close veil of misery. Oh 1 but ill, 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart 
Bears its first blow ! it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach to suffer and be still, 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which vet are spared, and through the future hours 
To send no busy dream ! She had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned 
In weariness from life. Then came the unrest, 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, 
The haunting sounds of voices far away, 
And household steps : until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams 
In her own sunny land , and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. 
To strangers ? Oh ! could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised ? Did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow ? 
Something was there that, through the lingering night, 
Outvvatches patiently the taper's light 
Something that faints not through the day's distress, 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness 
Love, true and perfect love ! Whence came that power, 
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower ? 
Whence? who can ask ? The wild delirium passed, 
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 


The kind sweet smile of old ! and had ski come, 
Thus in life's evening from her distant home, 
To save her child ? Even so nor yet in vain : 
In that young heart a light sprang up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seemed this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother ! gentlest mother ! can it be ? " 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee ? 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore, 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more.'* 


' This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that 
I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and should hav 
deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a hab- 
itation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the 
human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it 
back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be a- 
perfect resemblance not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing 
can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the 
bosom ; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Hers the King brings 
her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulnes* 
above this living image of their departed mother." SHERER s Notes and Reflection* 
during a Ramble in Germany.] 

" In sweet pride upon that insult keen 
She s.miled ; then drooping mute and brokenhearted* 
To the cold comfort of the grave departed." MILMAN. 

IT stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep 

From cypress branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread, 
Thou feelest the presence of the dead. 

And what within is richly shrined? 

A sculptured woman's form, 
lLovely, in perfect rest reclined, 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face, 

The mantle's quiet flow, 
The gentle yet majestic grace 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom, 
"With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 
Of the fair image wrought ; 

A kingly emblem nor unmeet 
To wake yet deeper thought : 

She whose high heart finds rest below 

Was royal in her birth and woe 

There are pale garlands hung above 

Of dying scent and hue ; 
She was a mother in her love 

How sorrowfully true! 
Oh ! hallowed long be every leaf, 
The record of her children's grief ! 

She saw their birthright's warrior 


Of olden glory spoiled, 
The standard of their sires born 

The shield's bright blazon soiled : 


1 98 


She met the tempest meekly brave, 
Then turned o'erwearied to' the grave. 

She slumbered : but it came it came, 
Her land's redeeming hor.r, 

With the glad shout, and signal flame 
Sent on from tower to tower ! 

fast through the realm a spirit moved 

Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep ; 
Her memory, as a banner flung 

Forth by the Balti" deep : 
Her grief, a bitter vial poured 
To sanctify the avenger's sword. 

And the crowned eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its 


So was the triumph won! 
But woe for earth, where sorrow's 


Still blends with victory's! She was 


[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar with this inscription: 
"This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a 
memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, 
Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the zd April, 1616." See notes to tlw Pleasures o) 

" Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales, pursued 

Each mountain scene magnificently rude, 

Nor with attention's lifted eye revered 

That modest stone, by pious Pembroke reared, 

Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 

The silent sorrows of a parting hour ?" ROGERS. 

MOTHER and child ! whose blending 

Have sanctified the place, 
Where, to the love of many years 

Was given one last embrace 
Dh ! ye have shrined a spell of power, 
Deep in your record of that hour. 

\ spell to waken solemn thought 

A still, small under tone, 
That calls back days of childhood 


With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden 

Though long untroubled of remo'Te. 

For who, that gazes on the s*^ne 
Which marks your parting spot, 

Who b'^t a mother's love hath known 
The o'tc love changing not ? 

Alas ! and haply learned \c r worth 
First with the sound o* * Earth to 
earth ! " 

But thou, high-hearted >\t .ighter ! thou, 
O'er whose bright honored head 

Blessings and tears if holiest flow 
E'en here were fondly shed 

Thou from the fassion of the grief, 

In its full b'Ut, couldst draw relief. 

For, oh \ ')iough painful be the excess. 

The ".light wherewith it swells, 
!- rt'.ture's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling dwells; 
I And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, 
Poisoned the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face nomorl 
Which thy young heart first knew? 

And all was all in this world o'er 
With ties thus close and true? 



[t was ! On earth no other eye 
!Jould give thee back thine infancy. 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where, deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of other days 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, like the breath of spring. 

Vet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps, 
While on thy name, midst wood and 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 

And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign ; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead, 
Think of the love embodied there 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perished thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthly hour? 

Not so ! I will not bow me so 
To thoughts that breathe despair ! 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child! your tears are 

Surely your hearts have met at last. 


Ne me plaignez pas si vous saviez 
Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnees ! ' 

STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; 
Spring odors breathed around, 
And music, in the river wave, 
Passed with a lulling sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 
In the bright air glanced by, 

And a glad murmur seemed to run 
Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough 
That fringed the ruins near ; 

Young voices were abroad but thou 
Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for thee ! 

Thou in whose woman's mind 
The ray that brightens earth and sea, 

The ligiht of song, was shrined. 

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering 

With a dread curtain drawn 

Between thee and the golden glow 
Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom 
Thou wouldst have loved so well, 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing, 
In their bright reckless play, 

Might feel the flush and life of spring 
And thou wert passed away. 

But then, e'eri then, a nobler thought 
O'er my vain sadness ; 

The immortal spirit woke, and wrought 
Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said", 
Thou must have looked ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odors and hues below. 

1 " Intrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, 
on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient 
abbey, il.u have been (lartl.-.lljr converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle al 
'.ender bind, w over it." Tales by the O'Ha~a Family. 



The shadows of the tomb are here, 

Yet beautiful is earth ! 
What see'st thou. then, where no dim 

No haunting dream hath birth ? 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 
Thou gavest ; but where thou art, 

The sway is not with changeful hours 
There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud but deep 
The glorious bowers of earth among, 

How often didst thou weep ? 

Where couldst thou fix on morta 


Thy tender thoughts and high ? 
Now peace the woman's heart hath 

And joy the poet's eye. 



They tell but dreams a lonely spirit's dreams; 
Yet ever through their fleeting imagery 
Wanders a vein of melancholy love, 
An aimless thought of home ; as in the song 
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells 
A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers, 
And living streams, far off I 


" This is to be a mortal, 
And see the things beyond mortality ! " MANFRED. . 

THY voice prevails dear friend, my gentle friend I 
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed, 
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed 
Shall its freed waters flow ; then rocks must close 
For evermore, above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound 

Is mingled into harmony profound ; 

Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 

Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, 

The trembling reeds and fountains our own dell, 

With its green dimness and jfcolian breath, 

Shall suit the unveiling of dark records well 

Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 


Thou knewest me not in life's fresh vernal morn 
I would thou hadst ! for then my heart on thine 
Had poured a worthier love ; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow, 
Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago. 
Yet even in youth companiohless I stood, 
As a lone forest-bird 'midst ocean's foam; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
.Were early loosed; the voices from my home 
Passed one by one, and melody and mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower, 
A perilous delight ! for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre; 
But ministered to that strange inborn fire. 

'Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells, 

In noontide hours or golden-summer eves, 

My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 

Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 

Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen ! 

Thou curtained realm of spirits ! thus my cry 

Hath troubled air and silence dost thou lie 

Spread all around, yet by some filmly screen 

Shut from us ever ? The resounding woods, 

Do their depths teem with marvels ? and the floods, 

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 

Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 

Have they bright dwellers ? and their lone domains 

Peopled with beauty, which may never still 

Our weary thirst of soul ? Cold, weak and cold, 

Is earth's vain language, piercing not one fold 

Of our deep being ! Oh, for gifts more high ! 

For a seer's glance to rend .mortality ! 

For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine 

The oracles divine ! 

I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the earth I woke to love: 
O gentle friend! to love in doubt and woe, 
Shutting the heart the Tirorshipped name above, 


Is to love deeply and my spirit's dower 

Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 

Of so adoring with a buried care, 

And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer, 

And with a deepening dream that day by day, 

In the still shadow of its lonely sway, 

Folded me closer, till the world held naught 

Save the one being to my centred thought. 

There was no music but his voice to hear, 

No joy but such as with his step drew near ; 

Light was but where he looked life where he moved s 

Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 

Oh ! but such love is fearful ! and I knew 

Its gathering doom : the soul's prophetic sight 

Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 

O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, 

Too sorrowfully clear ! an undertone 

Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 

Whispering of grief. Of grief ? be strong, awake 1 

Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul ? 

Hath not its conflict won its voice to shake 

Death's fastnesses ? a magic to control 

Worlds far removed ? from o'er the grave to thee 

Love hath made answer ; and thy tale should be 

Sung like a lay of triumph ! Now return, 

And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn, 

And lift it once to light ! 

In fear, in pain, 

I said I loved but yet a heavenly strain 
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flashed through the trouble of my dream I 
I knew myself beloved ! we breathed no vow, 
No mingling visions might our fate allow, 
As unto happy hearts ; but still and deep, 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep 
So jealously ! a thing o'er which to s"hed, 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears ! yet ofttimes burdened with the excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But, oh ! sweet friend ! we dream not of love's might 
Till death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! Before that hour, 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast- 
The sea is in our souls ! 


He died he died 

On whom my lone devotedness was cast ! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
/, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last ! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain, 
Nor bathed his parched lips in the hour of pain, 
Nor say to him " Farewell ! " He passed away 
Oh ! had -my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! but thus removed, 
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding-line hath proved, 
Joined with the unknown, the viewless he became 
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same 
Changed hallowed glorified ! and his low grave 
Seemed a bright mournful altar mine, all mine : 
Brother and friend, soon left me that sole shrine, 
The birthright of the faithful ! theit world's wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. Oh I deem thou not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 
My soul grew weak ! I tell thee that a power 
Their kindled heart and lip a fiery shower 
My words were made a might was given to prayer, 
And a strong grasp to passionate despair, 
And a dread triumph ! Knowest thou what I sought ? 
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought ? 
Communion with the dead I I sent a cry 
Through the veiled empires of eternity, 
A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth, 
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high, 
Armed and inspired, and winged with agony; 
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream; 
I summoned, I adjured with quickened sense, 
With the keen vigil of a life intense, 
I watched, an answer from the winds to wring, 
I listened, if perchance the stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar : I taught one sound 
Unto a thousand echoes one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky 
One prayer to-night " Awake, appear, reply ! " 
Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne, 
The dark way never hath allowed return? 
That all, which tear^ can move, with life is fled 
That earthless love is powerless on the dead ? 
Believe it not ! there is a large lone star 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, 
And under its clear light there lies a spot 
Which well might utter forth believe it not! 
I sat beneath that planet I had wept 
My woe to stillness, every night-wind slept ; 


A hush was on the hills : the very streams 

Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams, 

And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour, 

Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower 

Whereon I gazed unconsciously : there came 

A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, 

Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, 

Flitting through twilight woods, across the air ; 

And I looked up ! Oh ! for strong words to bring 

Conviction o'er thy thought ! Before me there, 

He, the departed, stood ! Ay, face to face, 

So near, and yet how far t His form, his mien, 

Gave to remembrance back each burning trace 

Within : Yet something awfully serene, 

Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore 

Of the once beating heart no token more ; 

And stillness on the lip and o'er the hair 

A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; 

And an unfathomed calm, that seemed to lie 

In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye; 

Told of the gulfs between our being set, 

And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, 

Made mv soul faint : withyJvzr / Oh ! not with fearl 

With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 

My love could be as nothing ! But he spoke 

How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 

In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 

My bosom's infinite ? O friend! I woke 

Then first to heavenly life ! Soft, solemn, clear, 

Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 

Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose 

From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 

Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 

Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells; 

But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill 

Passed from me, like mist before the morn, 

And, to that glorious intercourse upborne 

By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, 

Possessed my frame : I sought that lighted eye 

From its intense and searching purity 

I drank in soul ! I questioned of the dead 

Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread, 

And I was answered. If remembrance there. 

With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air ; 

If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 

Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 

If love, o'er sweeping change, and blight, and blast, 

Find there the music of his home at last ; 

I asked, and I was answered. Full and high 

Was that communion with eternity, 

Too rich for aught so fleeting ! Like a knell 

Swept o'er my sense its closing words, " Farewell, 


On earth we meet no more ! " And all was gone 

The pale bright settled brow the thrilling tone, 

The still and shining eye ! and never more 

May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 

That radiant guest ! One full-fraught hour of heaven, 

To earthly passion's wild implorings given, 

Was made my own the ethereal fire hath shivered 

The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered, 

Brightly, consuming]}' ! What now is left ? 

A faded world, of glory's hues bereft 

A void, a chain ! I dwell 'midst throngs, apart, 

In the cold silence of the stranger's heart ; 

A fixed, immortal shadow stands between 

My spirit and life's fast-receding scene ; 

A gift hath severed me from human ties, 

A power is gone from all earth's melodies, 

Which never may return : their chords are broken, 

The music of another land hath spoken 

No after-sound is sweet ! This weary thirst 1 

And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! 

What here shall quench it? 

Dost thou not rejoice, 

When the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
Through the young woods? Thou dost ! And in that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness! Couldst thou know 
How every breeze then summons me to go 1 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the dead ! 
The only beautiful that change no more 
The only loved ! the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled ! The dead ! whom call \ve so ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us ! Away ! within me pent, 
That which is barred from its own element 
Still drops or struggles ! But the day will come 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home, 
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets 
The sea at last ! and the winged flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in : shall not /, too, be, 
My spirit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee ? 
Yes ! by the power whose conquering anguish stirred 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, 
Yet shall we meet ! that glimpse of joy divine 
Proved thee forever and forever mine ! 



" Courage was cast about her like a dress 

Of solemn comeliness, 
A gathered mind and an untroubled face 
Did give her dangers grace." DONNE. 

THE war-note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France ; 
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour, 

And the clash of the tourney's lance. 

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay, 

On the old Proven9al shore ; 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath, 

His shroud of armor wore. 

And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of stern forms crouched in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career 
And haughty their stillness looked and high, 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory. 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, 
Under their banners of battle she prayed ; 
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's portrayed above, 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave. 
And her fragile frame, at every blast, 
That full of the savage war-horn passed, 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part 

So knelt she in her woe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, 

Or the dust that stirred below 1 

Hark ! a swift step ! she had caught its tone, 

Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan 

1 Founded on an incident iu the early French history. 


Is her lord returned with his conquering bands ? 

No ! a breathless vassal before her stands I 

" Hast thou been on the field ? Art thou come from the host ? " 

" From the slaughter, lady ! All, all is lost 1 

Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 

Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe ; 

And thy lord," his voice took a sadder sound 

" Thy lord he is not on the bloody ground ! 

There are those who tell that the leader's plume 

Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom." 

A change o'er her mien and her spirit passed; 

She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 

She dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 

With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 

Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, ami brow, 

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 

At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look : 

" Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead, 

And fear not to say that their son hath fled ? 

Away ! he is lying by lance and shield, 
Point me ihe path to his battle-field ! " 

The shadows of the forest 
Are about the lady now ; 

She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine-bough. 
There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief; 
The branches that rock to the tempest strife 
Are like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral-march through the gloomy sky; 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, 
But her fame in the daring of love is strong, 
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 

When she reached the field of the warrior dead ; 

There lay the noble, the valiant, low 

Ay ! but one word speaks of deeper woe ; 

There lay the Imvit on each fallen head 

Mothers' vain blessings and tears had shed ; 

Sisters were watching in many a home 

For the fettered footstep, no more to come ; 

Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 

Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 

And the tire was heaped, and the bright wine poured 

For those, now needing nor hearth nor board; 

Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 

And oh ! ye beloved of women, farewell ' 


Silently, with lips compressed, 
Pale hands clasped above her breast, 
Stately brow of anguish high, 
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye; 
Silently, o'er that red plain, 
Moved the lady 'midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne ; 
And her maidens trembled ; but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now, 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen-bough. 
She searched into many an unclosed eye, 
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky; 
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done, 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled lead on!" 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turned to a dark and lonely tree 

That waved o'er a fountain red ; 
Oh ! swiftest there had the currents free 

From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed, 
And the scattered plumage streamed, 
And the broken shields were tossed, 
And the shivered lances crossed, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band 
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand j 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly-changed in that hour had known ; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped, 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, 
And the face oh ! speak not of that dead face I 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 

She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe, 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death, 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath, 

" He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand ; " 

Page 208, 


And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, 
As she turned to his follower " Your lord is there! 
Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest ! 
Bear him away with his sires to rest I " 

Another day, another night, 

And the sailor on the deep 
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep. 

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, 

As if that rite were in terror done : 

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power, 

And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour. 

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, 

Through the aisle the mourners go; 

With a hushed and stealthy tread, 

Bearing on the noble dead ; 

Sheathed in armor of the field 

Only his wan face revealed, 

Whence the still and solemn gleam 

Doth a strange sad contrast seem 

To the anxious eyes ot that pale band, 

With torches wavering in every hand, 

For they dread each moment the shout of war, 

And the burst of the Moslem cimeter. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend, 
No brother of battle, no princely friend : 
No sound comes back like the sounds of yore, 
Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 
By the red fountain the valiant lie, 
The flower of Proven9al chivalry ; 
But one free step, and one lofty heart, 
Bear through that scene to the last their part 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 

To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 

She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 

But the struggling passion must now have way; 

In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, 

By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 

The pride on the lip is lingering still, 

But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 

Anguish and triumph are met at strife, 

Rending the cords of her frail young life ; 

And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, 

Lifting her voice, as if death might hear. 

" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 

My soul hath risen for thy glory strong f 



Now call me hence, by thy side to be, 
The world thou leavest has no place for me. 
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth 
Faithful and tender 1 Oh ! call me forth J 

Give me my home on thy noble heart, 
Well have we loved, let us both depart!" 
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay, 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 
The living cheek ! Oh ! it was not vain, 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like a glorious bride ! 

Joy for the freed one ! she might not stay 

When the crown had fallen from her life away ; 

She might not linger a wearv thing, 

A dove with no home for its broken wing, 

Thrown on the harshness of alien skies 

That know not its own land's melodies. 

From the long heart-withering early gone ; 

She hath lived she hath loved her task is done ! 


" Tableau, ou 1' Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe ; union redoutable de la mort et de la vie ! 

THERE was music on the midnight : 

From a royal fane it rolled, 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hushed the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the mid- 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it neared the minster gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretteo 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill 

So stonelike was its rest ' 



But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold ofc the diadem 

Was sat on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound, 

And from the encircling band 
Stepped prince and chief, "midst the 

hush profound, 
With homage to her hand. 

Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came ? 
Was not the settled aspect fair? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face ? 

Death ! death ! canst thou be ovely 

Unto the eye of life ? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high 

With thy cold mien at strife ? 
It was a'strange and fearful sight, 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of 

All gathered round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
*d white lips rigidly compressed, 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 

Watching the homage done, 
By the land's flower and chivalry, 

To her, his martyred one. 

But on the face he looked not, 
Which once his star had been ; 

To every form his glance was turned, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's 


Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shaaowj 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the princeless love that poured 
those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed bear back the dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding 


In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry 


And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence 

With her, that queen of clay! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train ; 
But his face was wrapt in his folding 

When they lowered the dust again. 
'Tis hushed at last the tomb above, 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who called thee strong as Death, 
Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 




" O sanctissima, O purissima 1 

Dulcis Virgo Maria, 

Mater amata, intemerata, 

Ora, ora pro nobis." 

Sicilian Mariner's Hymn. 

IN the deep hour of dreams, 
Through the dark woods, and past the 
moaning sea, 

And by the star-light gleams, 
Mother of sorrows ! lo, I come to thee ! 

Unto thy shrine 1 bear 
Night blowing flowers, like my own 

heart, to lie 
All, all unfolded there, 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying 

For thou, that once didst move, 
In thy still beauty, through an early 


Thou knowest the grief, the love, 
The fear of woman's soul ; to thee 1 
come ! 

Many, and sad, and deep, 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent 

breast ; 

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep 
Hear, gentlest mother 1 hear a heart 
oppressed \ 

There is a wandering bark 
Bearing one from me o'er the restless 

wave : 

Oh ! let thy soft eye mark 
His course: be with him, holiest, guide 
and save ! 

My soul is on thai way ; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the 
waters dim; 

Through the long weary day 
I walk, o'er shadowed by vain dreams 
of him. 

Aid him and me, too, aid ! 
Oh ! 'tis not well, this earthly love's 
excess ! 

On. thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is poured 
My being's hope scarce leaving Hea- 
ven a part ; 
Too faithfully adored, 
Oh ! make not him the chastener of my 
heart ! 

I tremble with a sense 

Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low- 
Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 

This wild idolatry must end in woe. 

The troubled joy of life, 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul 

hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife, 
Would fold its wings ; take back, take 
back thine own ! 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er 

the wave 

Hope of the sailor's eye, 
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide 
and save 1 


FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreached by human thought, 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 

Answer me, answer rne I 


Have we not communed here of life and death? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers ? 

Answer, oh ! answer me ! 

Thine eye's last light was mine the soul that shone 
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze ! 
Hear, hear, and answer me t 

Thy voice its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrilled though the tempest of the parting strife, 
Like a faint breeze : oh, from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life, 
But once, oh ! answer me ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, 
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep- 
Spirit! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 
Answer me, answer me I 

The grave is silent : and the far-off sky, 
And the deep midnight silent all, and lone ! 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, 
What voice has earth ! Hear, pity, speak, mine own 1 
Answer me, answer me 1 


' For all his wildness and proud phantasies, 
I love him ! " CROLV. 

THY heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds ; 
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent sounds ; 
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air 
And where the Lauwine's 1 peal is heard Hunter I thy heart is there ! 

I know thou lovest me well, dear friend ! but better, better far, 
Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war; 
In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine, 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I will be thine 1 

[ l Lau'.uine, the avalanche. 


And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights, 
With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights ; 
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine, 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I will be thine ! 

And I will leave my blessed home, my father's joyous hearth, 
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth, 
With all the kind and laughing eyes that in its firelight shine, 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart, 
That I cast away for thee for thee, all reckless as thou art \ 
With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell, 
Yet, yet I would not change that lot, oh no ! I love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou, 
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow ! 
Mournful ! but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride, 
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath, 

To watch through long long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death, 

To wake in doubt and loneliness this doom I know is mine, 

And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I will be thine ! 

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou comest at last, 
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each danger past, 
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine 
For this I will be thine, my love ! for this I will be thine I 


IN the silence of the midnight 

I journey with my dead ; 
In the darkness of the forest-boughs 

A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 
As by mighty wings upborne ; 

The mountain eagle hath not plumes 
So strong as love and scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave-sod, 
By the white man's path defiled ; 

On to the ancestral wilderness 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have asked the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place, 
Where the stately footsteps of the fre*. 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer 
"Go, bring us back thine own i" 

And the streams from all the hunter. ' 

Rushed with an echoing tone. 

1 An Indian, who had established himself in a township of Maine, feeling indign.ini'y tlic 
want of sympathy evinced towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the death < f his 
only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his child, and carried it with 
him two hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian Indians. See TITDOB'S Lftttrt 
<M tht Eastern States of Amtrica* 


Thou halt rest by sounding waters 
That yet untamed may roll ; 

The voices of that chainless host 
With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead, 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

[ have left the spoilers' dwellings 

For evermore behind ; ' 
Unmingled with their household sounds, 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, 
I watched my child's decay ; 

Uncheered, I saw the spirit-light 
From his young eyes fade away. 

When his head sank on my bosom, 

When the death-sleep o'er him fell. 
Was there one to say, "A friend is 
near?" [well! 

There was none ! pale race, fare- 
To the forests, to the cedars, 

To the warrior and his bow, 
Back, back! I bore thee laughing 

I bear thee slumbering now ! 

I bear thee unto burial 

With the mighty hunters gone ; 
I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze, 

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son ! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey wi:h ihe dead; 
But my heart is strong, my step is 

My father's path I tread. 


THERE was heard a song on the chiming sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 

Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there, 

Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new, 

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone, 

That from woman's lip it fell 

1 Away, away o'er the foaming main ! " 
This was the free and the joyous strain ; 

'There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 
We will shape our course by a brighter star , 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath pressed 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest" 

"But, alas ! that we should go," 

Sang the farewell voices then, 
**From the homesteads, warm and low, 

By the brook and in the glen 1 " 


" We will rear new homes under trees that glow, 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and stilL 

" But woe for that sweet shade 

Of the flowering orchard trees, 
Where first our children played 
'Midst the birds and honey-bees ! " 

"All, all our own shall the forests be, 
As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 
None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass!' 
We will track each step through the wavy grass; 
We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 

" But, oh ! the gray church tower, 

And the sound of Sabbath-bell, 
And the sheltered\garden bower, 
We have bid them all farewell ! " 

"We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory with mounts and flooa. 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods ! 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore, 
Where the Indians' graves lay, alone, before." 

" But who shall teach the flowers 

Which our children loved, to dwell, 
In a soil that is not ours ? 
Home, home and friends, farewell I " 


" If I could see him, it were well with me." 

COLERIDGE'S Wallenstein. 

THERE were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquished city's halls, 
As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls, 

And the conquerors filled the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed ; 
Iftit their lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wailed the dead. 

1 The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the losg of his brother, Don Pedro, who was 
killtd during the siege of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana. It is alas 
the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads in Lockhart's beautiful collection. 


He looked down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below, 
The moonlit sea, the torch'.it streets and a gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's tone; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou city of the sea! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee ? 
I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll. 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul. 

" My brother ! oh, my brother ! thou art gone the true and brave, 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave ; 
There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead on : 
There was one to love me in the world my brother ! thou ait gone < 

" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath. 

We stood together, side by side ; one hope was ours one path ; 

Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, thou hast fenced me with thj 

breast ; 
Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain oh I bravest heart, and 1'est I 

" I see the festive lights around o'er a dull sad world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory my Pedro ! where is thine ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply ! 
Oh, brother I I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry ! 

" I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway, 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly my friend hath passed away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain, 
And the face that was as light to mine it cannot come again 1 

" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a crown ; 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold renown ; 
How often wi'ii my weary heart 'midst the sounds of triumph die, 
When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flower of chivalry! 


" I am lonely I am lonely ! this rest is even as death ! 
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet's breath; 
Let me see the nery chargei foam, and the royal banner wave 
T$ut where art thou, mv brother ? where ? in thy low and early grave ! 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that victorious night. 
And faster flowed the red wine forth, by the stars' and torches' light ; 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror's moan 
" My brother ! oh, my brother ! best and bravest ! thou art gone I " 



"HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? 

The free, the pure, the kind ? " 
So murmured the trees in my homeward track, 

As they played to the mountain-wind. 

"' Hath thy soul been true to its early love ? " 

Whispered my native streams: 
'" Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove, 
Still revered its first high dreams ?" 

" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 

Of the child in his parent-halls ? " 
Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air 

From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 

Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 

With the mother's trusting eye?" 

Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 

As I answered " O, ye shades 1 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turned from my first pure love aside, 

O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 

The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

" And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath passed 

The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darkened and troubled I come at last, 

Home of my boyish glee ! 

" But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears. 

To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those blessed' years, 

They shall make me again your own." 




'Clasp me a little longer, on the brink 

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
Ami when this heart hath ceased to beat, >h! think 

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess 

That thpu hast been to me all tenderness, 
And friend, to more than human friendship just. 

Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 
And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust " 

Gertrude oj Wyoming. 

THY voice is in mine ear, beloved 1 

Thy look is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is my resting-place, 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong too 

Too precious is its chain, 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain, though mighty, vain ! 

Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou seest my life-blood flow. 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie, 
Vet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity ! 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not : make the pang, 

The bitter conflict, less 
Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy, 

To feel thy love's excess ! 

But calm thee ! Let the thought of 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon 

Would speak to thee once more, 
1'liat thou mayst bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest 

That e'er fond woman's knew ; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasured share. 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for kind looks and words 

Showered on my path like dew, 
For all the love in those deep eyes ! 

A gladness ever new ! 
For the voice which ne'er to mine re- 

But in kindly tones of cheer ; 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here ! 

I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried, 
The right to gaze on death with thee. 

To perish by thy side I 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments given 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to Heaven ? 

Now be thou strong ! Oh, knew we not 

Our path must lead to this 1 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our blis> ! 
We plighted our young hearts when 

Were dark upon the sky. 
In full, deep knowledge of their task 

To suffer and to die ! 

1 The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the Protestant hamlets, 
received a mortal wound, and died in her husband's arms, exhorting him to courage ana 



Be strong I I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyred blood, 
With the thousand echoes of the 

With the torrent's foaming flood ; 
A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air. 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Ay, joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must be altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure ; [still 

There must our God be worshipped 

With the worship of the free : 
Farewell ! there's but one pang in 

One only leaving thee 1 


" All my pretty ones 1 
Did yon say all ? 

* * * * 

Let us make medicine of this great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief ! " 


MY battle-vow ! no minster walls 

Gave back the burning word, 
Nor cress nor shrine the low deep tone 

Of smothered vengeance heard : 
But the ashes of a ruined home 

Thrilled, as it sternly rose, 
With the mingling voice of blood that 

The midnight's dark repose. 

I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 

But where my children lay. 
And the startled vulture at my step 

Soared from their precious clay. 
I stood amidst my dead alone 

I kissed their lips I poured, 
1 ,1 the strong silence of that hour, 

My spirit on my sword. 

!"ne roof-tree fallen, the smouldering 


The blackened threshold-stone, 
' he bright hair torn, and soiled with 


Whose fountain was my own ; 
These, and the everlasting hills, 
Bore witness that wild night ; 
Before them rose the avenger's soul, 
In crushed affection's m : "M. 

The stars, the searching stars of heaven 

With keen looks would upbraid, 
If from my heart the fiery vow, 

Seared on it then, could fade. 
They have no cause ! Go, ask the 

That by my paths have swept, 
The red waves that unstained were 

How hath my faith been kept ? 

And other eyes are on my soul, 

That never, never close, 
The sad, sweet glances of the lost 

They leave me no repose. 
Haunting my night-watch 'midst the 

And by the torrent's foam, 
Through the dark-rolling mi?ts they 

Full, full of love and home ! 

Alas! the mountain eagle's heart, 

When wronged, may yet find rest ; 
Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks another nest. 
i But I your soft looks wake the thirsf 

That wins no quenching rain ; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful ! 

To tlie stormy fight again. 



" Thither where he lies buried ! 
That single spot is the whole world to me." 

COLERIDGE'S IVallenstetH, 

THY voice was in my soul ! it called me on ; 

O my lost friend 1 thy voice was in my soul : 
From the cold, faded world whence thou art gone, 

To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come, I come ! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well 
We loved ! oh ! still, I know that still we love ! 

I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, 

Through these dim aisles in dreams of thee to rove: 
This is my home ! 

Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 

Speak ! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell I 
I will not shrink ; oh ! mighty is the tomb, 

But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell, 
This woman's heart ! 

This lone, full, fragile heart ! the strong alone 
In love and grief of both the burning shrine ! 

Thou, my soul's friend! with grief hast surely done, 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine, 
Say, couldst thou part? 

I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 

The wind's low singing through the fretted stone ; 

I hear not thee , and yet I feel thee near 

What is this bound that keeps thee from thine own ? 
Breathe it away! 

I wait thee I adjure thee ! hast thou known 
How I have loved thee ? couldst thou dream it all J 

Am I not here, with night and death alone, 
And fearing not ? nnd hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway ? 

Thou canst not come ! or thus I should not weep! 

Thy love is deathless but no longer free! . 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Soon, soon, and fast ! 

1 See Wallensitin, Act 6th. 


But I shall come to thee I our soul's deep dreams, 
Our young affections, have not gushed in vain ; 

Soon in one tide shall blend the severed streams, 
The worn heart break its bonds and death and pain 
Be with the past ! 


* As are our hearts, our way is one, 
And cannot be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things and o'ercometh all things. 
Will I not live with thee? will I not cheer thee? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then ? wouldst thou be sad ?** 

* SISTER, sweet sister 1 let me weep awhile! 

Bear with me give the sudden passion way ! 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, 

Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears ! 
Oh ! could my life melt from me in these tears J 

" Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye. 
Our brother's bounding step where are they, where? 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 

How hast thou won thy spirit from despair ? 

O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep ; 

I sink away bear with me let me weep!" 

"Yes! weep, my sister! weep, till from thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears ! yet sink thou not ; 

I bind my sorrow to a lofty part, 

For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 

To meet in quenchless trust ; my sou! is strong 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 

" A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our old victorious dead, 

These mantle me with power ! and though their fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed, 

Yet shall they light us onward, side by side ; 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ? 

" Cheer, then, beloved ! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image in whose voice a tone, 

A faint sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, 
An echo of our childhood's music gone ; 

Cheer thee! thy sister's heart and faith are high 

Our path is one with thee I live and die I " 



TTie celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts 
to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King 
Alfonso, of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in 
despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gath- 
ered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, of- 
fered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person in exchange ior his castle of 
Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives ; and 
being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King to 
m?et him. And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed, says the ancient chron- 
icle, "Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?" "Look where he is," replied 
the cruel King, " and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see." The 
remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances 
leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this event.] 

THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire ; 

" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord! oh, break my father's chain! " 

" "ise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day: 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." 
.Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. 

And lo! from afar, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, 
With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land ; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and we t, 
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took, 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold a frozen thing it dropped from his like lead, 
He looked up to the face above the face was of the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow the brow was fixed and white 
He met at last his father's eyes but in them was no sight! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze } 
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze ; 
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. 

"' Father ! " at length he murmured low and wept like childhood then, 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men ! 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown, 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darklv mournful brow, 
* No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for now. 


My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father, oh ! the worth, 
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met, 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then for thee my fields. were won,- 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son ! " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rei, 
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; 
And -with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, 
And sternly set them face to face the king before the dead ! 

"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss ? 

Be still and gaze thou on, false king I and tell me what is this! 

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought give answer, where are they? 

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light be still ! keep down thine ire, 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak this earth is not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, 
Thou canst not ? and a king ! his dust be mountains on thy headl " 

He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell upon the silent face 

tie cast one long, deep, troubled look then turned from that sad place : 

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain, 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. 


" To a mysteriously consorted pair 
This place is consecrate ; to death and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction." 


How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
O bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year, 
Plucked on the bosom of the dead to wither; 
Hopes from their source all holy, though of earth, 
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told : of Sabbath hours; 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting ; 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers; 
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting ; 

1 At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from the sepulchre, with her 
infant in her arms, at the sound of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb conclude 
thus : " Here am I, O God ! with the child whom thou hast given me-" 


But thou, young mother ! to thy gentle heart 
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 

Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping I 

A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 

Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 

As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 

The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past: 

Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking! 

Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast, 

The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking ! 

Thou hear'st, thou answer's!, " God of earth and heav! 

Here am I, with the child whom Thou hast given ! " 


" Fear no more the heat o" the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages, 
Thpu thy worldly task hast done. 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages." 


' I attended a funeral where there were a number of the German settlors present. After I had 
performed such service a is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old man 
came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they should perform some of their peculiar 
rites. He opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they all began to sing, in 
German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the 
singiiii; of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and using t!ie 
language and rites which they had brought with them over the sea from 'the fater/and, a 
word which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they 
sung as they bore the body along : the words ' mein Gait,' ' niein Bruder? and ' Vaterland' 
died awav in distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn." 
FLINT'S Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi.] 

So swelled the chant ; and the deep 

wind's moan 
Seemed through the cedars to murmur 

" Gone ! " 

THERK went a dirge through the forest's 

A.n exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 

11 Brother ! " (so the chant was sung 
In the-slumberer's native tongue), 
* Friend and brother !not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be : 
Long the exile's woe hath lain 
Jn thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine own blue streams, 
Wandered through thy fever-dreams; 
Voices from thy country's vines 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines ; 
And thy true heart died away. 
Aivl thy spirit would not stay." 

"Brother ! by the rolling Rhine 
Stands the home that once was thine 
Brother ! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blessed thine infant head, 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer, 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee played, 
Rest beneath their own oak shade, 



Far, far hence ! yet sea nor shore 
1 laply, brother ! part ye more ; 
God hath called thee to that band 
I i the immortal Fatherland ! " 

"The Fatherland!'' 1 with that sweet 

\ burst of tears 'midst the strain was 


' Brother ! were we there with thee, 
Rich would many a meeting be ! 
Many a broken garland bound, 
Many a mourned and lost one found ! 

But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air 
Loved and bright things to resign, 
As even now this dust of thine ; 
Yet to hope ! to hope in heaven, 
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven 
Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland ! " 

And the requiem died in the forest's 

gloom ; 
They had reached the exile's lonely 



" Alas ! what kind of grief should thy years know? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them." 


AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy ? 
What should the cloud be made of ? blessed child ! 
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, 
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild. 

And now thou tremblest ! wherefore ? in thy soul 
There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard 
No sound of presage from the distance roll, 
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word. 

From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young eye 
Hath looked not into death's, and thence become 
A questioner of mute eternity, 
A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quickened unto pain, 
By feverish watching for some step beloved ; 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, 
Glancing like dew-drops, and as lightly moved. 

Yet now, on billows of strange passion tossed, 
How art thou wildered in the cave of sleep ! 
My gentle child ! 'midst what dim phantoms lost, 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep ? 

Awake \ they sadden me those early tears, 
First gushings of the strong dark river's flow, 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years, 
The unfathomable flood of human woe ! 



Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream, 
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes 
Wake, wake ! as yet tky life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, 
Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling rove 
Come to the kindly region all thine own, 
The home, still bright for thee with guardian love. 

Happy, fair child ! that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thec back from visionary strife ! 
Oh, shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice, 
Start from the dream-like wilderness of life ? 


1 Oh ! that those lips had language ! Life hath passed 
With me but roughly since 1 saw thee last." 


THINE eyes are charmed thine earn- 
est eyes 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 

A virtue thence is shed. 

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined 

A blessing seems to be, 
And sometimes there my wayward 

A still reproach can see : 

And sometimes pity, soft and deep, 
And quivering through a tear ; 

Even as if love in heaven could weep, 
For grief left drooping here. 

And oh, my spirit needs that balm ! 

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth ! 
And in the night-hour's haunted calm, 

And by the lonely hearth. 

Look on me thus, when hollow praise 

Math made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days, 

One glance of love like thine ! 

Look on me thtis, when sudden glee 
.Bears my quick heart along, 

On wings that struggle to be free, 
As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain I too soon are felt 
The wounds they cannot flee ; 

Better in childlike tears to melt, 
Pouring my soul 0*1 thee ! 

Sweet face, that . o'er my childhood 

Whence is thy power of change, 
Thus ever shadowing back my own, 

The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charmed those 
earnest eyes ? 

I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tia 

Oh I change no longer, thoti ! 
Forever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



" One struggle more and I am free." 


LEAVE me, oh ! leave me ! unto all below 
Thy presence binds 'me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go, 
Too mighty in their loveliness farewell, 

That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! thy footstep, with its lightest sound, 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound, 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart; 
Thou biddest the peace, the reverential hush, 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart; 
Dear one ! this must not be 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days, 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze. 
Thou art all earth to me I 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love; of summer, and of thee, 

Too much and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beech-roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
Not now ! 'twill not be now! my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strength away 1 

Leave me ! thou comest between my heart and Heaven : 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! 
Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven ! 
Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
Oh, yet awhile delay I 



THOU'RT passing hence, my brother! 

Oh ! my earliest friend, farewell ! 
Tiiou'rt leaving me,-without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the 

And from the household tree, 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 

The brightness goes with thee. 

But thou, my friend, my brother 1 

Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood, 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his 

Passed like a swift bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee, 
Are on me still Oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is filled 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft deep eyes look through my 

Tender and sadly sweet ; 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet. 

And tell our white-haired father. 

That in the paths he trode, 
The child he loved, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother, 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth, 

As on her breast of yore 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and bright will see! 
Oh ! brother, brother ' may I dwell, 

Ere long, with them and thee I 


x ' Oh ! if the soul immortal be, 

Is not its love immortal too?" 

SEE'ST thou my home ? 'tis where yon woods are waving, 
In their dark richness, to the summer air, 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, 
Leads down the hill a vein o'f light, 'tis there ! 

'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming, 
Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

1 " Messages from the living to the dead are not uncommon in the Highlands. The 
Gaels have such a ceaseless consciousness of immortality, that their departed frenids are 
considered as merely absent for a time, aad permitted to relieve the hours of separation by 
occasional lutercourse with the objects of tluir earliest affections." See the notes to M-- 
Brunton's Works. 


My home 1 the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 
From its white walls the ve/y tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved there prayed for there my mother 
Sits by the hearth withVneekty thoughtful eye ; 
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother ; 
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blejuJing, 
All the home-voices meet at day's decline ; 
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, 
There laughs my home sad stranger ! where is thine ? 

Askest thou of mine ? In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
'Tis where /, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step But where are they ? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling, 
Ask of the" clouds, the stars, the trackless air 1 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the loving? 

Happy thou art that so canst gaze on thine ! 

My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 

That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene ! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe but dark seas roll between. 


* Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht \ da ich noch ein Bube war war's mein Lieblings 
;edaake, wie sie zu leben, wie sie zu sterben ! " 


Like thee to die, thou sun ! My boyhood's dream 
Was this; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! yet the hour 
Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power, 
Nature's deep longings : Oh ! for some kind eye, 
Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 
Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 
Some voice, to speak of hope and brighter days, 


Beyond the pass of shadows ! But I go, 

I that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 

And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's glow, 

Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone, 

Even in this moment, with your laughing glee, 

Mingles its cadence while you speak of me : 

Of me, your soldier, "midst the mountains lying, 

On the red banner of his battles dying, 

Far, far away ! and oh ! your parting prayer 

Will not his name be fondly murmured there ? 

It will ! A blessing on that holy hearth ! 

Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth. 

Mother ! 1 may not hear thy voice again ; 

Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain.; 

Young brother, fare thee well ! on each dear head 

Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed, 

My soul's last earthly breathings ! May your home 

Smile for you ever ! May no winter come, 

No world, between your hearts ! May even your tears, 

For my sake, full of long-remembered years, 

Quicken the true affections that entwine 

Your lives in one bright bond ! I may not sleep 

Amidst our fathers, where those tears 'might shine 

Over my slumbers ; yet your love will keep 

My memory living in the ancestral halls, 

Where shame hath never trod : the dark night falls, 

And I depart The brave are gone to rest, 

The brothers of my combats, on the breast 

Of the red field they reaped : their work is done 

Thou, too, art set ! farewell, farewell, thou sun I 

The last lone watcher of the bloody sod, 

Offers a trusting spirit up to God 


TO . 

" True, indeed, it is, 

That they whom death has hidden from our sight, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone." 


41 The love where death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow." 

I CALL thee blessed ! though now the voice be fled 
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone, 


And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine but light was thrown 
Far through thy breast: 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord, since he is gone, 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee blessed ! 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 
As 'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm, 
Forever green ! the world's breath enters not, 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm ; 
Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mavest thou turn 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home ! there is no power in chang 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway, 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange. 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hushed air ! 

And oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! I call thee blessed, 
If only there. 

Bksstd for the beautiful within thee dwelling 
- Never to fade ! a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! it is no dream, 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love. 
The rainbow still unreached, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and marked, hast known its home and place; 
And the high memory of its holy worth, 
To this our life a glory and a grace 

For thee hath given. 


And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 
Thou art ! the love his spirit bore away 
Was not for death ! a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, 

Thine still in heaven 1 


** And dreams, in their development, have breath, 
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make us what we were not what they will, . 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by." 


O SPIRIT-LAND ! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world s to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea-caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come and gff 

Are of beauty and terror of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye, 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair even as Eden fair : 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see, 
The eyes whose love hath been life to me 


They are there ; and each blessed voice I hear, 
Kindly, anc joyous, and silvery clear ; 
But under-tones are in each, that say 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow ; 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay,- 

" It is but a dream : it will melt away ! " 

I sit by the hearth of my early days; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, 
" It is but a dream j it will melt away ! " 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, 
Bright faces, kind voices 1 where are ye, where ? 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams, 

The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 

Make not my spirit within me burn 

For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return I 

Call out from the future my visions bright, 
From the world o'er the grave take thy solemn light, 
And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, 

No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 

So my soul may bear on through the long, long day, 

Till I go where the beautiful melts not away I 


" Where hath not woman stood, 
Strong in affection's might ? a reed, upborne 
By an o'ermastering current I " 

JENTLE and lovely form, 
What didst thou here, 

When the fierce battle-storm 
Bore down the spear ? 

Banner and shivered crest 
Beside thee strown, 

Tell, that amidst the best. 
Thy work was done I 

Yet strangely, sadly fair, 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams, through its golden hair, 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head 

Earth-bound the free 
How gave those haughty dead 

A place to thee ? 



Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crowned, 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around. 

Soft voices, clear and young, 

Mingling their swell, 
Should o'er thy dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell. 

Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose, 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note, 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still t 

And the swift charger sweep 

In full career. 
Trampling thy place of sleep, 

Why earnest thou here ? 

Why ? ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever, where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen ? 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, 

Some, for that stirring sound, 
A warrior's name ; 

Some for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life ; 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou, 
With the slight frame, 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame ; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour, 

To lift thy head ! 

Only the true, the strong, 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust ! 


GLOOM is upon thy lonely hearth, 
Oh, silent house ! once filled with 

mirth ; 

Sorrow is in the breezy sound 
Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days J 
My children's birthplace ! yet for me 
It is too much to look on thee. 

Too much ! for all about thee spread 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanished 


Follow me where thy roses blow, 
The echoes of kind household words 
Are with me 'midst thy singing-birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 

In yearnings for what might not stay ; 

For love which ne'er deceived my 

For all which went with "dust to 

dust I " 

What now is left me but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's 


To lift, through tears, my strainina eye 
Up to my Father's house on high f 

Oh ! many are the mansions there, * 
But not in one hath grief a share 1 
No haunting shade from things gone b\ 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging 

And they are there, whose long-loved 


In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

V"In my Father's house there are many 
mansions." John xiv. 



We miss them when the board is 

spread ; 

We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears, 1 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household 

But, by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death, 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore 
The severed wreath is bound once 

Holy ye were, and good, and true I 
No change can cloud my thoughts of 

you ; 

Guide me, like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 


THE stranger's heart! oh, wound i 


A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling 


Glad music round thy household eaves 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing 

A lovely sight at fall of day ; 

Then are the stranger's thoughts op- 
pressed [breast. 

His mother's voice comes o'er his 

Thou think'st it sweet w'.cn friend witli 


Beneath one roof in prayer may blend 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow 

dim [him 

Far, far are those who prayed with 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage- 

The voices of thy kindred band 

Oh ! 'midst them all when blest then 

Deal gently with the stranger's heart I 


THEY haunt me still those calm, pure, holy eyes ! 

Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams 
The soul of music that within them lies, 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams : 
Life spirit life, immortal and divine, 
Is there and yet how dark a death was thine ! 

Could it oh ! could it be meek child of song? 

The might of gentleness on that fair brow 
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong ? 

Bore it no talisman to ward the blow ? 

1 From an ancient Hebrew dirge : 
"Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead, 
For he is at rest, and we in tears ! " 
* That of Rizzio, at Ho'yrood House. 



Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast, 

Might brave their strife a flute-note hush the blast? 

Are there not deep sad oracles to read 
In the clear stillness of that radiant face? 

Yes, even like thee must gifted spirits bleed. 
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place I 

Bright exiled birds that visit alien skies, 

Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, 

Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, 

And their free song notes, from that happy nest, 
Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows ; 

Vain dream ! the love whose precious balms might save, 

Still, still denied they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! another doom, 
Victim ! hath set its promise in thine eye ; 

A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny ; 

Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, 

To the deep souls that find no echo here. 


COME home ! there is a sorrowing 

In music since ye went, 
And the early flower-scents wander by, 

With mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep, 
\nd the sweet word brother wakes 
a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

D ye beloved ! come home ! the 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song 

Returns and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room. 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it von, ye wandering ones ? 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm. 

Or on the lone mid-sea ? 
By stormy hills of batles old ? 

Or where dark rivers foam ? 
Oh ! life is dim where ye are not 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of 

And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair, 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 


" Imploraface!" 1 

ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep, 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, 
And lone affections, which are grief, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks, to lave 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal, pause ! within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gathered long and slowly ; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; 
Shall the dark waters of oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface 
AH the vain lore by memory's pride amassed, 
So it but swept along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf 
Raise the one master-grief ! 

Yet pause once more ! All, all thy soul hath known, 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ! 
Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall ? 
Think wouldst thou part with all? 

Fill with forgetfulness ! there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness but they are far 
Never ! oh never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul 
Fill high the oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! With memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born ? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last, 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 

That make such visions bright ? 

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! Yet stay 

'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's: friends be wreathed in one bright band. 
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill 
I must remember still. 

^Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the impression produced upon hirn 
by some tombs at Bologna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, " When I die, I could 
wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above 'my grave-' Itnplort 
tact.' " 


For their sake, for the dead whose image naught, 
May dim within the temple of my breast 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or tremble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit yet 
I ask not to forget. 





HARP of the mountain-land ! sound forth again 
As when the foaming Hirlas horn was crowned, 

And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, 

And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round: 

Wake with the spirit and the power of yore ! 

Harp of the ancient hills 1 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: 

All gave their ashes to the wind and sea 

Ring out, thou harp 1 he could not silence thee. 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Saxon passed, 

His banners floated on Eryri's gales ; 
But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast, 

E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales ! 
Thine was the voice that cheered the brave and free ; 
They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. 

Those were dark years ! They saw the valiant fall, 
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's board, 

The hearth left lonely in the ruined hall 
Yet power was thine a gift in every chord 1 

Call back that spirit to the days of peace, 

Thou noble harp ! thy tones are not to cease! 



BY the dread and viewless powers 

Whom the storms and seas obey, 
From the Dark Isle's J mystic bowers, 

Romans! o'er the deep away! 
Think ye, 'tis but nature's gloom 

O'er our shadowy coast which broods? 
By the altar and the tomb, 

Shun these haunted solitudes 1 

Know ye Mona's awful spells ? 

She the rolling orbs can stay ! 
She the mighty grave compels 

Back to yield its fettered prey! 
Fear ye not the lightning-stroke ? 

Mark ye not the fiery sky ? 
Hence ! around our central oak 

Gods' are-gathering Romans, fly! 


WHERE are they, those green fairy islands, reposing 

In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast? 
What spirit the things which are hidden disclosing, 

Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest ? 
Oh ! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages, 

The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith ; 
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages, 

For the guide to those realms of the blessed is death. 

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, 

Who steered for those distant green spots on the wave? 
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, 

In the fields of their country they found not a grave. 
Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers 

From the flowers of each vale immortality's breath ; 
But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their fathers 

For the guide to those realms of the blessed is death. 

1 Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island an ancient name for Anglesey. 

2 The "Green Islands of Ocean," or ' Green Spots of the Floods," called in the Trixds 
Gwerddonan Lhon," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserve-] ir. 
Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souis. <-.i the vntuons Druids, who 
could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. 
Oafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to 
discover these islands ; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of 
Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three 
losses by disappearance of the island of Britain, Vide W, O. PUOHES' Catnbrian Biography^ 
jiso Cambro-Brtion) vol. i. p. 124. 



WATCH ye well I The moon is shrouded 

On her bright throne ; 
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, 

Waves make wild moan. 
'Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, 
And gay songs and wine -cups flowing; 
But of winds, in darkness blowing, 

O'er seas unknown ! 

In the dwellings of our fathers, 

Round the glad blaze, 
Now the festive circle gathers 

With harps and lays ; 
Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, 
Steps are bounding, bards are singing, 
Ay ! the hour to hall is bringing 

Peace, joy, or praise. 

Save to us, our night-watch keeping, 

Storm-winds to brave, 
While the very sea-bird sleeping 

Rests in its cave ! 

Think of us when hearts are beaming, 
Think of us when mead is streaming, 
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming 

On the dark wave I 


FILL high the blue hirlas, 2 that shines like the wave,' 

When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea: 
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave, 

The dragons of battle, the sons of the free ! 
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight, 

A beam, like heaven's lightning,* flashed over the field; 
To those who came rushing as storms in their might, 

Who have shivered the helmet, and cloven the shield; 
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar, 
When lances were red from the harvest of war. 

1 x*. Jote to the " Green Isles of Ocean." 

* ~Iiras, from Air, long, and gins, blue or azure. 

s Fetth the horn, that we may drink together, whose fjloss is like 'he waves of the sea ; 
whose gTeen handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with goi." From the tfirlas 

4 " Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in 
the battle of Bangor, where fire flashed out of their spears ? " Ibid- 


Fill high the blue hirlas ! O cup-bearer, fill 

For the lords of the field in their festival's hour, 
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill 

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power : 
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn 

Of honor and mirth, 1 for the conflict is o'er ; 
And round let the golden-tipped hirlas be borne 

To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore. 
Who rushed to the field where the glory was won, 
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. 

Fill higher the hirlas ! forgetting not those 

Who share its bright draught in the days that are fled! 
Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose, 

Their lot shall be lovely renown to the dead ! 
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, 

While regal Eryri with snow shall be crowned 
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, 

And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. 
The free winds of Maelor 2 shall swell with their name, 
And Owain's rich hirlas be filled to their fame. 


THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night ; 3 
I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light ; 
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er, 
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, 
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill ! 
Be silent forever, thou desolate scene, 
Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been. 

"Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn badge of honor and mirth." From h" Hirlas He? 


* Maelor, part of the counties ot Denbigh and Flint, according to the i..odern division. 
" The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, 
Without fire, without bed 
I must weep awhile, and then be silent. 
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, 
Without fire, without being lighted 
Be thou encircled with spreading silent! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, 

Since he that owned it is no more 

Ah Death ! it will be but a short time he will leave me. 

The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night, 

On the top of the rock of Hydwyth,_ 

Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts! " 

See OWEN'S Heroic Elegies of Llywarck He* 


The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, 
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! 
Oh ! where are the warriors who circled its board ? 
The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was 
poured 1 

The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, 
Since he is departed whose smile made it bright! 
I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, 
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief I 


[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of the time of Arthur, was 
prince of Argoed, supposed to be a hart of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the 
loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fail of most of his sons, in the unequal contest main- 
tained by the North Britons against the growing; power of the Saxons, Llywarch was com- 
pelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some 
time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Ppwys, whose fall he pathetically laments in 
one of his poems. These are still extant ; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, 
is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty. See Cambrian Biography, and OWEN'S Heroic 
Elegies and other poems of Llywan-h lien.} 

THE bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing 

With song, and the hills are all manned with bloom; 

But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, 

The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! 

Oh ! wky should I live to hear music resounding, 

Which cannot awake ye, my -lovely, my brave ? 

Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding? 

My sons ! they but clothe the green turf of youi grave ! 

Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, 
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream ! 
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer, 1 
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam ; 
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping ! 
O grave ! why refuse to the aped thy bed, 
When valor's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, 
When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the dead ! 

Fair were ye, my sons ! and all kingly your bearing, 
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode ! 
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, 
Each eye glancing lire, shrouded now by the sod ! 2 

1 " What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now." 
2 " Four and twenty sons to me have been 

Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes." 

Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 

The golden chain, as a badge of honor, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the 
Works of the ancient Pritish bards. 


I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, 

Which rouses ye not, O my lovely f my brave ! 

When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, 

I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your grave 1 * 


I" Grufyddab Rhys abTewdwr, having resisted the English successfully in the time of Stephen, 
and at last obtained from them an honorable peace, made a great feast at his palace in Ystrad 
Tytui to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited 
all who would come in peace from Gwynedd, Powys the Deheitbarth, Glamorgan, and the 
marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors ; 
with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song : thus patronizing the poets and 
musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards 
sent away all those who had excelled in them with honorable gilts." Cambrian Biography. 

LET the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, 
By the bright festal torches around us that wave ! 
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall, 
And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the wall ! 

There is peace in the land we have battled to save: 
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high, 2 
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die ! 

Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight, 
With the bee's sunny nectar now sparkle in light ; 3 
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crowned, 
For the strong hearts in combat that leaped at its sound ! 

Like the billows' dark swell was the path of their might, 
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high, 
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die ! 

And wake ye the children of song from their dreams, 
On Maelor's wild hills and by Dyfed's fair streams 1 
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free, 
Which shall float down the waves of long ages to be. 

Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes, 
And pour the bright mead : let the wine-cup foam high, 
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die ! 

1 " Hardly has the snow covered the vale, 

When the warriors are hastening to the battle ; 
I do not go, I am hindered by infirmity." 

Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 

1 Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of the ancient British bards. 
*The horn was used for two purposes to sound the alarm in war, and to drink the mead a 

Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint. Dyfed (said to signify a land abound- 
ing with streams of water), the modern Pembrokeshire. 



WHEN the last flush of eve is dying 

On boundless lakes afar that shine : 
When winds amidst the palms are sighing, 

And fragrance breathes from every pine : ' 
When stars through cypress boughs are gleaming, 

And fire-flies wander bright and free, 
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, 

My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee I 
Alone o'er green savannas roving, 

Where some broad stream in silence flows, 
Or through the eternal forests moving, 

One only home my spirit knows ! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted ! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier could the weary-hearted 

Look on his own blue hills and diet 



[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh Princes, always accompanied the army whe 
it marched into an enemy's country ; and, while it was preparing fcr battle, or dividing the 
spoils, he performed an ancient song, called Unbennaetk Prydain, the Monarchy of Britain. 

. ... : pr . 

the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained. Sei 
JONES'S Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.] 

SONS of the Fair Isle ! forget not the time 

Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your c'imt : 

All that its eagles behold in their flight 

Was yours, from the deep of each storm-mantled height, 

Though from your race that proud birthright be torn, 

Unquenched is the spirit for monarchy born. 


Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile. 
The crown shall not pass'from the Beautiful Isle. 

Ages may roll ere your children regain 
The land for which heroes have perished in vain ; 
Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power, 
Around her still gathering in glory's full hour. 
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, 
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. 

1 Tht aromatic odor of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers. 

1 Ynys Prydam was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies./a;r or beautiful islt- 



Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, 
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle. 


iA prophecy of Taliesin relating to the Ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingi . 
verified. It is to the following effect : 

" Their God they shall worship, 
Their language they shall retain, 
Their land they shall lose, 
Except wild Wales."] 

A VOICE from time departed yet floats thy hills among, 

Cambria ! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung: 
" The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, 

The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll, 

A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spirit passed, 

A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast, 

And tells me that forever shall live the lofty tongue 

To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung. 

"Green island of the mighty! 1 I see thine ancient race 

Driven from their father's realm to make the rocks their dwelling-place! 

1 see from Uthyr's 2 kingdom the sceptre pass away, 

And many a line of bards and chiefs and princely men decay 

But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, 

And wear the crown to which is given dominion o'er the storms, 

So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue 

To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung!" 


SAW ye the blazing star ? 3 
The heavens looked down on freedom's 

And lit her torch on high ! 
Bright on the dragon crest * 
It tells that glory's wing shall 

When warriors meet to die ! 

Let earth's pale tyrants read despair 
And vengeance in its flame ; 

Hail ye, my bards ! the omen fair 
Of conquest and of fame, 

And swell the rushing mountain air 
With songs of Glyndwr's name. 

1 Y>iys y Cedeirn, or Isle of the Mighty an ancient name given to Britain. 

" Ulhyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur. 

8 The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing star, which the bards interpreted as 
an omen favorable to the cause of Glyndwr. It served to infuse spirit into the minds of a super- 
stitious people, the first success of their chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigor to 
their actions. PENNANT. 

4 Owen Glyndwr styled himself the Dragon ; a name he assumed in imitation of Uthyr, whose 
victories over the Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with a dragon beneath, which 
Uthyr used as his badge ; and on that account it became a favorite among the Welsh. PBN- 



At the dead hour of night, 

Marked ye how each majestic height 

Burned in its awful beams? 
Reel shone the eternal snows, 
And all the land, as bright it rose, 

Was full of glorious dreams ! 

O eagles of the battle, 1 rise ! 

The hope of Gwynedd wakes ! 2 
It is your banner in the skies 

Through each dark cloud which 

And mantles with triumphal dyes 

Your thousand hills and lakes! 

A sound is on the breeze, 

A murmur as of swelling seas! 

The Saxon on his way ! 
Lo ! spear and shield and lance, 
From Deva's waves with lightning 

Reflected to the day ! 

But who the torrent-wav? compels 
A conqueror's chain to bear ? 

Let those who wake the soul that dwells 
On our free winds beware ! 

The greenest and the loveliest dells 
May be the lion's lair ! 

Of us they told, the seers, 

And monarch bards of elder years, 

Who walked on earth as powers ! 
And in their burning strains, 
A spell of might and mystery reigns, 

To guard our mountain towers 1 

In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay : 

Before his gifted sight, 
The march of ages passed away 

With hero-footsteps bright, 
But proudest in that long array 

Was Glyndwr's path of light ! 


WHY lingers my gaze where the last hues of day 
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep ? 

Too fair is the sight for a wanderer, whose way 
Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of the deep 1 

Fall, shadows of twilight ! and veil the green shore, 

That the heart of the mighty may waver no more ! 

Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land 

Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? 

Be hushed, be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the hand 
Of minstrel with melody greet my return. 

No ! no ! let your echoes still float on the breeze, 

And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas ! 

'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth 

Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh ; 

Away ! we will bear over ocean and earth 
A name and a spirit that never shall die. 

My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign ; 

But my soul's quenchless fire, O my country ! is thine. 

1 " Bring the horn to Tudwrou, the Eagle of Battles." See The Htrias Horn of OWAIX 
CVFEILIOO. The eagle is a very favorite image with the ancient Welsh pouts. 

* GWYNEDU (pronounced Gwyneth), North Wales. 

' Merlin, Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed his prophecies on the future lot of the 
Britons amongst the mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient prophecies, 
were applied by Giyndwr to his own cause, and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of 
bis followers. 




[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons (as recorded 
in the Triads), for the purpose of opposing Caesar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. 
Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in 
the first instance, the subsequent departure of Csesar they considered as a cause of triumph ; 
and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an assembly of the various states of the island, foi 
the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing See the Cambrian 

FROM the glowing southern regions, 
Where the sun-god makes his dwell- 

Came the Roman's crested legions 
O'er the deep, round Britain swelling. 

The wave grew dazzling as he passed, 

With light from spear and helmet cast ; 

And sounds in every rushing blast 
Of a conqueror's march were telling, 

But his eagle's royal pinion, 
Bowing earth beneath its glory, 

Could not shadow with dominion 
Our wild seas and mountains hoary ! 

Back from their cloudy realm it flies, 

To float in light through softer skies ; 

Oh ! chainless winds of heaven arise ! 

Bear a vanquished world the story ! 

Lords of earth! to Rome returning, 
Tell how Britain combat wages, 

How Caswallon's soul is burning 
When the storm of battle rages! 

And ye that shrine high deeds in song, 

O holy and immortal throng ! 

The brightness of his name prolong, 
As a torch to stream through ages? 


Howel ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth century. A beautiful 
poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still pre- 
served amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy's residence, Castle 
Dinas Bran, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.] 

PRESS on, my steed ! I hear the swell * 
Of Valle Crucis' vesper-bell, 
Sweet floating from the holy dell 

O'er woods and waters round. 
Perchance the maid I love, e'en now, 
From Dinas Erin's majestic brow, 
Looks o'er the fairy world below, 

And listens to the sound ! 

I feel her presence on the scene I 

The summer air is more serene ! 

The deep woods wave in richer green, 

The wave more gently flows I 
O fair as Ocean's curling foam ! * 
Lo ! with the balmy hour I come 

The hour that brings the wanderer 

The weary to repose ! 

Haste ! on each mountain's darkening 


The glow hath died, the shadows rest, 
The twilight star on Deva's breast 

Gleams tremulously bright ; 
Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high ! 
Though scorn may wound me from her 

Oh ! better by the sun to die, 

Than live in rayless night ! 

1 " I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy acccount. O thou with 
the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long- 
hammed steed of Alban reached the summit of the high land of Bran." 

1 My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of 
the curling waves! . . . I know thai this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy 
love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn ! " HOWBL'S Ode to 




I 4 ' The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcertht) on November eve, is said to be a 
traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. 
The practice is, however of older date, and had reference originally to the Alban Elved, or 
new-year." Cambro-Briton. 

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy 
night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly pic- 

LIGHT the hills ! till heaven is glowing 

As with some red meteor's rays ! 
Winds of night, though rudely blowing, 

Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. 
Light the hills ! till flames are stream- 

From Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep, 1 
To the waves round Mona gleaming, 

Where the Roman tracked the deep ! 

Be the mountain watch-fires heightened, 
Pile them to the stormy sky ! 

Till each torrent wave is brightened, 
Kindling as it rushes by. 

Now each rock, the mist's high dwell- 

Towers in reddening light sublime ; 
Heap the flames ! around them telling 

Tales of Cambria's elder time. 

Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, 

Many a solemn vigil kept, 
When, in ages long departed, . 

O'er the noble dead they wept. 
In the winds we hear their voices 

" Sons ! though yours a brighter lot, 
When the mountain-land rejoices, 

Be her mighty unforgot ! " 


[" Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida 
by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as 
much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest 
attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord 
of Snowdon." PENNANT.] 

THEIRS was no dream, O monarch 


With heaven's own azure crowned ! 
Who called thee what thou shall be 

White Snowdon! holy ground. 

They fabled not, thy sons who told 
Of the dread power enshrined 

Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, 
And on thy rushing wind ! 

It shadowed o'er thy silent height, 
It filled thy chainless air, 

Deep thoughts of majesty and might 
Forever breathing there. 

Nor hath it fled ! the awful spell 
Yet holds unbroken sway, 

As when on that wild rock it fell 
Where Merddin Emyrs lay! 2 

1 Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean the conspicuous plaee, or obiect. 

2 Dinas Emrys (the fortress of Ambrose), a celebrated rock amongst the mountains of Snow- 
don, is said to be so called from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, called by the 
Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician : and there, tradition says, he 
wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons. 

There is another curious tradition respecting large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, 
called Maenduyr Arddu, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were 
sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of 
poetry, and the other would become insane. See WILLIAMS'S Observations on the Snowdon 



Though from their stormy haunts of 

Thine eagles long have flown, 1 
As proud a flight the soul shall soar 

Yet from thy mountain-throne ! 

Pierce then the Heavens, thou hill of 

streams ! 
And make the snows thy crest ! 

The sunlight of immortal dreams 
Around thee still shall rest. 

Eryri ! temple of the bard ! 

And fortress of the free ! 
Midst rocks which heroes died 

Their spirit dwells with thee ! 


RAISE ye the sword ! let the death-stroke be given; 
Oh ! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven ! 
So shall our spirits be free as our strains 
The children of song may not languish in chains ! 

Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest ? 
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast ? 
Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, 
And think ye that still we would linger below? 

Rest, ye brave dead ! midst the hills of your sires. 
Oh ! who would not slumber when freedom expires ? 
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain 
The children of song may not breathe in the chain ! 


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

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 stained the threshold stone. 

1 It is believed amongst the inhabitants of the*:' iT^Ontains, that eagles have heretofore bred 
in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very 
rarely, amongst the precipices. See WILLIAMS'S Observations on the Snowdon Mountains. 

2 This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of credit. And it deserves to be also 
soticed, that none of the bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allusion to such 
an event. See The Camoro- Briton, vol. i., p. 195. 

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


" And I, too, go: my 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 \ 

"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 numberest with the dead 

The burning spirit of the mountain-land 1 

" Thinkst thou, because the song hath seized, 

The soul of song is flown ? 
Thinkst thou it woke to crown the feast, 

It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone ? 

*' No ! by our wrongs, and by our blood ! 

We leave it pure and free ; 
Though hushed awhile, that sounding flood 

Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

" We leave it midst our country's woe 

The birthright of her breast ; 
We leave it as we leave the snow 

Bright and eternal on Eryri's ' crest 

" We leave it with our fame to dwell 

Upon our children's breath ; 
Our voice in theirs through 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 Aneurin's 2 land 
Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride ! 


i"Tt is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Caticr I 

excavation resembling a couch ; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, wou. 
be found in the morning either dead, in a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical in 

, I LAY on that'rock where the storms their dwelling, 
The birthplace of phantoms, the home ot the cloud ; 

1 Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains, 
* Aueurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. 


Around it forever 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 gulfs faintly gleaming ; 
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. 

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, passed floating before me, 

And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. 
I viewed the dread beings around us that hover, 

Though veiled "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 ! 
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 lived through that hour ; 
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power I 
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/ 


These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some erf ths 
"wild and wonderful " traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and ihe ancient 
!>oem of the Cid. 


WITH sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his own Bivar. 

To march o'er field, and to watch in 

From his home in good Castile he 

went ; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's 

For the noble Cid was a banisheCT 



2 53 

Through his olive-woods the morn- 
breeze played, 

And his native streams wild music 

And clear in the sunshine his vineyards 
lav, ' 

When for march and combat he took 
his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he 

Knd he turned his steed for a parting 

For a parting look at his own fair tow- 

Oh ! the exile's heart hath weary 

The pennons were spread, and the band 

But the Cid at the threshold a moment 

It was but a moment; the halls were 

And the gates of his dwelling all open 


There was not a steed in the empty 

Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked 

Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at 

the door, 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow 


Then a dim tear swelled to the war- 
rior's eye, 

As the voice of his native groves went 

And he said " My foemen their wish 
have won : 

Now the will of God be in all things 
done ! " 

But the trumpet blew, with" its note of 

And the winds of the morning swept 

off the tear, 
And the fields of his glory lay distant 

-He is gone from the towers of his 

own Bivar! 


IT was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls, 
When the blue spring-heaven lay sti'l 
and clear 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled 


And steps of hurrying feet, 
Where the Zambra's notes were wont 

to rise, 
Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief, 
On bright Valencia's shore, 

For Death was busy with her chief, 
The noble Campeador. 

The Moor-king's barks were on the 

With sounds and signs of war ; 
But the Cid was passing to his sleep, 

In the silent Alcazar 

No moan was heard through the towers 
of state, 

No weeper's aspect seen, 
But by the couch Ximena sate, 

With pale yet steadfast mien. 

Stillness was round the leader's bed, 
Warriors stood mournful nigh, 

And banners, o'er his glorious head, 
Were drooping heavily. 

And feeble grew the conquering hand, 
And cold the valiant breast ; 

He had fought the battles of the land, 
And his hour was come to rest. 

What said the Ruler of the field ? 

His voice is faint and low ; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lane t 
and shield 

Hath louder accents now. 

" Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone ; 

Be ye of mighty heart ! 



' Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet- 

From your walls ring far and shrill ; 
And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 

Shall grant you victory still. 

" And gird my form with mail-array, 

And set me on my steed ; 
So go ye forth on your funeral-way, 

And God shall give you speed. 

" Go with the dead in the front of war, 
All armed with sword and helm, 

And march by the camp of KingBucar, 
For the good Castilian realm. 

" And let me slumber in the soil 
Which gave my fathers birth; 

I have closed my day of battle-toil, 
And my course is done on earth." 

Now wave, ye glorious banners ! 


Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, 
And the arms, o'er the deathbed of the 

Send forth a hollow sigh. 

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight ? 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wind and the banners fall hushed 
as night : 

The Campeador he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of 


And swell out the trumpet's blast, 
Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of 

For the noble Cid hath passed! 


THE Moor had beleaguered Valencia's 

And lances gleamed up through her 

And the tents of the desert had girt 

her plain, 
And camels were trampling the vines 

of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where th 

death-wind sweeps, 
There were spears from hills where tin 

lion sleeps, 
There were bows from sands where the 

ostrich runs, 
For the shrill horn of Afric had called 

her sons 
To the battles of the west. 

The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas 

Like the roar of waters, the air had 

stirred ; 
The stars were shining o'er tower and 

And the camp lay hushed as a wizard's 

cave; - 
But the Christians woke that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barded 

Like a warrior mailed for the hour of 

And they fixed the sword in the cold 

right hand, ' 
Which had fought so well for his 

fathers' land. 
And the shield from his neck hung 


There was arming heard on Valen- 
cia's halls, 

There was vigil kept on the rampart 
walls ; 

Stars had not faded nor clouds turned 
red, [dead, 

When the knight had girded the noble 
And the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of 

W r as the still death-march of the host 

begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed 

Like a lion's tread on the burning 

sands ; 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth, it was mid- 
night deep, 

In heaven was the moon, in the camp 
was sleep ; 



When the last through the city's gates 

had gone, 
O'sr tent and rampart the bright day 

With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There \\trc knights five hundred went 
armud before, 

And Bcrmudez the Cid's green stand- 
ard bore ; 

To its last fair field, .with the break of 

Was the glorious banner in silence 

On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then, 
l,ike a leader circled with steel-clad 

The helmet was down o'er the face of 

the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior 

For he knew that the Cid was 


He was there, the Cid, with his own 

good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble 

Her eye was solemn, her step was 

But there rose not a sound of war or 

Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and 

The churches were empty, the masses 

done : 
There was not a voice through the wide 

streets far, 

Nor a foot-fall .heard in the Alcazar, 
So the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of 

Was the still death-march of the host 

begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed 

Like a lion's tread on the burning 

sands : 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills pealed with a cry 

ere long, 
When the Christians burst on the 

Paynim throng ! 
With a sudden flash of lance and 

And a charge of the war-steed in full 

It was Alvar Fanez came ! 

He that was wrapt with no funeral 

Had passed before like a threatening 

cloud ! 
And the storm rushed down on the 

tented plain, 
And the Archer-Queen, with her bands, 

lay slain ; 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King linear, 
And the Libyan kings who had joined 

his war ; 
And their hearts grew.heavy, and died 

And their hands could not wield an 

For the dreadful things they saw ! 

For it seemed where Minaya his onset 

There were seventy thousand knights 

All white as snow on Nevada's steep ; 

And they came like the foam of a roar- 
ing deep ; 
'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire went before them 

With a sword of fire, and a bannct 

And a blood-red cross on his shadowy 

mail ; 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim 

white horse, 
There was death in the giant-warrior's 

course I 



Where his banner streamed with its 

ghostly light, 
Where his sword blazed out, there was 

hurrying flight 
For it seemed not the sword of 

man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly 


As the king and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the 

Cid that day ! 
They were weary at eve, when they 

ceased to slay, 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were 

spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim 

And the bow of the desert was broke 

in Spain 
So the Cid to his grave passed 

on I 


TWAS the deep mid-watch of the silent 


And Leon in slumber lay, 
When a sound went forth in rushing 


Like an army on its wayl 
In the stillness of the hour, 
When the dreams of sleep have 

And men forget the day. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it 

Till the slumberers woke in 

dread ; 
The sound of a passing armament, 

With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal, 
Hut the heavy tramp of steel, 
As a host's to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it 

And the hollow pavement rang, 

And the towers as with a sweeping 


Rocked to the stormy clang ! 
But the march of the viewless train 
Went on to royal fane, 

Where a priest his night-hymn 

There was knocking that shook the 

marble floor, 
And a voice at the gate, which 

" That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Camp- 


Was there in his arms arrayed ; 
And that with him from the tomb, 
Had the Count Gonzalez come 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

And they came from the buried king 

that lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 
For he must be armed on the battle- 

With them to deliver Spain ! " 
. Then the march went sounding on 
And the Moors by noontide sun 
Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 


CALL it not loneliness, to dwell 
In woodland shade or hermit dell, 
Or the deep forest to explore, 
Or wander Alpine regions o'er ; 
For Nature there all joyous reigns, 
And fills with life her wild domains: 
A bird's light wing may break the air, 
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there: 
A bee the mountain flowers may seek. 
A chamois bound from peak to peak ; 
An eagle rushing to the sky, 
Wake the deep echoes with his cry; 
And still some sound, thy heart to 

Some voice, though not of man, is 


But he, whose weary step hath traced 
Mysterious Afric's awful waste 


2 57 

Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath viewed, 
Can tell thee what is solitude ! 
It is, to traverse lifeless plains, 
Where everlasting stillness reigns, 
And billowy sands and dazzling sky, 
Seem boundless as infinity ! 
It is, to sink, with speechless dread, 
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, 
Severed from earthly being's trace, 
Alone, amidst eternal space ! 
'Tis noon and fearfully profound, 
Silence is on the desert round ; 
Alone she reigns, above, beneath, 
With all the attributes of death ! 
No bird the blazing heaven's may dare, 
No insect bide the scorching air ; 
The ostrich, though of sun-born race, 
Seeks a more sheltered dwelling-place ; 
The lion slumbers in his lair, 
The serpent shuns the noontide glare ; 
But slowly wind the patient train 
Of camels o'er the blasted plain, 
Where they and man may brave alone 
The terrors of the burning zone. 

Faint not, O pilgrims I though on 


As a volcano, flame the sky ; 
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow 
The dark-red seas cf sand below ; 
Though not a shadow save your own, 
Across the dread expanse is thrown ; 
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave, 
Wide spreads the fresh transparent 

wave ! 

Urge your tired camels on, and take 
Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; 
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, 
And fan your brows with lighter wing. 
Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide 
Reflects the date-tree on its side 
Spetd on, pure draughts and genial air, 
And verdant shade, await you there. 
Oh glimpse of heaven ! to him un- 

That hath not trod the burning zone ! 
Forward they press they gaze dis- 

The waters of the desert fade I 
Melting to vapors that elude 
The eye, the lip, they vainly wooed. 1 
What meteor comes ? a purple haze 
Hath half obscured the noontide rays : J 
Onward it moves in swift career, 
A blush upon the atmosphere ; 
Haste, haste! avert the impending 


Fall prostrate ! 'tis the dread Simoom ! 
Bow down your faces till the blast 
On its red wing of flame hath passed, 
Far bearing o'er the sandy wave 
The viewless Angel of the Grave. 

It came 'tis vanished but hath left 
The wanderers e'en of hope bereft ; 
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, 
Pride, courage, strength, its power 

could tame. 

Faint with despondence, worn with toil, 
They sink upon the burning soil, 
Resigned amidst those realms of gloom, 
To find their deathbed and their tomb. 3 

But onward still ! yon distant spot 
Of verdure can deceive you not; 
Yon palms, which tremulously seemed 
Reflected as the waters gleamed, 
Along the horizon's verge displayed, 
Still rear their slender colonnade 
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain 
The Caravan's exhausted train. 
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss, 
The desert's emerald oasis ! 
A rainbow on the torrent's wave, 
A gem embosomed in the grave, 
A sunbeam on a stormy day 
Its beauty's image might convey 1 
Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps, 
While silence round her vigil keeps. 
Rest, weary pilgrims ! calmly laid 
To slumber in the acacia shade : 
Rest, where the shrubs your camels 


Their automatic breath diffuse ; 
Where softer light the sunbeams pour 
Through the tall palm and sycamore , 

1 The mirage, or vapor assuming the appearance of water. 
1 See the description of the Simoom in Bruce's Travels. 

3 The extreme languor anil despondence produced by the Simoom, even wheu its effects aro 
not fatal, have been described by many travellers. 


And the rich date luxuriant spreads 
Its pendant clusters o'er your heads. 
Nature once more, to seal your eyes, 
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ; 
Again each heart the music hails 
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales, 
And oh ! to Afric's child how dear 
The voice of fountains gushing near ! 
Sweet be your slumbers ! and your 

Of waving groves and rippling streams! 

Far be the serpent's venomed coil 
From the brief respite won by toil ; 
Far be the awful shades of those 
Who deep beneath the sands repose 
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath 
Bore swift and stern the call of death. 
Sleep ! nor may scorching blast invade, 
The freshness of the acacia shade, 
But gales of heaven your spirits bless, 
With life's best balm Forgetfulness ! 
Till night from many an urn diffuse 
The treasures of her world of dews. 

The day hath closed the moon on 


Walks in her cloudless majesty. 
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven 
Serene magnificence have given ; 
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame 
Shines forth eternally the same. 
Blest be their beams, whose holy light 
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, 
And lead, as with a track divine, 
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine I ^ 
Rise 1 bid your Isle of Palms adieu ! 
Again your lonely march pursue, 
While airs of night are freshly blowing, 
And heavens with softer beauty glow- 

'Tis silence all : the solemn scene 
\\Yars, at c;i :h step, a ruder mien ; 
For giant rucks, at distance piled, 
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. 
Darkly they rise what eye hath viewed 
The caverns of their solitude? 
Away! within those awful cells 
The savage lord of Afnc dwells ! 
Heard ye his voice ? the lion's roar 
Swells as when billow.-, break on shore. 

Well may the c.-vnel shake with fear, 
And the steed pant his foe is near ; 
Haste ! light the torch, bid watchfirei 


Far o'er the waste, a ruddy glow ; 
Keep vigil guard the bright array, 
Of flames that scare him from his prey 
Within their magic circle press, 
O wanderers of the wilderness ! 
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze 
Tell the wild tales of elder days. 
Arabia's wondrous lore that dwell? 
On warrior deeds, and wizard spells: 
Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like 


Rising to vanish with the breeze ; 
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that 


Their light where mortal may not tread, 
And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls 
The eternal billow heaves and falls. 
With charms like these, of mystic 


Watchers ! beguile the midnight hour. 
Slowly that hour hath rolled away, 
And star by star withdraws its ray. 
Dark children of the sun ! again 
Your own rich orient hails his reign. 
He comes, but veiled with sanguine 


Tinging the mists that load the air; 
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, 
The approaching hurricane proclaim. 
'Tis death's red banner streams o 

Fly to the rocks for shelter ! fly ! 
Lo! darkening o'er the fiery skies, 
The pillars of the desert rise! 
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, 
A giant host, the heavens concealing, 
They move, like mighty genii forms, 
Tosvering immense 'midst clouds aiul 


Who shall escape ? with awful force 
The whirlwind bears them on theii 

course ; 

They join, they rush resistless on, 
The landmarks of the plain are gone ; 
The steps, the forms, from earth ef 

Of those who trod the burning waste ! 


All whelmed, all hushed: none left to 


Sad record how they perished there 1 
No stone their tale of death shall tell 
The desert guards its mysteries well ; 

And o'er the unfathomed sandy deep, 
Where low their nameless relics sleep, 
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, 
Nor know his steps are on the dead. 


[" Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthago, when 
an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him : ' Marius, 
1 come from the Prztor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If 
you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy.' Marius, 
upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for 
some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired 
what answer he should carry to the governor. ' Go and tell him,* said the unfortunate man, 
with a sigh, ' that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage."' 

'TWAS noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high, 
With fierce resplendence filled the unclouded sky; 
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head, 
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread; 
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, 
Silent and lonely as at dead of night, 
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes 
Had strewed their precious marble o'er the plains; 
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown, 
The lizard basked upon the altar-stone ; 
Whelmed by the ruins of their own abodes, 
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods ; 
While near, dread offspring of the burning day I 
Coiled 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay. 

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, 
To shelter in that awful solitude. 
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien 
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert-scene ; 
Shadowed, not veiled, by locks of wintry snow, 
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrowed birnv ; 
Time had not quenched the terrors of his eye, 
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendancy ; 
\Vhile the deep meaning of his features told 
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit rolled, 
Nor dimmed the fire that might not be controlled 
And still did power invest his stately form, 
Shattered, but yet unconquered, by the storm. 


But slow his step and where, not yet o'erthrown, 
Still towered a pillar 'midst the waste alone, 
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, 
To slumber in its solitary shade. 
He slept and darkly, on his brief repose, 
The indignant genius of the scene arose. 
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread 
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head 
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain 
The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain, 
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, 
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn ! 

"And sleepst thou, Roman ?" cried his voice austere; 
" Shall son of Latium find a refuge here ? 
Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate, 
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate 1 
Go ! with her children's flower, the free, the brave, 
People the silent chambers of the grave ; 
So shall the course of ages yet to be, 
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me I 

" Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, 
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom ; 
I see the trophies of her pride decay, 
And her long line of triumphs pass away, 
Lost in the depths of time while sinks the star 
That led her march of heroes from afar ! 
Lo ! from the frozen forests of the North, 
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth ! 
Who shall awake the mighty ? will thy woe, 
City of thrones ! disturb the realms below? 
Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries 
Summon their shadowy legions to arise, 
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls ! 
Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, 
And their lost children bend the subject knee, 
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. 
Bird of the sun ! dread eagle ! borne on high, 
A creature of the empyreal thou, whose eye 
Was lightning to the earth whose pinion waved 
In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved; 
Sink from thy heavens ! for glory's noon is o'er, 
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more ! 
Closed is thy regal course thy crest is torn, 
And thy plume vanished from the realms of morn. 
The shaft hath reached thee ! rest with chiefs and kings, 
Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings ; 
Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey, 
And share thy glorious heritage of day ! 
But darker years shall mingle with the past, 
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. 



O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread, 
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head! 
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, 
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine' 
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, 
Calling heroic shades from ages gone, 
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait 
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate ! 

" Still sleepst thou, Roman ? Son of Victory, risel 
Wake to obey the avenging Destinies ! 
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood 
Shall swell and darken 1 iber's yellow flood ! 
My children's manes call awake! prepare 
The feast they claim ! exult ; n Rome's despair I 
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, 
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies ; 
Let carnage revel, e'en her shrines among, 
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young ! 
Haste ! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, 
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head 1 ** 

The vision flies a mortal step is near, 
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear; 
He starts, he wakes to woe before him stands 
The unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, 
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief, 
To seek on other shores a home for grief. 
Silent the wanderer sat but on his cheek 
The burning glow far more than words might speak ; 
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke 
Language, where all the indignant soul awoke. 
Till his deep thought found voice then, calmly stern. 
And sovereign in despair, he cried, " Return ! 
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen 
Marius, the exile, rest where Cnrthage once hath been! " 



AWAY ! though still thy sword is red 
With life-blood from my sire, 

No drop of thine may now be shed 
To quench my bosom's fire ; 

Though on my heart 'twould fall more 

Than dews upon the desert's breast. 

I've sought thee 'midst the srms ol 


Through the wide city's fanes ; 
I've sought thee by the lion's den, 
O'er pathless, boundless plains ; 
No step that marked the burning 

But mine its lonely course hath traced. 



Thy name hath been a baleful spell 
O'er my dark spirit cast ; [tell, 

No thought may dream, no words may 
What there unseen hath passed : 

This withered cheek, this faded eye, 

Are seals of thee behold ! and fly ! 

I lath not my cup for thee been poured, 
Beneath the palm-tree's shade ? 

Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored, 
Within my dwelling laid ? 

What though unknown yet who shall 

Secure if not the Arab's guest ? 

Haste thee ! and leave my threshold- 

Inviolate and pure ! 
Let not thy presence tempt me more, 

Man may not thus endure ! 
Away ! I bear a fettered arm, [harm ! 
A heart that burns but must not 

Begone ! outstrip the swift gazelle ! 

The wind in speed subdue ! 
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well, 

As vengeance shall pursue; 
And hate, like love, in parting pain. 
Smiles o'er one hope we meet agaii 

To-morrow and the avenger's hand, 
The warrior's dart is free ! 

E'en now, no spot in all thy land, 
Save this, had sheltered thee : 

Let blood the monarch's hall profane, 

The Arab's tent must bear no stain 1 

Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast 

Avoid thy secret way! 
And sternly, till thy steps be past, 

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day! 
I would not that thy doom should be 
Assigned by Heaven to aught but m 


autiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The follow 
ing lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.] 

IN the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread, 
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light 
With its quick-glancing splendor illumines the night; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn. 
Bright Cross of the South ! and beholding thee shine, 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee. 

How oft in their course o'er the ocean unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the dep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep! 



As the vision that rose to the lord of the world, 1 
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurled ; 
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow 
Made the billows the path of iheir glory, wert thou. 

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest ; 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride, 
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide. 

Shine on my own land is a far distant spot, 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not; 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee ! 

But thou to my thoughts are a pure-blazing shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine ; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee. 


I LAY upon the solemn plain, 
And by the funeral mound, 

Where those who died not there in 

Their place of sleep had found. 

Twas silent where the free blood 

When Persia came ar raved 
So many a voice had there been hushed, 

So many a footstep stayed. 

I slumbered on the lonely spot 

So sanctified by death : 
I slumbered but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, 
They rose the chainless dead, 

All armed they sprang, in joy, in power, 
Up from their grassy bed. 

I saw their spears, on that red field, 
Flash as in time gone by 

Chased to the seas without his shield, 
I saw the Persian fly. 

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast 
Called to another fight 

From visions of our glorious past, 
Who doth not wake in night 


WHAT wish can friendship form for 

What brighter star invoke to shine ? 
Thy path from every thorn is free, 

And every rose is thine ! 

Life hath no purer joy in store, 

Time hath no sorrow to efface ; 
Hope cannot paint one blessing more 

Than memory can retrace ! 
Some hearts a boding fear might own, 

Had Fate to them thy portion given, 
Since many an eye by tears alone 

Is taught to gaze on Heaven ! 

And there are virtues oft concealed, 
Till roused by anguish from repose, 

As odorous trees no balm will yield 
Till from their wounds it flows. 

1 Constintinc. 



But fear not than the lesson fraught 
With Sorrow's chastening power to 

know ; 
Thou needest not thus be sternly 

" To melt at others' woe." 

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, 
Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth : 

Ah ! why should virtue dread the 

If sunbeams prove her worth ? 


WHAT first should consecrate as thine, 
The volume, destined to be fraught 

With many a sweet and playful line, 
With many a pure and pious thought? 

It should be, what a loftier strain 
Perchance less meetly would impart ; 

What never yet was poured in vain, - 
The blessing of the grateful heart 

For kindness, which hath soothed the 

Of anxious grief, of weary pain, 
And oft, with its beguiling power, 

Taught languid Hope to smile again 

Long shall that fervent blessing rest 
On thee and thine, and heavenwards 

Call down such peace to soothe thy 

As thou wouldst bear to all that 



SAY not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear, 
Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier ! 
By earthly sorrow strengthened for the skies, 
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love, 
With its lost treasure, seeks a home above. 

But grief will claim her hour, and He, whose eye 

Looks pitying down on nature's agony, 

He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep, 

Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep ! 

He, too, hath wept and sacred be the woes 

Once borne by Him, their inmost source who knows, 

Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring 

Celestial healing on its dove-like wing ! 

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke, 

Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke ? 

Oh! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore 

The vanished light, that cheers their path no more ! 

The Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt, 

Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt! 

By fire and storm Heaven tries the Christian's worth, 

And joy departs, to wean us from the earth, 

Where still too long, with beings born to die, 

Time hath dominion o'er Eternity. 

A DIRGE. 265 

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost, 

Shall Faith rejoice when Nature grieves the most ; 

Then comes her triumph ! through the shadowy gloom, 

Her star in glory rises from the tomb, 

Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below, 

And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow ! 

Yes, all is o'er ! fear, doubt, suspense are fled, 

Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead! 

The final ordeal of the soul is past, 

And the pale brow is sealed to Heaven at last I* 

And thou, loved spirit ! for the skies mature, 
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure; 
Thou that didst make the home thy presence blest, 
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast, 
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found, 
Whence beamed her smile benignantly around; 
Thou, that to bosoms widowed and bereft 
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left, 
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to l>e, 
Till Heaven recall surviving love to thee! 

O cherished and revered ! fond memory well 
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell 1 
So pure, so blest thy life, that death alone 
Could make more perfect happiness thine own ; 
More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls, 
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls ; 
Awakes some purer hope, ordained to rise, 
He came thy cup of joy, serenely bright, 
Full to the last, still flowed in cloudless light; 
He came an angel, bearing from on high 
The all it wanted Immortality 1 


WEEP for the early lost! 
How many flowers were mingled in the crown 
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down, 

E'en when life promised most, 
How many hopes have withered they that bow 
To Heaven's dread will, fee! all its mysteries now. 

Did the young mother's eye, 
Behold her child, and close upon the day, 
Ere from its glance the awakening spirit's ray 

In sunshine could reply ? 
Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn I 
Oh! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne. 

" Till we have sealed the servants of --Mr God in their foreheads." Rev. ni. 3. 


For there is hushed on earth 
A voice of gladness there is veiled a face, 
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place, 

By the once-joyous hearth. 

A smile hath passed, which filled its home with light, 
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright ! 

But there is power with faith ! 
Power, e'en though nature o'er the untimely grave 
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave ; 

For sorrow comes of Death, 
And with a yearning heart we linger on, 
When they, whose glance unlocked its founts, are gone ! 

But glory from the dust, 
And praise to Him, the merciful, for those 
On whose bright memory love may still repose, 

With an immortal trust! 

Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, 
Such hope as she hath left " the pure in heart." 


*' NBLLO DELLA PIETRA had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pi*. 
Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jeal- 
ousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to 
the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the ldy was quite inno- 
cent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, 
then, as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the 
reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or 
accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or 
listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy 
the health of this young lady. In a lew months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us 
that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged 
in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample 
and very poetical narrative. But he bestow? on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory 
three spirits ; one was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of 
Campaldino ; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Estc ; 
the third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned 
towards him with these words ; 

' Recorditi di me ; che son la Pia, 
Sienna mi fe, disfecemi Maremma, 
Salsi colui che inarellata pria 
Disposando m' avea con la sua gemma.* " 


" Mais elle etait du monde, ou les plus belles choses, 

Ont le pire destin ; 

Et Rose elle a v^cu ce que vivent les roses, 
L'espace d'un Matin." MALHKRBB. 

THF.RF. are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 
Where glowing suns their purest light diffuse, 


Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, 
And naturejavishes her warmest hues ; 
But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath, 
Away ! her charms are but the pomp of Death ! 

He, in the vine-clad bowers, unseen is dwelling. 
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws,. 
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling: 
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose : 
And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh, 
But woo thee still to slumber and to die. 

Mysterious danger lurks, a syren, there, 

Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, 

But stealing o'er thee in the scented air, 

And veiled in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; 

How may we deem, amidst their deep array, 

That heaven and earth but flatter to betray? 

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure 1 Can it be, 
That these but charm us with destructive wiles ? 
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in tfiee 
Danger is masked in beauty death in smiles ? 
Oh I still the Circe of that fatal shore, 
Where she, the sun's bright daughter, dwelt of yore I 

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, 

Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, 

And viewless blights o'er many a landscape sheds, 

Gay with the riches of the south, in vain, 

O'er fairy bowers and palaces of state, 

Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. 

And pillared halls, whose airy colonnades 
Were formed to echo music's choral tone, 
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, 1 
Peopled by sculpture's graceful forms alone ; 
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, 
Neglected temples and forsaken groves. 

And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming, 

'Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise, 

By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming 

Of old Arcadia's woodland deities, 

Wild visions ! there no sylvan powers convene, 

Death reigns the genius of the Elysian scene. 

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome ! that bear 
Traces of mightier beings on your brow, 
O'er you that subtle spirit of the air 
Extends the desert of his empire now ; 

de Stael's fine description, in her Corinne, of the Villa Borghese, deserted on 


Broods o'er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, 
And makes the Caesar's ruined halls his home. 

Youth, valor, beauty, oft have felt his power, 
His crowned and chosen victims; o'er their lot 
Hath fond affection wept each blighted flower 
In turn was loved and mourned, and is forgot. 
But one who perished, left a tale of woe, 
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. 

A voice of music, from Sienna's walls, 

Is floating joyous on the summer air, 

And there are banquets in her stately halls, 

And graceful revels of the gay and (air, 

And brilliant wreaths the altar have arrayed, 

Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid 

To that young bride each grace hath Nature given, 
Which glows on Art's divmest dream, her eye 
I lath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven 
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye ; 
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form 
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colors warm. 1 

But is she blest ? for sometimes o'er her smile 

A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast ; 

And in her liquid glance there seems awhile 

To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past: 

Yet soon it flies a cloud that leaves no trace, 

On the sky's azure, of its dwelling-place. 

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise 

Remembrance of some early love or woe, 

Faded, yet scarce forgotten in her eyes 

Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow ; 

Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, 

Where still some pining thought comes darkly o'er our mirth. 

The world before her smiles its changeful gaze 
She hath not proved as yet ; her path seems gay 
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise 
Is still the joyous herald of her way ; 
And beauty's light around her dwells, to throw 
O'er every scene its own resplendent glow. 

Such is the young Bianca graced with all 

That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give ; 

Pure in their loveliness her looks recall 

Such dreams, as ne'er life's early bloom survive ; 

And, when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught 

With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought. 

i An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci's picture of his wife, Mona Lisa, supposed to be the most 
perfect imitation of Nature ever exhibited in painting. See Vasari in his Lives of tlu Painter* 


And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith 
Is brave and noble child of high descent, 
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, 
'Mid slaughtered heaps, the warrior's monument: 
And proudly marshalled his Carroccio's l way, 
Amidst the wildest wreck of war's array. 

And his the chivalrous, commanding mien, 

Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace ; 

Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, 

Of fiery passions, darting o'er his face, 

And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye 

But e'en while yet we gaze, its quick, wild flashes die. 

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, 

As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse ; 

And veil the workings of each darker feeling, 

Deep in his soul concentrating its force: 

But yet. he loves O I who hath loved, nor known 

Affection's power exalt the bosom all its own ? 

The days roll on and still Bianca's lot 
Seems as a path of Eden thou nnght'st deem 
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot 
To wake her soul from life's enchanted dream ; 
And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear 
It sheds but grace more intellectual there. 

A few short years, and all is changed her fate 
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o'ercast. 
Have jealous doubts transformed to wrath and hat*, 
The love whose glow expression's power surpassed ? 
Lo ! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom 
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her dopm. 

O ! can he meet that eye, of light serene, 
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth, 
And view that bright intelligence of mien 
Formed to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, 
Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign ? 
How shall he e'er confide in aught on earth again? 

In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze, 

Transient, yet filled with meaning, stern and wild, 

Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, 

Then turns away, and fixes on her child 

So dark a glance, as thrills a mother's mind 

With some vague fear, scarce owned, and I'lulcfmcd. 

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave 
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore, 
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave 

1 See the description of this sort of consecrated war-chariot in Sisaioudi's Hiitoire des R* 
bliqucs Italiennes, &c. vol., i. p. 394. 

270 THE MA RE MM A. 

Gray rocks with foliage richly shadowed o'er, 
And sighing winds, that murmur through the viood, 
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood. 

Fair is that house of solitude and fair 
The green Maremma, far around it spread, 
A sun-bright waste of beauty yet an air 
Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed, 
No human footstep tracks the lone domain, 
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. 

And silent are the marble halls that rise 

'Mid founts, and cypress walks, and olive groves : 

All sleeps in sunshine, 'neath cerulean skies, 

And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves 

Yet every trace of man reveals alone, 

That there life once had flourished and is gone. 

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, 

The summer air, deceit in every sigh, 

Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing, 

Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt, in days gone by; 

And strains of mirth and melody have flowed 

Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. 

And thither doth her lord, remorseless, bear 
Bianca with her child his altered eye 
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, 
While his dark spirit seals their doom to die? 
And the deep bodings of his victim's heart, 
Tell her, from fruitless hope at once to part. 

It is the summer's glorious prime and blending 
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, 
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, 
Scarce murmurs as it heaves, in glassy sleep 
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, 
That lovely shore of solitude and light. 

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing. 
Decked with young flowers the rich Maremma glows, 
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, 
And the fresh myrtle in exutorance blows, 
And far around, a deep and sunnv bloom 
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. 

Yes ! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca ! fairest flower ! 
The voices that calls thee speaks in every gale, 
Which o'er thee breathing with insidious power, 
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale, 
And, fatal in its softness, day by day, 
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away. 


But sink not yet ; for there are darker woes, 
Daughter of beauty ! in thy spring-morn fading, 
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved than those 
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading! 
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot ; 
'Tis agony but soon to be forgot ! 

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, 
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath 
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, 
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of death .' 
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast 
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last I 

Such pangs were thine, young mother ! Thou didst bend 

O'er thy fair boy, and raised his drooping head ; 

And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, 

Keep thy sad midnight vigil near his bed, 

And watch his patient, supplicating eye, 

Fixed upon thee on thee! who couldst no aid supply: 

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe 

Through those dark hours to thee the wind's low sigh, 

And the faint murmur ot the ocean's flow, 

Came like some spirit whispering " He must die I " 

And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast 

His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest 

Tis past that fearful trial he is gone ; 
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep; 
The hour of nature's chartered peace comes on, 
And thou shall share thine infant's holy sleep. 
A few short sufferings yet and death shall be 
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee. 

But ask not hope not one relenting thought 

From him who doomed thee thus to waste away, 

Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught, 

Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay; 

And coldly, sternly, silently can trace 

The gradual withering of each youthful grace. 

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come 

When thou, bright victim ! on his dreams shall rise 

Vs an accusing angel and thy tomb, 

A martyr's shrine, be hallowed in his eyes ! 

Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, 

More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting. 

Lift thy meek eves to heaven for all on earth, 
Young sufferer ! fades before thee Thou art lone 
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, 
Thine hour of death is all affliction's own! 


It is our task to suffer and our fate 
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. 

The season's glory fades the vintage-lay 

Through joyous Italy resounds no more ; 

But mortal loveliness hath passed away, 

Fairer than aught in summer's glowing store. 

Beauty and youth are gone behold them such 

As death hath made them with his blighting touch ! 

The summer's breath came o'er them and they died 1 
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, 
Called forth young nature in her festal pride, 
But bore to them their summons from the earth ! 
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, 
And wake to life and light all flowers but these. 

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, 

O lost and loveliest one ! adorns thy grave ; 

But o'er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling 

The dewdrops glisten, and the wildflowers wave 

Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, 

For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb ! 



crowns yon savag 

THE moonbeam, quivering o'er the 

Sleeps in pale gold on wood and 


The wild wind slumbers in its cave, 
And heaven is cloudless earth is 

still ! 
The pile, that 


With battlement* of Gothic might, 
Rises in softer pomp arrayed, 
Its massy towers half lost in shade, 
Half touched with mellowing light 1 
The rays of night, the tints of time, 

Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, 
O'er its rude strength and mien sub- 

A placid smile have thrown ; 
And far beyond, where wild and high, 
Bounding the pale blue summer sky, 
A mountain vista meets the eye, 
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume 
A penciled shade, a softer gloom ; 
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, 
Its torrents glitter through the night, 
While every cave and deep recess 
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. 

Scarce moving on the glassy deep. 
Yon g"allant vessel see.ns to sleep, 

But darting from its side, 
How swiftly does its boat design 
A slender, silvery, waving line 

Of radiance o'er the tide 1 


No sound is on the summer seas, 

I? ut the low dashing of the oar, 
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze 

Through woods that fringe the rocky 


That boat has reached the silent bay, 
I'he dashing oar has ceased to play, 
The breeze has murmured and has 


In forest shades, on ocean's tide. 
No step, no tone, no breath of sound 
Disturbs the loneliness profound ; 
And midnight spreads o'er earth and 

A calm so holy and so deep, 
That voice of mortal were profane, 

To break on nature's sleep ! 
It is the hour for thought to soar, 

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes; 
For rapt devotion to adore, 

For passion to repose ; 
And virtue to forget her tears, 
In visions of sublimer spheres! 
For oh ! those transient gleams of 


To calmer, purer spirits given, 
Children of hallowed peace, are known 
In solitude and shade alone ! 
Like flowers that shun the blaze of 


To blow beneath the midnight moon, 
The garish world they will not bless, 
But only live in loneliness ! 

I lark! did some note of plaintive 

Melt on the stillness of the air ? 
Or was it fancy's powerful spell 

That woke such sweetness there ? 
For wild and distant it arose, 
Like sounds that bless the bard's re- 

When in lone wood or mossy cave 
He dreams beside some fountain-wave, 
And fairy worlds delight the eyes 
Wearied with life's realities. 
Was it illusion ? yet again 
Rises and falls the enchanted strain 

Mellow, and sweet, and faint, 
As if some spirit's touch had given 
The soul of sound to harp of heaven 

To soothe a dying saint ! 

Is it the mermaid's distant shell, 

Warbling beneath the moonlit wave ? 
Such witching tones might lure full 

The seaman to his grave I 
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, 
Wild, soft, aerial melodies! 
Is it the song of woodland-fay 
From sparry grot, or haunted bower ? 
Hark ! floating on, the magic lay 

Draws near yon ivied tower ! 
Now nearer still, the listening ear 
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint, yet 

clear ; 
And accents low, as if in fear, 

Thus murmur, half suppressed : 
"Awake! the moon is bright on high, 
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh, 

The world is hushed to rest ! " 
Then sinks the voice the strain is 


Its last low cadence dies along the 

Fair Bertha hears the expected song, 
Swift from her tower she glides along; 
No echo to her tread awakes, 
Her fairy step no slumber breaks, 
And, in that hour of silence deep, 
While all around the dews of sleep 
O'erpower each sense,each eyelid steep, 
Quick throbs her heart with hope and 


Her dark eye glistens with a tear. 
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek 
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, 
The lip now flushed, now pale as death, 
The trembling frame, the fluttering 

breath ! 

Oh ! in that moment, o'er her soul, 
What struggling passions claim con- 
trol ! 

Fear, duty, love, in conflict'high, 
By turns have won the ascendancy ; 
And as, all tremulously bright, 
Streams o'er her face the beam of 


What thousand mixed emotions play 
O'er that fair face, and melt away : 
Like forms whose quick succession 

O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams ; 




Like the swift glancing lights that rise 
'Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, 

And traverse ocean o'er ; 
So in that full, impassioned eye 
The changeful meanings rise and die, 

Just seen and then no more ! 
But oh 1 too short that pause again 
Thrills to her heart that witching 

strain : 

" Awake! the midnight moon is bright ; 
Awake ! the moments wing their flight; 

Haste ! or they speed in vain 1 " 

O, call of love ! thy potent spell 

O'er that weak heart prevails too well ; 

The " still small voice " is heard no 


That pleaded duty's cause before, 
And fear is hushed, and doubt is gone, 
And pride forgot, and reason flown ! 
I ler cheek, whose color came and fled, 
Kesumes its warmest, brightest red, 
Her step its quick elastic tread, 

Her eye its beaming smile ! 
Through lonely court and silent hall 
Flits her light shadow o'er the wall, 
And still that low, harmonious call 

Melts on her ear the while ! 
Though love's quick car alone could 


Jhe words its accents faintly swell : 
'Awake, while yet the lingering night 
And stars and seas befriend our flight, 

O ! haste, while all is well ! 

The halls, the courts, the gates, are 


She gains the moonlit beach at last. 
Who waits to guide her trembling feet ? 
Who flies the fugitive to greet ? 
He, to her youthful heart endeared 
By all it e'er had hoped and feared, 
Twined with each wish, with every 


Each day-dream fancy e'er had wrought, 
Whose tints portray, with flattering 


What brighter worlds alone fulfil ! 
Alas! that aught so fair should fly, 
Thy blighting wand, Reality ! 
A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, 
A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore, 

Disguise that vainly strove to hide 
Bearing and glance of martial pride \ 
For he in many a battle scene, 
On many a rampart-breach had been ; 
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, 
Had seen the valiant bleed and die, 
And proudly reared on hostile tower, 
Midst falchion-clash, and arrowy 


Britannia's banner high 
And though some ancient feud hac 


His Bertha's sire to loathe his name 
More noble warrior never fought 

For glory's prize, or England's fame 
And well his dark, commanding, 

And form and step of stately grace, 
Accorded with achievements high, 
Soul of emprise and chivalry, 

Bright name, and generous race ! 
His cheek, embrowned by many a sun 
Tells a proud tale of glory won, 
Of vigil, march, and combat rude, 
Valor, and toil, and fortitude ! 
E'en while youth's earliest blushe 


Warm o'er that cheek their vivid hue, 
His gallant soul, his stripling form, 
Had braved the battle's rudest storm 
When England's conquering archer 

And dyed thy plain, Poitiers, wit 


When shivered axe, and cloven shielc 
And shattered helmet, strewed th 


And France around her king in vain 
Had marshalled valor's noblest train 
In that dread strife, his lightning eye 
Had flashed with transport keen an 


And 'midst the battle's wildest tide, 
Throbbed his young heart with hop< 

and pride. 

Alike that fearless heart could braver 
Death on the war-field or the wave ; 
Alike in tournament or fight, 
That ardent spirit found delight ! 
Yet oft, 'midst hostile scenes afar, 

Bright o'er his soul a vision came. 
Rising, like some benignant star, 
On stormy seas, or plains of war. 


To soothe, with hopes more dear 

than fame, 
The heart that throbbed to Bertha's 

name ! 

And 'midst the wildest rage of fight, 
And in the deepest calm of night, 
To her his thoughts would wing their 


With fond devotion warm ; 
Oft would those glowing thoughts por- 
Some home, from tumults far away, 

Graced with that angel form ! 
And now his spirit fondly deems 
Fulfilled its loveliest, dearest dreams ! 

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of 


in minstrel garb, attends the chief ? 
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow 

Reveals a shade of grief. 
Sorrow and time have touched his face, 
With mournful yet majestic grace, 
Soft as the melancholy smile 
Of sunset on some ruined pile ! 
It is the bard whose song had power 
To lure the maiden from her tower ; 
The bard whose wild, inspiring lays, 
E'en in gay childhood's earliest davs, 
First woke, in Osbert's kindling 


The flame that will not be represt, 
The pulse that throbs for praise ! 
Those lays had banished from his eye, 
The bright, soft tears of infancy, 
Had soothed the boy to calm repose, 
Had hushed his bosom's earliest woes ; 
And when the light of thought awoke, 
When first young reason's day-spring 


More powerful still, they bade arise 
His spirit's burning energies! 
Then the bright dream of glory warmed, 
Then the loud pealing war-song 


The legends of each martial line, 
The battle tales of Palestine: 
And oft, since then, A is deeds had 


Themes of .he lofty lays he loved ! 
Now, at triumphant love's command, 
Since Osbert leaves his native land, 

Forsaking glory's high career, 

For her, than glory far more dear ; 

Since hope's gay dream, and meteor 

- ray, 

To distant regions points his way, 

That there Affection's hands may dress 

A fairy bower for happiness ; 

That fond, devoted bard, though now 

Time's wintry garland wreaths his 

Though quenched the sunbeam of hi* 


And fled his spirit's buoyancy, 
And strength and enterprise are past, 
Still follows constant to the last ! 

Though his sole wish was but to die 
'Midst the calm scenes of days gone by > 
And all that hallows and endears 
The memory of departed years 
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined 
To those loved scenes, his pensive 

mind ; 

Ah ! what can tear the links apart, 
That bind his chieftain to his heart ? 
What smile but his with joy can light 
The eye obscured by age's night ? 
Last of a loved and honored line, 
Last tie to earth in life's decline, 
Till death its lingering spark shall dim. 
That faithful eye must gaze on him ! 

Silent and swift, with footstep light, 
Haste on those fugitives of night, 
They reached the boat the rapid oar 
Soon wafts them from the wooded 


The bark is gained a gallant few, 
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew ; 
The pennant, in the moonlight beam, 

With soft suffusion glows ; 
From the white sail a silvery gleam 

Falls on the wave's repose ; 
Long shadows undulating play, 
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay 
Rut still so hushed the summer-air, 
They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair. 
Lest morn's fust, beam behold them 

Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze oi 

From river-wave, or mountain-height, 



Or dew-bright couch of moss and 


By haunted spring, in forest bowers; 
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, 
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, 
And caverned gems their lustre throw 
O'er the red sea-flowers' vivid glow ? 
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, 
In solitary splendor blaze ; 
And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear. 
Swell through the deep's unfathomed 

sphere ? 

What grove of that mysterious world 
Holds thy light wing in slumber furled ? 
Awake ! o'er glittering seas to rove, 
Awake ! to guide the bark of love ! 
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon 
Shall fade the bright propitious moon ; 
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, 
E'en now but lo ! the rustling sail 
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale ! 
The bark glides on their fears arc o'er, 
Recedes the bold romantic shore, 

Its features mingling fast ; 
Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye 
May still each lovely scene descry 

Of years forever past ! 
There wave the woods, beneath wnose 

With bounding step, thy childhood 

played ; 

'Midst ferny glades, and mossy lawns, 
Free as their native birds and fawns ; 
Listening the sylvansounds, that float 
On each low breeze, 'midst dells re- 
mote ; 

The ringdove's deep, melodious moan, 
The rustling deer in thickets lone ; 
The wild-bee's hum, the aspen's sigh, 
The wood-stream's plaintive harmony. 
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, 
There thy own mountains darkly 

tower I 

'Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude, 
But thou hast loved its solitude ! 
No path so wild but thou hast known, 
And traced its rugged course alone ! 
The earliest wreath that bound thy 

Was twined of glowing heath-flowers 


There, in the dayspring of thy years, 
Undimmed by passions or by tears, 
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye 
Wandered o'er ocean, earth, or sky, 
While the wild breeze that round thce 

blew, [hue ; 

Tinged thy warm check with richer 
Pure as the skies that o'er thy head 
Their clear and cloudless azure spread ; 
Pure as that gale, whose light wing 


Its freshness from the mountain dew ; 
Glowed thy young heart with feelings 


A heaven of hallowed ecstasy ! 
Such days were thine ! ere love had 


A cloud o'er that celestial dawn ! 
As the clear dews in morning's beam, 
With soft reflected coloring stream, 
Catch every tint of eastern gem, 
To form the rose's diadem ; 
But vanish when the noontide hour 
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower ; 
Thus in thy soul each calm delight, 
Like morn's first dewdrops, pure and 


Fled swift from passion's blighting fire, 
Or lingered only to expire ! 

Spring, on thy native hills again, 

Shall bid neglected wildflowers rise, 
And call forth, in each grassy glen, 

Her brightest emerald dyes ! 
There shall the lonely mountain-rose, 
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose ; 
'Midst rocky dells, each well-known 


Shall sparkle in the summer beam; 
The birch, o'er precipice and cave, 
Its feathery foliage still shall wave ; 
The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil 
Its coral clusters to the gale, 
And autumn shed a warmer bloom 
O'er the rich heath and glowing broom. 
But thy light footstep there no more, 
Each path, each dingle shall explore 
In vain'may smile each green recess, 
Who now shall pierce its loneliness ? 
The stream through shadowy glens 
may stray, [way ? 

Who now shall trace its glistening 


In solitude, in silence deep, 

Shrined 'midst her rocks, shall echo 


No lute's wild swell again shall rise, 
To wake her mystic melodies. 
All soft may blow the mountain air, 
It will not wave thy graceful hair ! 
The mountain rose may bloom and die, 
It will not meet thy smiling eye ! 
But like those scenes of vanished days, 

Shall others ne'er delight ; 
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze, 

Yet seem not half so bright ! 
O'er the dim woodlands fading hue, 

Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high ; 
Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view 

That home of infancy ! [er, 

Heed not the night-dew's chilling pow- 
Heed not the sea-wind's coldest hour, 
Hut pause, and linger on the deck, 
Till of'those towers no trace, no spec, 

Is gleaming o'er the main ; 
For when the mist of morn shall rise, 
Blending the sea, the shores, the skies, 
That home, once vanished, from thine 

Shall bless them ne'er again! 
There the dark tales and songs ^f yore, 

First with strange transport filled thy 

E'en while their fearful, mystic lore, 

From thy warm cheek the life-bloom 

stole ; 

There, while thy father's raptured ear, 
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, 
And in his eye the trembling tear, 

Revealed his spirit's trance ; 
How oft, those echoing halls along, 
Thy thrilling voice has swelled the 


Tradition wild of other days, 
Or troubadour's heroic lays, 

Or legend of romance ! 
Oh ! many an hour has there been 

That memory's pencil oft shall dress 
In softer shades, and tints that shine 

In mellowed loveliness I 
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, 
Shall mourn, with deep and fond re 

The sunshine of thine early years, 

Scarce deemed so radiant till it set'. 
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone. 
The bliss, till vanished, hardly known ! 

On rock and turret, wood and hill, 
The fading moonbeams linger still ; 
Still, Bertha, gaze on yongray tower, 
At evening's last and sweetest hour, 
While varying still, the western skies 
Flushed the clear seas with rainbow- 
dyes, [passed, 
Whose warm suffusions glowed and 
Each richer, lovelier, than the last ; 
How oft, while gazing on the deep. 
That seemed a heaven of peace to sleep, 
As if its wave, so still, so fair, 
More frowning mien might never wear, 
The twilight calm of mental rest, 
Would steal in silence o'er thy breast, 
And wake that dear and balmy sigh, 
That softly breathes the spirit's har- 
Ah ! ne'er again shall ours to thee be 


Of joy on earth so near allied to 
Heaven ! 

Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye 
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh ? 
Is there a grief his voice, his smile, 
His words, are fruitless to beguile ? 
Oh 1 bitter to the youthful heart, 

That scarce a pang, a care has known. 
The hour when first from scenes we 

Where life's bright spring has flown ! 
Forsaking, o'er the world to roam, 
That little shrine of peace our home I 
E'en if delighted fancy throw 
O'er that cold world, her brightest 


Painting its untried paths with flowers. 
That will not live in earthly bowers 
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear 
One breath of life's ungenial air) ; 
E'en if such dreams of hope arise, 
As Heaven alone can realize ; 
Cold were the breast that would not 

One sigh, the home of youth to leave 


Stern were the heart that would not 


TO breathe life's saddest word fare- 
well ! 

Though earth has many a deeper woe, 
Though tears, more bitter far, must 


That hour, whate'er our future lot. 
That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot ! 

Such was the pang of Bertha's heart, 
The thought, that bade the tear-drop 
start ; 

And Osbert by her side 
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting 


Nature's fond struggle told too well ; 
And days of future bliss portrayed, 
And love's own eloquence essayed, 

To soothe his plighted bride I 
Of bright Arcadian scenes 'he tells, 

In that sweet land to which they fly; 
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells 

Of blooming Italy. 
For he had roved a pilgrim there, 
And gazed on many a spot so fair, 
It seemed like some enchanted grove, 
Where only peace, and joy, and love, 
Those exiles of the world, might rove, 

And breathe its heavenly air ; 
And, all unmixed with ruder tone, 
Their " wood-notes wild " be heard 
alone ! 

Far from the frown of stern control, 
That vainly would subdue the soul, 
There shall their long affianced hands, 
}ie joined in consecrated bands, 
And in some rich, romantic vale, 

Circled with heights of Alpine snow, 
Where citron-woods enrich the gale, 
And scented shrubs their balm exhale, 

And flowering myrtles blow ; 
And 'midst the mulberry boughs on 


Weaves the wild vine her tapestry: 
On some bright streamlet's emerald 


Where cedars wave, in graceful pride, 
Bosomed in groves, their home shall 

A. sheltered bower of Paradise ! 

Thus would the lover soothe to rest 
\Vithtales of hope her anxious breast ' ; 
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore, 
Her soul's bright visions to restore, 
And bid gay phantoms of delight 
Float, in soft coloring, o'er her sight. 
Oh ! youth, sweet May-morn, fled so 


Far brighter than life's loveliest noon, 
How oft thy spirit's buoyant power 
Will triumph, e'en in sorrow's hour 

Prevailing o'er regret ! 
As rears its head the elastic flower 
Though the dark tempest's recent 

Hang on its petals yet I 

Ah ! not so soon can hope's gay smile 
The aged bard to joy beguile ; 
Those silent years that steal away 
The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright 


Win from the mind a nobler prize, 
E'en all its buoyant energies ! 
For him the April days are past, 

When grief was but a fleeting cloud; 
No transient shade will sorrow cast, 

When age the spirit's might has 
bowed ! 

And, as he sees the land grow dim, 
That native land, now lost to him, 
Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his 

And long in speechless grief he stands. 

So desolately calm his air, 
He seems an image, wrought to bear 
The stamp of deep, though hushed 

despair ; 

Motion and life no sign bespeaks 
Save that the night-breeze, o'er his 


Just waves his silvery hair ! [know 
Naught else could teach the eye to 
He was no sculptured form of woe ! 

Long gazing o'er the darkening flood, 
Pale in that silent grief he stood ; 
Till the cold moon was waning fast, 

And many a lovely star had died, 
And the gray heavens deep shadows 

Far o'er the slumbering tide , 


And robed in one dark solemn hue, 
Arose the distant shore to view. 
Then, starting irom his trance of woe, 
Tears, long suppressed, in freedom 

While thus his wild and plaintive 

Blends with the murmur of the main. 


Thou setting moon ! when next thy rays 
Are trembling on the shadowy deep, 
The land, now fading from my gaze, 

These eyes in vain shall weep; 
And wander o'er the lonely sea, 
And fix their tearful glance on thcc, 
On thee ! whose light so softly gleams, 
Through the green oaks that fringe my 
native streams. 

But, 'midst those ancient groves, no 


Shall I thy quivering lustre hail, 
Its plaintive strain my heart must pour, 

To swell a foreign gale ; 
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes 


When its full tones their stillness broke, 
Deserted now, shall hear alone. 
The brook's wild voice, the wind's mys- 
terious moan. 

And oh ! ye fair, forsaken halls, 

Left by your lord to slow decay, 
Soon shall the trophies on your walls 

Be mouldering fast away ! 
There shall no choral songs resound, 
There shall no festal board be crowned ; 
But ivy wreath the silent gate, 
And all be hushed, and cold, and deso- 

No banner from the stately tower, 
Shall spread its blazoned folds on 

There the wild brier and summer flower 
Unmarked, shall wave and die. 

Home of the mighty ! thou art lone. 
The noonday of thy pride is gone, 
And, 'midst thy solitude profound, 
A step shall echo like unearthly sound! 

From thy cold hearths no festal blaze 

Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, 
Nor welcome, with convivial rays, 

Some pilgrim of the night; 

But there shall grass luxuriant 

As o'er the dwellings of the dead ; 

And the deep swell of every blast, 
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur 

And Ii 

of life is fled, 

nd I my joy of life is fled, 

My spirit's power, my bosom's 

The raven locks that graced my 


Wave in a wreath of snow ! 
And where the star of youth arose, 
I deemed life's lingering ray should 

And those loved trees my tomb 


Beneath whose arching bowers my 
childhood played. 

Vain dream ; that tomb in distant 

Shall rise, forsaken and forgot ; 
And thou, sweet land, that gavest mr 

A grave must yield me not ! 
Yet, haply he for whom I leave 
Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve. 
When cold the hand, and closed the 

And mute the voice he loved to 

O'er the hushed harp one tear may 

And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's 




'TWAS night in Babylon : yet many a beam, 

Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, 

Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream 

With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, 

Whose azure knows no cloud : each whispered sigh 

Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers, 

Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, 

O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers ; 

And the glad city's voice went up from all her towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, 
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band, 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand 
Had showered around all- treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East ; all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back ; all sweets of many a land. 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore ; 
But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain! 
The lord of nations spoke, and forth were brought 
The spoils of Salem's devasta'.ed fane. 
Thrice holy vessels ! pure from earthly stain, 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him, 
Who deigned within the oracle to reign, 
Revealed, yet shadowed ; making noonday dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim. 

They came, and louder pealed the voice of song, 
And pride flashed brighter from the kindling eye, 
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cups of consecrated gold ! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, 
And bid the censers of the temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old ! 

Peace ! is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadowed forth, the senses to appal, 
Yon fearful vision ? Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause ? Along the illumined wall, 
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all. 
Darkly it moves, a hand, a human hand, 
O'er the bright lamps of that rrsplendent hall, 


In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, 

Words all unknown, the tongue of some far distant laud \ 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board, 

And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low, 

And fitful starts ! the wine, in triumph poured, 

Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, 

The waving censer drops to earth and ID ! 

The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, 

Trembles before a shadow ! Say not so ! 

The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight, 

Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite I 

" But haste ye ! bring Chaklea's gifted seers, 

The men of prescience ! haply to their eyes, 

Which track the future through the rolling spheres, 

Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies." 

They come the readers of the midnight skies, 

They that gave voice to visions but in vain ! 

Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, 

It hath no language 'midst the starry train, 

Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 

And other inspiration ! one of those 

Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, 

And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows. 

His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose 

Of his pure features half o'erawed the mind, . 

Telling of inward mysteries joys and woes 

In lone recesses of the soul enshrined ; 

Depths of a being sealed and severed from mankind. 

Yes ! what was earth to him, whose spirit passed 

Time's utmost bounds ! on whose unshrinking sight 

Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 

Their full resplendence ? Majesty and might 

Were in his dreams ; for him the veil of light 

Shrouding Heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne, 

The curtain of the unutterably bright 

Was raised ! to him, in fearful splendor shown, 

Ancient of Days ! e'en Thou madest thy dread presence known 

He spoke : the shadows of the things to come 

Passed o'er his soul : "O king, elate in pride ! 

God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom 

The one, the living God by thce defied 1 

He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, 

Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'Tis decreed 

The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide, 

The stranger to thy throne of power succeed ! 

Thy days are full they come, the Persian and the Mede 1 ** 


There fell a moment's thrilling silence round 
A breathless pause ! the hush of hearts that beat. 
And limbs that quiver: Is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet ? 
'Twos but some echo in the crowded street, 
Of far heard revelry ; the shout, the song, 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course along 
Away ; nor let a dream disturb the festal throng I 

Peace yet again ! Hark ! steps in tumult flying, 
Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle-field ! 
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield ! 
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst ; and, blent with these, 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is sealed 
In their full mirth ; all deepening on the breeze, 
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas I 

And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling, 

Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry : 

And, lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, 

Death bursting on the halls of revelry! 

Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, 

The sword hath raged through joy's devoted train ; 

Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 

Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane ; 

Empire is lost and won Belshazzar with the slain. 1 

1 As originally written, the following additional stanzas (afterwards omitted) concluded 

Fallen is the golden city! in the dust, 
Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state, 
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust, 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate ! 
She that beheld the nations at her gate, 
Thronging in homage, shall be called no more 
Lady of kingdoms. Who shall mourn her fate? 
Her is full, her march of triumph o'er 
. What widowed land shall now her widowhood deplore? 

Sit thou in silence ! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters! thou, whose augurs read 
The language of the planets, and disowned 
The Mighty .Name it blazons! veil thy head, 
Daughter of Babylon ! the sword is red 
From thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! for thou hast said, 
" I am, and none beside! " The Eternal spoke: 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke 1 

But go thou forth, O Israel ! wake ! rejoice ! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day! 
Renew the sound of harps, the exulting voice, 
The mirth of timbrels! loose the chain, and say 
God hath redeemed His people! from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise ! 
Awake ! put on thy beautiful array! 



* " Thou strives! nobly, 

When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had ^unk ; 

And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed, 

Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tear*. 

* Fame I look not for, 
But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye, 
1'efore my fellow-men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honor of a man, 
Thus stationed as 1 am, I will do all 
That man may do." 

Miss BAILLIB'S Constant! 

THE fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
Shout, for the city of the Constantines, 
The rising city of the billow-side, 
The City of the Cross ! great ocean's bride, 
Crowned with her birth she sprung ! Long ages past, 
And still she looked in glory o'er the tide, 
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast, 
Poured by the burning East, all joyously and fast. 


Long ages past ! they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broidered her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frowned in their strength ; yet there were signs which tol 
The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmured if a rose-leaf's fold 
Disturbed her dreams ; and called her slaves to keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o'er the deep. 

O long-forsaken Zion ! to the skies 
Send up 011 every wind thy choral melodies I 

And lift thy head ! Behold thy sons returning, 
Redeemed from exile, ransomed from the chain, 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning ; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in rain, 
Because her children were not dwells afcain, 
Girt with the lovely! through thy streets, once more, 
City of God ! shall pass the bridal train, 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, 
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore I 


But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
'Tis not alone the wind, at midnight swelling, 
15reaks on the soft repose by luxury wooed ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows. 
And darker hues have stained the marble, strewed 
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes. 


A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant-pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed crowned Eurotas ; when, of old, 
Dark Asia send her battle-myriads o'er 
The indignant wave, which would not be controlled. 
But past the Persian's chain in boundless freedom rolled 

And it is thus again ! Swift oars are dashing 
The parted waters, and a light is cast 
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep, 
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are passed 
Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep, 
O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap. 

War from the West ! the snows on Thracian hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'er the lands 
Which Haemus girds, the chainless mountain rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East ! 'midst Araby's lone sands, 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the sea : 
Oh! for a, soul to fire thy dust.Thermopyla: I 

Hear yet again, ye mighty ! Where are they, 
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crowned 
Leaped up, in proudly beautiful array, 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion ? Far and joyous round. 


From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows. 
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at freedom's voice they rose ! 
Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's repose? 

They slumber with their swords ! The olive shades 

In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 

In vain the spirit of the past pervades 

The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale. 

Yet must Thou wake, though all unarmed and pale, 

Devoted City! Lot the Moslem's spear. 

Red trom its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 

Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine eai I 

Awake ! and summon those, who yet, perchance, may heart 

Be hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping : 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, 
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales ! The sons of each brave line, 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, 
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's shrine, 
And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine ! 


All still, all voiceless! and the billow's roar 
Alone replies! Alike their soul is gone 
Who shared the funeral feast on CEta's shore, 
And theirs that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swelled the crusader's hvmn ! Then gird thou on 
Thine armor, Eastern Queen ! and meet the hour 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is done 
With a strong heart ; so may thy helmet tower 
Unshivered through the storm, for generous hope is power ! 

But linger not, array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress groves me gleaming bright. 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near. 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Eacli hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, 
Which the deep grave alone is chartered not to hear ! 


Away ! bring wine, bring odors, to the shade 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight, since we must die ! 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by, 
For feast in vine-wreathed bower, or pillared hall ; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's cail, 
And from the startled hand the untastecl cup will fall 


The night the glorious oriental night, 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, 
With its clear stars! the red artillery's light, 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendor driven, 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower 
Starts wildly forth ; and now the air is riven 
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lowei; 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallowed hour. 

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon tlie earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle ! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To Faith and Courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas, 
From the Seven Towers, their banner waves its sign, 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze. 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine; 
TTiy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 

Was Rome thy parent ? Didst thou catch from her 
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye? 
That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die! 
Heir of the Caesars! did that lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath passed, 
With its long march of sceptred imagery, 
The heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
-Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last! 


Vain dreams ! upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought 
Springs pure and holy ! in that eye is blended 
A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories fraught, 


And, far within a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, 
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought 
(Though through its veil, seen darkly from the dust), 
In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just 

Those were proud days, when on the battle plain 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst the array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away, 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands at his voice who started, 
Called on the unseen, terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then, fearless-hearted, 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed ! 


But then, around him as the javelins rushed, 
From earth to heaven swelled up the loud acclaim : 
And, ere his heart's last free libation gushed, 
With a bright smile the warrior caught his name 
Far floating on the winds ! And Victory came. 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life, in fiery feeling ! Valor's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed, 
Was to be Rome's high star ! He died and had his meed. 


But praise and dearer, holier praise, be theirs. 
"Who, in the stillness and the solitude 
Of hearts pressed earthwards by a weight of cares, 
Uncheered by Fame's proud hope, the ethereal food 
Of restless energies, and only viewed 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places ; have subdued 
And vowed themselves with strength tii then unknown 
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone. 


Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charmed mankind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng ; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for theme arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities, 



Well might thy name, brave Constantine ! awake 
Such thought, such feeling! But the scene again 
Burst on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists : the camp, the plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, 
With its bright cross fixed high in crowning grace; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, 
And, circling all with arms, that turbaned race, 
The sun, the desert, stamped in each dark haughty face 


Shout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons streaming 
Red o'er the waters ! Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming 
Is Hope's own smile ! They crowd the swelling sail, 
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car ! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling veil 
Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before ! 
And oh ! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore I 


The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's coast. 
All thronged! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch girt with his barbaric host, 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scimitar ! 
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement, 
Decks, with their serried gun*, arrayed to bar 
^The promised aid : but hark ! a shout is sent 
U\) irom the noble barks ! the Moslem line is rent! 


On, on through rushing flame, and arrowy shower, 
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way: 
And, with the shadows of the vesper hour, 
Furled their white sails, and anchored in the bay. 
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay, 
Then the Greek wines flowed mantling in the light 
Of (estal halls and there was joy 1 ihe ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bneht. 
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight I 


For vain that feeble succor ! Day by day 

The imperial towers are crumbling, and {he sweep 

Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 

Comes powerful, as when Heaven unbinds the deep ! 


Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yu will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep 
Flies far: and in tkeir mien, the walls who tread, 
Things by the brave untold, may fearfully be read ! 

It was a sad and solemn task, to hold 
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguered wall ! 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions rolled, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ; 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall, 
The giant shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the graves ; a low mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain, 
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain. 

For they might catch the Arab charger's neighing, 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song ; 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying. 
The watch-word muttered in some eastern tongue. 
Then flashed the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness not repose, 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and strong ; 
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their numbered hours fast pressing to the close. 


But strength is from the mightiest ! There is one 
Still in the breach, and on the rampart seen, 
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun, 
And tells in silence, how the night hath been, 
In kingly halls, a vigil : yet serene 
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye; 
And there is that in his collected mien. 
To which the hearts of noble men reply, 
With fires, partaking not this frame's mortalityl 


Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate, 
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be, 
Still following fast ; as when the wind hath blown 
O'er Indian groves, a wanderer wild and free. 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to treel 


And it is thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Caesar ! yet the few 
That set their generous bosom to the blast 
Which rocks thy throne the fearless and the true, 
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years gone by, 
When from bright dreams the ascendant Roman drew 
Enduring strength ! States vanish ages fly 
But leave one task unchanged to suffer and to die I 


These are our nature's heritage. But thou, 
The crowned with empire ! thou wert called to share 
A cup more bftter. On thy fevered brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 
Which long had passed away; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care; 
And, with all this, to smile ! for earth-born frame 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame! 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, 
On the red scaffold ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steeled 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might, 
Yet are proud nature's ! But her meteor-light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds ; it falls not where 
In silence, and in secret, and in night, 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, 
And rise more strong than death from its unwitnessed prayei; 

Men have been firm in battle : they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, 
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood, 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes, 
That so their children, undefiled with chains, 
Might worship there in peace. But they that stand 
When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Linked but to perish with a ruined land, 
Where Freedom dies with them call these a martyr-band 1 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage where man's last agony 


Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, 
Recked not which champion ; but prepared the strain, 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory, 
To greet the conqueror, while, with calm disdain, 
The vanquished proudly met the doom he met in vain. 


The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With t'tis of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought, 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed, 
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by misery ; one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed, 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast shown 
Mow brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne 

The signs are full. They are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air, 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears : no meteor-banners glare, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair; 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seea 
In the thinned ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien, 
And in the ruined heaps where walls and towers have beeni 

It is a night of beauty: such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, 
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fojint and glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest-haunts ; a night, to rove alone 
Where the young leaves by winds are swayed, 
And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone 
Of melody, that seems to breathe from worlds unknown; 

A night, to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards ; a night, to hold 
Unseen communion with the inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old; 
A night, for mourners, o'er the hallowed mould, 
To strew sweet flowers ; for revellers to fill 
And wreathe the cup; for sorrows to be told 
Which love cherished long vain thoughts! be still! 
It is a night (if r ife, stamped with Almighty Will! 


It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending 
The ancient summits in its dread career ! 
And with vast billows wrathfully contending, 
And with dark clouds o'ershadowing every sphere ! 
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear, 
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 
Alike in His omnipotence is near, 
When the soft winds o'er spring's green pathway blow, 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain's brow. 


The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hushed Bosphorus, whose ocean stream 
Sleeps", with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus, in the moonlight-gleam 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Thronged it with gods, and bent the adoring knee! 
But that is past and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts ; but earth, air, sea, 
And Time, which presses on, to finish His decree. 


Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye, the thrones 
And temples of a visionary night, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones, 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with night: 
Ye have looked down on battles ! Fear, and Flight, 
And armed Revenge, all hurrying past below I 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared, than e'er, with tranquil brow, 
Ye gazed on from ydur world of solitude and snow! 


Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 
And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry 
Of savage mirth ! Wild horn, and war-steeds' tramp, 
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry, 
The clash of desert-spears ! Last mght the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on, 
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high, 
And countless, as the flames, in ages gone, 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy Lebanon ! 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 

Which wraps those eastern thousands ? Yes, perchance 

Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep, 

Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 


And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed 
Rich odors o'er the faithful ; but the lance, 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread, 
Ere fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead. 


May this be sleep, this hush ? A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race ! 
One that would scan the abyss of destiny, 
E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 
Kindles beneath their aspect, and his mien, 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen. 


Oh ! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream, 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood ! But with the restless mind 
It hath been ever thus, and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assigned 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep, 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep. 

But ye ! that beamed on Fate's tremendous "night, 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon, 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonte'd light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won; 
And ye, that calmly viewed the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet-blast 
Rung through the Capitol ; bright spheres ! roll on! 
Still bright, though empire's fall ; and bid man cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past 


For it hath mighty lessons ! from the tomb, 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wrecked cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair, 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, 
And thrills the soul ; yet bids us not despair, 
But make one rock our shelter and our stay, 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay ! 



The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hushed waters tremulously fall, 
Poured from the Caesar's palace : now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round, 
Tells the hushed seaman, gliding past the shore, 
How monarchs revel there ! Its feasts are o'er 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade ? 
I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade, 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made f 

In silence, and in arms ! With helm with sword 
These are no marriage garments ! Yet e'en now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely brow 
With an 'imperial diadem ! but thou, 
O fated prince ! art called, and these with thee, 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learned to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, 
And count it joy enough to perish being free ! 


On through long vestibules, with solemn tread 
As men, that in some time of fear and woe, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow. 
The warriors pass : their measured steps are slow. 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls, 
Sad seems the light itself which on their armor falls! 

And they have reached a gorgeous chamber, bright 
With all we dream of splendor ; yet a gloom . 
Seems gathered o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb 1 


Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty ! hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already ? Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone ? 

Oh ! there are times whose pressure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions I when the storm beats loud, 
When the strong towers are tottering to their base, 
And the streets rock, who mingle in the crowd ? 
Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng ! Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening bowed, 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower, 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power ! 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high. 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak, 
In the deep human heart more gloriously, 
Than in the bursting thunder ! Thence the weak, 
They that seemed formed, as flower-stems, but to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whose name 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, 
And thrilj the pulse ! Ay, strength no pangs could tame 
Hath looked from woman's eye upon the sword and flame I 


And this of such hours ! That throne is void, 
And its lord comes uncrowned. Behold him stand, 
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroyed 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midst his band, 
The gathered virtue of a sinking land. 
Alas ! how scanty ! Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ; each noble hand 
Is pressed by turns in his : for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died J 

A moment's hush and then he speaks he speaks I 
But not of hope ! that dream hath long gone Lj ' 
His words are full of memory as he seeks, 
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, 
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye, 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall ! 


His words are full of faith! And thoughts, more high 
Than Rome e'er knew, now fill his glance with light ; 
Thoughts which gave nobler lessons how to die 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty might ! 
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, 
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame 
The bravest in such moments ! 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendors cold and tame, 
That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame ! 


They weep those champions of the Cross they weep, 
Yet vow themselves to death ! Ay, 'midst that train 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice ! The pang is vain, 
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 
A warrior's sword. Those men are strangers here 
The homes they never may behold again, 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, 
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer ! 

Knowest thou the land where bloom the orange bowers 
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron's dyes? 
It is their own. They see their fathers towers, 
'Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise : 
They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes, 
Which long and vainly shall explor the main 
For their white sails' return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain 
Oh ! what a crowded world one moment may contain ! 

Such moments come to thousands ! few may die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wave 
Are scattered fast and far, as rose-leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow ot the ancestral hall, 
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all ! 


But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell, 
Though they were those once blooming at our side 
In youth's gay home ! Away ! what sound's deep swell 


Comes on the wind ? It 5s an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell, 
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 

Again, and yet again! A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear, 
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour, 
Checkering life's crowded path. They fill the air 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's ; and when young brides are led 
From their paternal homes ; and when the glare 
Of burning streets on midnight's cloud waves red. 
And when the silent house receives its guest the dead. 

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given, 
On that last night of empire ! As a spell 
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, 
On the chilled heart of multitudes they fell. 
Each cadence seemed a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away, 
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell, 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's decay. 


Again, and yet again ! from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awfully ; and they 
Who never more, to rest in mortal home, 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
The imperial band, in close and armed array, 
As men that from the sword must part no more. 
Take through the midnight streets their silent way, 
Within their ancient temple to adore, 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o'er. 


It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 
O'er which forgetful ness her balm hath shed 
In the beleaguered city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread, 
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread, 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street, 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet. 



Their homes are luxury's yet : why pour they thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye ? 
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence, 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels rolled by, 
And rocked their palaces, as if on high 
The whirlwind passed ? From couch and joyous board 
Hath the fierce phantom beckoned them to die ? 
No ! what are these ? for them a cup is poured 
More dark with wrath ; Mar. comes the spoiler and the sword 

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws 
On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues, deeply red like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes ! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasped in prayer, 
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears ; all outward shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there : 
Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair! 

But high above that scene, in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams, 
A mien of life, yet where no life-boat flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems, 
Pale, grand, colossal ; lo ! the embodied dreams 
Of yore ! Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion ! Yet 'twas man that caught, 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought! 

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome ? 
That Rome which witnessed, in her sceptred days, 
So much of noble death ? When shrine and dome, 
'Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays, 
As the long triumph passed, with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
O sovereign forms ? concentring all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn ? 


Hath it been thus ? or did ye grace the halls, 
Once peopled by the mighty ? Haply there, 
In your still grandeur, from the pillared walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair, 


Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crowned goblet's flow : 
Behold again ! high hearts made nobler offerings now ! 


The stately fane is reached and at its gate 
The warriors pause; on life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state 
Hath marked from all, to be more sternly tried 
By suffering, speaks : each ruder voice hath died, 
While his implores forgiveness ! ' If there be 
One 'midst your throngs, my people ! whom, in pride 
Or passion, I have wronged ; such pardon, free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man to me ! " 

But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies ! He hath not been of those 
Who, feared by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; the environed but by slaves and foes, 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose, 
For they have heard the voice cry, "Sleep no more ! " 
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er, 
When it speaks low and kneels the oppressor's throne before ! 


He hath been loved but who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race ? in other mould 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, 
And call him not forsaken; thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold 
Within its precincts ! Isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around the imperial dead. 


'Tis a proud vision that most regal pile 
Of ancient days ! The lamps are streaming bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillared aisle, 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendors, as the wavering light 
Develops, on those walls, the thousand dyes 
Of the veined marbles, which array their height, 
And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes, 
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies. 


But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's own hues, 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie ; 
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic : pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where eastern Caesars lie, 
Beneath their trophies ; pause not here ; for know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show, 
In nature or in art above, around, below. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone ; 
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze ; 
Those heads unhelmed, those kneeling forms alone, 
Thus bowed, look glorious here. The light is thrown 
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord, 
A sufferer ! but his task shall soon be done 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is poured, 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored 1 


The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, 
Once and but once to meet on earth again ! 
Each, in the strength of a collected heart, 
To dare what man may dare and know 'tis vain I 
The rite is o'er : and thou, majestic fane ! 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! 
Be clothed with dust ! the Christian's farewell strain 
Hath died within thy walls ; thy Cross must bow; 
Thy kingly tombs be spoiled ; thy golden shrines laid low I 


The streets grow still and lonely and the star, 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war, 
As if young Hope with twilight's ray were born, 
Awhile the city sleeps : her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire ; 
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn 
With battle-sounds ; the winds in sighs expire. 
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam's fire. 

The city sleeps !-ay! on the combat's eve,' 

And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell 

Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 

Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered well, 


And e'en the fearful, in theii dungeon-cell, 
Chained between life and death 1 Such rest be thine, 
For conflicts wait thee still I Yet who can tell 
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream ! Sleep, weary Constantino. 

Doth the blast rise ? the clouded east is red, 
As if a storm were gathering ; and I hear 
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, 
The soft and smothered step, of those that fear 
Surprise from ambushed foes. Hark 1 yet more near 
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sear, 
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound! 


Wake, wake ! They come from sea and shore, ascending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending, 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array ? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, 
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply, 
And the earth rocks beneath their engines sway, 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry. 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!, 


They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! 
Shall those high energies be vainly shown! 
No ! from their towers the invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Red-sea waves, when God had blown 
With His strong winds ! the dark-browed ranks are rive* 
Shout, warriors of the cross ! for victory is of Heaven I 


Stand firm ! Again the crescent host is rushing, 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm ! there yet is hope, the ascent is steep, 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain ; 
But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain, 

o'er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again! 


Oh ! the dread mingling, in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'6rthrown, 
The deep dull tambour's beat man's voice alone 
Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands prayer, and shriek, and moan, 
All drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
Put swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory ! 

War-clouds have wrapt the city! through their dun, 
O'erloaded canopy, at times ablaze, 
As of an angry storm-presaging sun, 
From the Greek fire shoots up ; and lightning rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze, 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ! 
Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze, 
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there, 
Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair .' 

Woe, shame and woe ! A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
O God ! that nature's passing agonies, 
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail 
Yes I rend the arrow from thy shattered mail, 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son ! 
Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail ! 
But there are tortures which thou canst not shun, 
The spirit is their prey thy pangs are but begun ! 


Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 
The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed, 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name ! 
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years; from many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers,- and eagle 'hearts grow tame, 
And stars drop, fading, from the diadem ; 
But the bright /<w/ is theirs there is no change for them! 


Where art thou, Constantine ? where death is reaping 
His sevenfold harvest! where the stormy light, 
Fast as the artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping, 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battles noonday-night 


Where the towers rock and crumble from their height, 
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply, 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high 
While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply. 

Where art thou, Constantine ? where Christian blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where faith and valor ptnli in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment : where the gallant slain 
Around the banner of the cross lie strewed, 
Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, 
And through the breach press on the overwhelming multitude. 

Now is he battling 'midst a host alone, 
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway 
Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown . 
Its forest-brethren in their green array ! 
And he hath cast his purple robe away, 
With its imperial bearings ; that his sword 
An iron ransom from the chain may pay, 
And win, what haply fate may yet accord, 
A soldier's death the all now left an empire's lord! 


Search for him now where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave ? 
Search for him now where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shattered helms and shields, which could not save; 
And crests and banners, never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven ! He is of those 
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, 
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, 
Yet wake them not ! so deep their long and last repose ! 


Woe to the vanouished ! thus it hath been still 
Since Time's fir^t march ! Hark, hark, a people's cry! 
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! The lot is cast. 
Slaves, 'twas your choice thus, rather thus, to die. 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and fast, 
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the lastt 



Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! Men have made, 
E'en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand, 
And on the floors, where once their children played, 
And by the hearths, round which their household band 
At evening met ; ay, struggling hand to hand, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep, 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land, 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, 
To guard free homes ! but ye 1 kneel, tremblers ! kneel and weep 1 


'Tis eve the storm hath died, the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is done, 
And bloodstained seas, and burning towers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
Upon the captive city. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell 
The Soldan comes within the Caesars' halls to dwell 1 


Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
He comes, the Moslem treads those ancient halls ! 
But all is stillness there, as death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appals 
The conqueror's heart. Ay, thus with triumph's hoar, 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier Power I 

" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch-song, and around the imperial throne, 
The spider weaves his web ! " Still darkly hung 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone, 
O'er his flushed spirit. Years on years have flown 
To prove its truth : kings pile their domes in air 
That the coiled snake may bask on sculptured stone, 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings then* I 

But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying 
As a crowned leader in such hours should die, 
Upon thy pyre of shivered spears art lying, 
With the heaven's o'er thce for a canopy, 


And banners for thy shroud t No tear, no sigh, 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! reared on high, 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow: 
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou I 


" After's life's fitful fever thou sleepest well I " 
We may not mourn thee ! Sceptred chiefs, from whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling to a sterner doom 
Have oft been called. For them the dungeon's gloom. 
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weighed 
Their very soul to dust, with each high power decayed. 

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of death ; but not like thee ! 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appealed their blood, 
But thou didst fall unfettered, armed, and free, 
And kingly to the last ! And if it be, 
That, from the viewless world, whose marvels none 
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth ; still mayest thou hail the sun, 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when freedom's fight is won 1 


And the hour comes, in storm ! A light is glancing 
Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades ! 
'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades 
A murmur, gathering power, the air, pervades, 
Round dark Cithseron, and by Delphi's steep ; 
'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep I 


Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old, 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain, 
And by the streams, once crimson, as they rolled 
The Persian helm and standard to the main ; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the trumpet ; and the tombs reply, 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, 
Far as Plataea's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crowned so proudly there the bowl of liberty! 



Brigh land, with glory mantled o'er by song f 
Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along, 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems ; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes 
To verse forever ; and of ruined shrines, 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines ? 
-When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines? 


Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear I 

Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 

O'er Mantinea's earth ? doth Pindus rear 

His snows, the sunbeam, and the storm to brave ? 

And is there yet on Marathon a grave ? 

And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 

By Sparta's ruin's ? And shall man, a slave, 

Bowed to the dust, amid such scenes repine ? 

If e'er a soil was marked for freedom's step, 'tis thine I 

Wash from that soil the stains, with battle-showers ! 
Beneath Sophias dome the Moslem prays, 
The crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, 
In the Comneni's halls the Tartar sways: 
But not for long ! the spirit of those days, 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle. 

If then 'tis given thee to arise in might, 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain, 
' Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign, 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust! 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain, 
The dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable but just. 




FAR through the Delphian shades 

An Eastern trumpet rung ! 
And the startled eagle rushed on high ! 
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky; 
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades, 
To the sweeping wind, were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 

All waving as aflame, 

And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed 
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told 
That in arms the Persian came. 

He came with starry gems 

On his quiver and his crest ; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless orient burning lay, 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, 
As onward his thousands pressed. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way, 
And a heavy moan went by ! 
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, 
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 
But a mortal murmur of dismay 
Or a warrior's dying sigh ! 

A gloom fell o'er their way ! 
TVas not the shadow cast 

By the dark pine-boughs, as they crossed the blue 
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 
The air was filled with a mightier sway 
But on the spearmen passed ! 

And hollow to their tread, 

Came the echoes of the ground, 
And banners drooped, as with dews o'erborne, 
And the wailing blast of the bottle horn 
Had an altered cadence, dull and dead, 
Cf strange foreboding sound. 

1 f?ee tbp account cited from Herodotus, in Nf'tford's 


But they blew a louder strain, 

When the steep defiles were passed ! 
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose. 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows, 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

'Midst the laurels gleaming lone, 
For the sun-god yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful .pillars looked awhile, 
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep round its mountain-throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 
But the marble-walls replied, 
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, 
And a savage trumpet's note pealed out, 
Till their hearts for terror died ! 

On the armor of the god, 

Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, 
And corslet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode 
And before its front arrayed. 

And a sudden silence fell 

Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wild bird's wing, and the myrtle spray. 
And the very founts, in their silvery way, 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon ! 

*Twas not by song or Ivre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers, 

But there burst a sound through the misty noon 
That battle-noon of fire ? 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 
It rolled from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment of the mountain-blast, 
With a thousand stormy voices passed, 
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 
When the thunder pealed aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 

Flashed forth, like javelins thrown; 
Like sun-darts winged from the silver bow, 
They smote the spear and the turbaned 


And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray, 
And the banners were struck down i 

And the massy oak-boughs crashed 

To the fire-bolts from on high, 

And the forest lent its billowy roar, , 

While the glorious tempest onward bore, 
And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed, 
With the fierce rain sweeping by. 

Then rushed the Delphian men 

On the pale and scattered host ; 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rushed from the dim Corycian cave, 
And the sighing blast o'er wood and glen 
Rolled on, with the spears they tossed. 

There were cries of wild dismay, 

There were shouts of warrior glee, 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle birth ; 
' But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, with its temple, free 1 

And the Paean swelled ere long, 

lo Paean ! from the fane ; 
lo Paean ! for the war array, 
On the crowned Parnassus riven that day ! 
Thou shall rise as free, thou mount of song! 
With thy bounding streams again. 


1 V 


BEFORE the fiery sun, 

The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, 
In the free air, and on the war-field won, 
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood, 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies, 
And the wide plain around, where patriot Wood 
Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They called the glorious dead, 
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, 
And poured rich odors o'er their battle-bed, 
And bade them to their rite of Liberty. 

1 This and the following piece appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine. 


They called them from the shades, 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light the immortal clime pervades, 
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel. 

Then fast the bright red wine 1 
Flowed to their names who taught the world to die 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine, 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 

So the rejoicing earth 

Took from her vines again the blood she gave, 
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth 
From the free soil thus hallowed to the brave. 

We have the battle-fields, 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields ; 
When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty ? 


A VOICE from Scio's isle, 
A voice of song, a voice of old 
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled, 

And earth was hushed the while 

The souls of nations woke ! 
Where lies the land, whose hills among 
That voice of victory hath not wrung, 

As if a trumpet spoke ? 

To sky, and sea, and shore, 
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain, 
Swept from the rivers to the main, 

A glorious tale it bore. 

Still, by our sun-bright deep, 
With all the fame that fiery lay 
Threw round them, in its rushing way, 

The sons of battle sleep. 

And kings their turf have crowned ! 
And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 
Brought garlands there : so rest the brave, 

Who thus their bard have found ! 

1 For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of 
JMatza, see POTTER'S Antiquities of Greece, i. 389. 


A voice from Scio's isle, 
A voice as deep hath risen again 
As far shall peal its thrilling strain, 

Where'er our sun may smile 1 

Let not its tones expire ! 
Such power to waken earth and heaven, 
And might and vengeance ne'er was given 

To mortal song or lyre 1 

Know ye not whence it comes ? 
From ruined hearths, from burning fanes, 
From kindred blood on yon red plains, 

From desolated homes 1 

'Tis with us through the night! 
Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky 
Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash high. 

O'er the mid- waves of fight ! 


'TWAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 
Where peasants dressed the vines; 

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

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

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

Of solemn harmony. 

Was it the hunters' choral strain 
To the woodland-goddess poured? 

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

But helms were glancine on the stream, 

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

To the morn of a fearful day ! 

Originally published in the Edinburgh 

312 GREEK 

And the mountain-echoes of the land 
Swelled 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 ! 

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 jEolian breath ; 

They needed not a sterner sound 
To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field, 

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

Or on it proudly borne ! 


THEY sought for treasures in the tomb, 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead. 1 

They scattered far the greensward heap, 
Where once those hands the bright wine poured ; 
What found they in the home of sleep ? 
A mouldering urn, a shivered sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearths and shrines were free ; 
A sword, whose work was proudly done 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

And these are treasures ! undismayed, 
Still for the suffering land we trust, 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid, 
With freedom's sword, and valor's dust 

See Potter's Grecian Antiouities, \\. 234. 



STILL green, along our sunny shore, 

The flowering myrtle waves, 
As when its fragrant boughs of yore 

Were offered on the graves 
The graves, wherein our mighty men 

Had rest, unviolated then. 

Still green it waves ! as when the hearth 

Was sacred through the land; 
And fearless was the banquet's mirth, 

And free the minstrel's hand ; 
And guests, with shining myrtle crowned, 
Sent the wreathed lyre and wine-cup round. 

Still gre^n, as when on holy ground 

The tyrant's blood was poured : 
Forget ye not what garlands bound 

The young deliverer's sword ! 
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, 
We still have sword and myrtle bough 1 


M In the Elysjum of the ancients, wr find none but heroes and persons, who had either been for. 
tunate or distinguished on earth ; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, 
that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the Infernal Regions." 
CHATEAUBRIAND, 'Ghtie du C/iristianisme.] 

FAIR wen thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things 1 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, . 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night. 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 

Along the mountains ! but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep JEolizn sound went by, 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades, 
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply 


To summer's breezy sigh, 

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With ditams and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of the earth. 

And .who, with silent tread, 
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel ? 
Called from the dim procession of the dead, 
Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise, 
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round I 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, 

And in all regions found 

Their echoes 'midst the mountains ! and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought 
The soul's far birth-place but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 

And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls! the shades o'erhang their way, 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place 

In some sweet home ; thou hadst no wreaths for these, 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees 1 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, 


And songs on every wind ! From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, 
As embers in a burial-urn compressed ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whispered " Liberty ! " 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away, 

With its bright smile ! Elysium ! what wert thtnt 
To her, who wept o'er that'young slumberer's brow? 

Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown 

Which, in its clear eye, shone 

Like spring's first wakening ! but that light was past 
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast ? 

Not where thy soft winds played, 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! * 

1 The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs. Hemans some /ears after its first 
publication, and, though done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally 
written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece : 

For the most loved are they 

Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls! the shades o'erhang their way. 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And the world knows not then, 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! 
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread. 

The long-remembered dead ! 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- 
Fade, fade away, thou shorp of asphodel ! 




[" Debout, couronne de fleurs, les bras e'leve's et pose's sur sa tete, et le dos appuye' centre uf: 
pin, ce genie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des torn- 
beaux off rent souvent des figures semblables." VISCONTI, Description des Antiques du 
Afusee Royal. 

THOU shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls 

Through the blue stillness of the summer-air, 

Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls 

It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 

And thou ! thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 

To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 

Were crowned of old, with pale spring flowers like these : 

Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed, 

As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 

And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee \.ith gloom 

Which of the grove seems breathing not the tomb. 

They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought 

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 

They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 

And laid thy head against the forest tree, 

As that of one, by music's dreamy close, 

On the wood violets lulled to deep repose. 

They feared not death ! yet whc shall say his touch 

Thus lightly fails on gentle things and fair ? 

Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 

Of tender beauty as thy features wear ? 

Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 

So still a night, a night of summer, lies 1 

Had they seen aught like thee ? Did some fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? 
His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed: 
And his eye veiled so softly by its fringe, 
And his lip faded to the white- rose tinge ? 

Oh ! happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine I 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 
Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart! 


But thou, fair slumberer ! was there less of woe, 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men poured out their gladdening spirit's flow. 

Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, 

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, 

Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we for loftier faith is ours ! 
Their gems were lost in ashes yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 
"With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs arrayed, 
And lovely sculptmre gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 

O'er its dim precincts ? do we not intrust 

But for a time, its chambers with our dead. 

And strew immortal seed upon the dust ? 

Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, 

When living light hath touched the brow of death ? 



AND there they sleep ! the men who stood 
In arms before the exulting sun, 
And bathed their spears in Persian blood, 
And taught the earth how freedom might be won 

They sleep ! the Olympic wreaths are dead, 
The Athenian lyres are hushed and gone; 
The Dorian voice of song is fled 
Slumber, ye mighty ! slumber deeply on. 

They sleep, and seems not all around 
As hallowed unto glory's tomb 
Silence is on the battle ground, 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 

And stars are watching on their height, 
But dimly seen through mist and cloud, 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud 

And thou, pale night-queen ! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves, 
Nor look they clown on shining streams, 
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves; 


Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, 
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines ; 
No temple gleaming from the steep, 
'Midst the gray olives, or the mountain pines: 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste, 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood, 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
But by his dust, amidst the solitude. 

And be it thus ! What slave shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains! 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead, 
When their bright land sits weeping o'er her chains: 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, 
And where the Spartan sword flashed high, 
And where the paean strains were sung, 
From year to year swelled on by liberty I 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven, 
Save of the leader's charging word, 
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree ! t 
No harvest o'er your war-field wave, 
Till rushing winds proclaim the land is free ! 



THERE have been bright and glorious pageants here, 
Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie ; 
There have been words, which earth grew pale, to hear, 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh : 
There have been voices, through the sunny sky. 
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody, 
With incense-clouds around the temple blending, 
And throngs with laurel-boughs, before the altar bending. 

There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the day-god's now-forsaken throne ; 
Thunders have pealed along the rock-defiles, 
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known 

1 A single tree appears in Mr, WiUiams's impressive picture. 


That foes were on their way ! the deep-wind's moan 
Hath chilled the invader's heart with secret fear, 
And f'om the Sybil-grottoes, wild and lone, 
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career, 
From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear. 

The shrine hath sunk ! but thou unchanged art there 1 
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams ! 
Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant air, 
With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, 
And all thy founts of song ! their bright course teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze, 
Or golden cloucl which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days ! 

Away, vain phantasies ! doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, 
Though in deep stillness now, the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast ! 
Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest! 
Let the great rocks their solitude regain! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their full'chords: but silent be the strain ! 
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak the Eternal's reign ! * 


WHEN are the lessons given 

That shake the startled earth ? When wakes the foe 
While the friend sleeps ? When falls the traitor's blow ? 

When are proud sceptres riven, 
High hopes o'erthrown ? It is when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze and lift the exulting voice, 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 

When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! Twas a night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet pealed, ere yet the sqng was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crowned : 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer melody, 

1 This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, first appeared in tho 


And censers waved around ; 

And lyres were strung, and bright libations pcured ! 

When, through the streets, flashed out the avenging sword, 

Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound ! * 

Through Rome a triumph passed. 

Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 

That long array of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 

An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 

O'er he proud march ; a king in chains was led; 

A stately victor, crowned and robed, .came last. 1 

And many a Dryad's bower 

Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, 

Stirred the warm air, and glistened round his way. 

As a quick-flashing shower. 

O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung 

Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung 

Woe for the dead ! the father's broken flower 

A sound of lyre and song, 

In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 

Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, 

Swept with that voice along ; 

And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam 

Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome, 

And fresh rose-garlands decked a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 

The joyous chords ring out ! but strains arose 

Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds, by no mortal made, 3 

Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 

And passed and with another sunset's light, 

The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright 'midst its vinevards lay 

The fair Campanian city, 4 with its towers 

And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, 

Clear in the golden day - t 

Joy was around it as the glowing sky ; N 

And crowds had filled its halls of revelry, 

And all the sunny air was music's way. 

1 The sword of Harmodius. 

2 Paulus yEmihus, one of whose sons died a few days before, and another shortly after, hi; 

triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains. 

3 See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of the supernatural 
neard \ n the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony's death. 


4 Herculaneum ; of which it is related that all the inhabitants were assembled in the t 


when the shower of ashes which corered the city descended. 


A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hut 

Of night, o'ershadowing space, 
As with the wings of death ! in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place? 

Such things have been of yore, 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape clusters pour; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, 
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! 
Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead : * 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; 

But, ere the giant-fane 

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 
Hushed were the bards, and in the face of heaven, 

O'er that old burial-plain 

Flashed the keen Saxon dagger ! Blood was streaming 
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, 
And .Britain's hearths were heaped that night in vain- 

For they returned no more ! 

They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part ; 

And, on the rushy floor, 

And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high-wood fires were blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them they slept their feast was o'er 1 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows! 
Tame down the swelling heart ! the bridal rose, 

. And the rich myrtle's flower 

Have veiled the sword ! Red wines have sparkled fast 
From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passed, 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song, 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along, 

1 Stonehenj*e, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosiua, ah 
nrly British king ; and by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British 
Chiefs here alluded to. 



Like summer's quickening breath! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth: 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death 1 


[" IN the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable, 
army. It is well attested that this prince repeatedly declared ' he would trample the au- 
dacious rustics under his feet ; ' and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the 
purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death. 

"The 15111 October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the shields and 
armor of the advancing host ; and this being the first army ever known to have attempted the 
frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de 
Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the 
mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above Morgartei.) 
raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. 
The confederates on the mouirtain. perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed 
down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. _With massy clubs 
they dashed in pieces the armor of the enemy, and dealt their blows and'thrusts with long 
pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having in- 
jured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions ; many leaped into the lake . ail 
were startled ; and at last the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry, 
and these last, as the nature of the country did not allow them to open their files, were run 
over by the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general rout ensued, and 
Duke Leopold was, with much difficulty, rescued by a peasant, who led him to Winterthur, 
where the historian of the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed." 
PLANTA'S History of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 

THE wine-month ' shone in its golden 


And the red grapes clustering hung. 
But a deeper sound, through the 

Switzer's clime, 
Than the vintage music, rung. 

A sound, through vaulted caves, 
A sound, through echoing glen, 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing 
wave ; 

'Twas the tread of steel-girt 

nd a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown, 
I'ill the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 
And through the forest-glooms 
Flashed helmets to the day, 

And the winds were tossing knightly 

Like the larch-boughs in their play 

In Hasli's 2 wilds there was gleaming 


As the host of the Austrian passed, 
And the Schreckhorn's 3 rocks, with a 

savage peal, 

Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righi* snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence 

fire-sparks rose. 

And the leader's gathering word 
But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazoned streamers and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 

J Wine-month t the German name for October. 
* Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 

s Sch-ocMinrn. th prak of terror, a mountain in the canton of Berne. 
! :noiiitl.-.;n in the cair.on of Schwyt*. 



They came with heavy chains, 
For the race despised so long 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of 


When they entered the rock-defile, shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
Hut on the misty height, 
Where the mountain people 

Tlicre was stillness, as of night, 

When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness, as of deep dead 


And a pause but not of fear, 
While the Switzers gazed on the gath- 
ering might, 
OJ; the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood, 
But they looked not to the misty 


"Where the mountain people 

The pass was filled with their serried 


All helmed and mail-arrayed, 
And their steps had sounds like a 

In the rustling forest-shade. 

There were prince and crested 


Hemmed in by cliff and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty 


Where the mountain people 

And the mighty rocks came bounding 


Their startled foes among, 
\Vith a joyous whirl from the summit 


Oh ! tne herdsman's arm is strong ! 
They came like lauwine ' hurled 

From Alp to Alp in play, 
When the echoes shout through the 

snowy world, 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods crashed on the moun 


And the Switzers rushed from high, 
With a sudden charge, on th flowei 

and pride 

Of the Austrian chivalry : 
Like hunters of the deer, 
They stormed the narrow dell, 
And first in the shock, with 

Was the arm of William Tell.* 

There was tumult in the crowded strait; 

And a ctv of wi!<j dismay, 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day ! 
And the empire's banner then 
From its place of waving free, 
Went down before the shepherd-men, 
The men ot the Forest-sea. J 

With their pikes and massy clubs they 


The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war-horse dashed to the red- 

dening lake 
From the reapers of the field ! 

The field but not of sheaves 
Proud crests and pennons lay, 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood 
. leaves, 
In the Autumn tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc 


When the Austrian turned to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling mul- 


Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen, 
With a hurrying step on the wilds 

And a pale and troubled mien. 

1 Lnuwtnt. the Swiss name for the avalanche. 

William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongst the confederates at Morgarten. 

ferest-sea, the lake of the four cantons is also o called. 

3 2 4 


But the sons of the land which the free- 
man tills, 

Went back from the battle-toil, 
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep 

green hills, 
All burdened with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal 


On the soaring Alps that night, 
When children sprung to greet their 

From the wild Morgarten fight. 


WHENCE art thou, flower ? From holy 

Where freedom's foot hath been ! 
Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound 

Ne'er shook that solemn scene. 

Flower of a noble field ! thy birth 
Was not where spears have crossed, 

And shivered helms have strewn the 

'Midst banners won and lost. 

But where the sunny hues and showers 

Unto thy cup were given, 
There met high hearts at midnight 

Pure hands were raised to heaven ; 

And vows were pledged that man 
should roam 

Through every Alpine dell 
Free as the wind, the torrent's foam, 

The shaft of William Tell. 

And prayer, the full deep flow of 


Hallowed the pastoral sod ; 
And souls grew strong for battle there, 
Nerved with the peace of God. 

Before the Alps and stars they knelt, 

That calm devoted band, 
And rose, and made their spirits felt 

Through all the mountain land. 

Then welcome Griitli's free ;.orn 
flower ! 

Even in thy pale decay 
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, 

Which all high thoughts obey. 


AND was thy home, pale withered 

Beneath the rich blue southern sky ? 

Wert thou a nursling of the spring, 
The winds and suns of glorious Italy ? 

Those suns in golden light e'en now, 
Look o'er the poet's lovely grave; 
Those winds are breathing soft, but 


Answering their whisper, there no more 
shalt wave. 

Tne flowers o'er Posilippo's brow 
May cluster in their purple bloom, 
But on the o'ershadowing ilex-bough, 

Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's 

Thy place is void ; oh ! none on earth, 
This crowded earth, may so remain, 
Save that which souls of loftiest birLi 

Leave when they part, their brighter 
home to gain. 

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung 
On the green stem which once was 

thine ; 

When shall another strain be sung 
Like his whose dust hath made that 
spot a shrine ? 


YES, it is ours ! the field- is won, 

A dark and evil field! 
Lift from the ground my noble son. 
And bear him homewards on his bloodv 




Let me not hear your trumpets ring, 

Swell not the battle-horn ! 
Thoughts far too sad those notes will 


When to the grave my glorious flower 
is borne ! 

Speak not of victory ! in the name 
There is too much of woe! 

flushed be the empty voice of Fame- 
Call me back A is whose graceful head 
is low. 

Speak not of victory ! from my halls 
The sunny hour is gone ! 

The ancient banner on my walls, 
Must sink ere long ; I had but him 
but one ! 

, Within the dwelling of my sires 
The hearths will soon be cold, 
With me must die the beacon-fires 
That streamed at midnight from the 

And let them fade, since this must be, 
My lovely and my brave ! 

Was thy bright blood poured forth 

for me ? 

And is there but for stately youth a 
grave ? 

Speak to me once again, my boy . 

Wilt thou not hear my call ! 
Thou wert so full of life and joy, 
I had not dreamt of this that thou 
couldst fall ! 

Thy mother watches from the steep 
For thy returning plume; 

How shall I tell her that thy sleep 
I ; of the silent house, the untimely 
tomb ? 

Thou didst not seem as one to die, 

With all thy young renown ! 
Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, 
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests 
went down ! 

Slow be your march ! the field is won ! 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son, 
And bear him homewards on his bloody 


REST on your battle-fields, ye brave ! 

Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, 

Your dirge be in the moaning wave 

We call you back no more 1 

Oh ! there was mourning when ye felt 
In your own vales a deep-toned knell, 
An agony, a wild farewell 

But that hath long been o'er. 

Rest with your still and solemn fame ; 
The hills keep record of your name, 
And never can a touch of shame 
Darken the buried brow. 

But we on changeful days are cast, 
When bright names from their plact 

fall fast; 
And ye that with your glory passed, 

We cannot mourn you now. 


SON of the Ocean Isle ! 
Where sleep your mighty dead i 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger I track the deep 
Free, free the white sail spread I 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wino 

Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'erswayed, 
With fearful power the noonday reigns, 
And the palm trees yield no 
shade ; 

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 

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 strung ; 

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 tossed the pine-boughs through 

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 


And the northern night-clouds 
lower ; 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with, mast and flag is 

Even 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 sa*ls spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind 

Where rest not England's dead. 


LONDON, MAY 22, 1&22. 

[The Gorseddtiii, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the 
open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon ; or, accord- 
ing to the expression employed on these occasions, " in the face of the sun, and in the eye of 
light." The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called 
the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Naen Gorsedd, or the 
stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the cere- 
mony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in 
their uni-colored robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federa 
ton. See OWEN'S Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 

WHERF. met our bards of old ? the glorious throng, 

They of the mountain and the battle song ? 

They met oh ! not in kingly hall or bower, 

But where wild nature girt herself with power : 

They met where streams flashed bright from rocky caves ; 

They met where woods made moan o'er warrior's graves, 

And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, 

And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast. 


And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied 

The crested Roman, in his hour of pride ; 

And where the Carnedd, 1 on its lonely hill, 

Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 

And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech 2 frowned 

And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round. 

There thronged the inspired of yore ! on plain or heigh, 
/ tht sun's face, beneath the eye of 'light ! 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head, 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 
Well might their lays be lofty ! soaring thought 
From nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught : 
Well might bold freedom's soul pervade the strains 
Which startled eagles from their lone domains, 
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament. 
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high ? 
Twns from the battle-fields of days gone by, 
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest 
With their good swords, upon the mountain's breast; 
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, 
Severed by cloud and storm from all below ; 
And the turf-mounds, 3 once girt by ruddy spears, 
And the rock-altars of departed years. 
Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, 
The winds a thousand wild responses bore ; 
And the green land, whose every vale and glen 
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 
On all her hills awakening to rejoice, 
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to hold, 
Midst the stone circles, hallowed thus of old ; 
Not where great Nature's majesty and might 
First broke all -glorious on our infant sigh ; 
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave. 
Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean-wave, 
Tn these late days we meet dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri's 5 cliffs resound with harps no more ! 

But as the stream (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its caverned urn, 
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest bowers, 
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers), 
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep. 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep ; 

1 Carnedd, a stone barrow, or cairn. 

1 Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant. 
'The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mount* 
of tirf. /'fnnnrtf. 
4 1. yu, a la..c o> pool. * Eryri, Snowdon. 


Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free, 

Land of the bard ! our spirit flies to thee ! 

To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong, 

Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song I 

Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less 

To the green memory of thy loveliness, 

Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every height, 

Jn the tun's fact; beneath the eye of light ! 


I COME, I come ! ye have called me long 
I come o'er the mountains with light and songt 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the rum or the tomb ! 

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky ; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness ! come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 

1 Originally published in the New Monthly Magasina. 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea. Page 328. 


Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep to meet me fly 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features passed ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die I 
Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet : 
Oh ! what have you looked on since last we 'met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! and I see not here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

Are they gone ? is their mirth from the mountains passed? 

Ye have looked on death since ye met me last 1 

I knosv whence the shadow comes o'er you now 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
But I know of a land where there falls no blight 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, 
I tarry no longer farewell, farewell I 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne 

Ye may press the grape, yc may bind the corn I 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore 

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more ; 

I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 

And the flowers are not Desth's fare ye well, farewell ! 





O WANDERER 1 would thy heart for- 

Each earthly passion and regret, 
And would thy wearied spirit rise 
To commune with its native skies ; 
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet 
To linger in this calm retreat; 
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short 


Amidst wild scenes of lone magnifi- 

Unmixed with aught of meaner tone, 
Here nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful 


Is rushing on its wing of power, 
And spirits of the deep awake, 
And surges foam, and billows break, 
And rocks and ocean-caves around, 
Reverberate each awful sound; 
That mighty voice, with all its dread 

To loftiest thought shall wake thy 

thrilling soul. 

But when no more the sea-winds 

When peace is brooding on the 


And from earth, air, and ocean rise 
No sounds but plaintive melodies ; 
Soothed by their softly mingling 


As daylight bids the world farewell, 
The rustling wood, the dying breeze, 
The faint, low rippling of the seas, 

A tender calm shall steal upon tky 

A gleam reflected from the realms of 


Is thine a heart the world hath stung, 
Friends have deceived, neglect hath 

wrung ? 
Hast thou some grief that none may 


Some lonely, secret, silent woe ? 
Or have thy fond affections fled 
From earth, to slumber with the 

dead ? 

Oh ! pause awhile the world disown, 
And dwell with nature's self alone ! 
And though no more she bids arise 
Thy soul's departed energies, 
And though thy joy of life is o'er, 
Beyond her magic to restore ; 
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion 

And soothe the wounded heart they 

cannot heal. 


No bitter tears for thee be shed, 
Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! 
With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 

O blest departed One ! 
Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 
Blushed into dawn and passed away. 

Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
To stain thy cherub-soul and form, 
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower 

That never felt a storm ! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's 

All that it knew from birth to death. 


Thou wert so like a form of light, 
That heaven benignly called thee 

Ere yet the world could breathe one 


O'er thy sweet innocence : 
And thou, that brighter home to bless, 
Art passed, with all thy loveliness I 

Oh ! hadst thou still on earth re- 

Vision of beauty I fair, as brief ! 

How soon thy brightness had been 

With passion or with grief I 

Now not a sullying breath can rise, 

To dim thy glory in the skies. 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb ; 
No sculptured image there shall mourn; 
Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, 

must be 
The only emblems meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
Adorned with Nature's brightest 

wreath ; 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe ; 
And oft, upon the midnight air, 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring 

And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, 

Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; 

And bear, from thine own world of 


Some balm for human woes ! 
SVhat form more lovely could be given 
Than thine to messenger of heaven ? 


HUSHED is the world in night and 

Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as 

death ; 

Too rude to break a calm so deep, 
Were music's faintest breath. 

Descend, bright visions! from aerial 

Descend to gild your own soft, silent 


In hope or fear, in toil or pain, 
The weary day have mortals past ; 
Now, dreams of bliss ! be yours to 


And all your spells around them cast ; 
Steal from their hearts the pang, their 

eyes the tear, 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter 

Oh ! bear your softest balm to those 

Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead, 

To them that world of peace disclose, 

W r here the bright soul is fled: 
Where Love, immortal in his native 


Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight 
from time. 

Or to his loved, his distant land, 
On your light'wings the exile bear 
To feel once more his heart expand, 
In his own genial mountain-air ; 
Hear the wild echoes' well-known 

strains repeat, 

And bless each note, as Heaven's own 
music sweet. 

But oh ! with Fancy's brightest ray, 
Blest dreams ! the bard's repose il- 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 

And bowers of Eden bloom ! 
And waft his spirit to its native skies 
Who finds no charm in life's realities. 

No voice is on the air of night, 
Through folded leaves no murmui* 

Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling 


Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions! from your 

airy bower : 

Dark, silent, solemn, is vour favorite 





BRAVE spirit ! mourned with fond re- 

I.ost in life's pr,ide, in valor's noon, 
Oh ! who could deem thy star should 

So darkly and so soon 1 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind 
Which marked and closed thy brief 

career ; 

And the fair wreath, by Hope en- 

Lies withered on thy bier. 

The seldier's death hath been thy 


The soldier's tear thy meed shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 

Might Fate have reared for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, O high-souled 

chief ! 

In those bright days of glory fled, 
When triumph so prevailed o'er grief, 

We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame ! each tear-drop 


Was worthy of a warrior's grave: 
When shall affection weep again 

So proudly o'er the brave ? 

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, 
'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene, 
Or ort Vittoria's blood-red plain, 
Meet had they deathbed been. 

We mourn not that a hero's life 
Thus in its ardent prime should close ; 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, 
But died 'midst conquered foes ! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's 


In that last moment cheered thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name, 

That ne'er may be forgot : 

And many a tale of triumph won, 
Shall breathe that name in Memory's 

And long may England mourn a sou 

Without reproach or fear. 




" Happy are they who die in youth, when 
their renown is around them." OSSIAN. 

WEEPST thou for him, whose doom 

was sealed 

On England's proudest battle-field ? 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full resistless tide ! 

Oh, mourn him not ! 
By deeds like his that field was won, 
And Fate could yield to Valor's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry, 
He saw the vanquished eagles fly; 
And envied be his death of fame, 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name 

That naught shall dim : 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay 

Weep not for him ! 

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan 

A hero claims far loftier tone ! 

Oh ! proudly should the war-song 

Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour. 
When England, 'midst the battle 

The avenging angel reared her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise 
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays; 
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star, 
The Victor-chief, the lord of war, 

Has owned thy fame : 
And oh ! like his approving word, 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name ? 





OH ! forget not the hour, when through forest and vale, 
We returned with our chief to his dear native halls; 
Through the woody Sierra there sighed not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls; 
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, 
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight. 

We entered that home all was loneliness round, 

The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave ; 

Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound, 

Ah ! such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 

For the spoilers had passed, like the poison-wind's breath, 

And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

Oh ! forget not that hour let its image be near, 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive, and hills of the vine. 


WARRIORS! my noon of life is past, 
The brightness of my spirit flown; 
\ crouch before the wintry blast, 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone ; 
The heroes of my youth are fled, 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 
My kindred-chiefs in days of yore, 
Ye fill an unremembered grave, 
Your fame, your deeds, are known no 


The records of your wars are gone, 
Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth, 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 
Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time. 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your 

His eyes, that hailed your spirits' flame, 
Still kindling in the combat's shock, 
Have seen, since darkness veiled your 


Sons of the desert and the rockl 
Another, and another race, 
Rise to the battle and the chase. 

Descendants of the mighty dead 1 
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! 
O I let me join their spirits fled, 
O ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart, 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the 


The glory of this arm is flown ; 
Why should the feeble linger here, 
When all the pride of life is gone ? 
Warriors I why still the stroke deny, 
Think ye Ontara fears to die ? 


He feared not in his flower of days, 
When strong to stem the torrent's 

When through the desert's pathless 


His way was an eagle's course ! 
When war was sunshine to his sight, 
And the wild hurricane, delight ! 

^hall then the warrior tremble now ? 
Now when his envied strength is o'er ? 

Hung on the pine his idle bow, 
His pirogue useless on the shore? 
When age hath dimmed his failing eyQ 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die ? 

Sons of the brave ! delay no more, 
The spirits of my kindred call ; 
"Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall ! 
To join the brethren of his primet 
The mighty of departed time. 


SOFT skies of Italy ! how richly drest, 
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glowl 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 
Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! 

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, 
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 
Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain-stream. 

Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, 

That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 

From rock and torrent fade the tints away, 

And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose : 

While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star. 

And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 


SON of the mighty and the free ! 
High-minded leader of the brave ! 
Was it for lofty chief like thee, 

To fill a namelesss grave ? 
Oh ! if amidst the valiant slain, 
The warrior's bier had been thy lot, 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain, 

We then had mourned thee not. 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; 
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, 
The watchword of Despair I 

Yet oh ! if gallant spirit's power 
Hath e'er ennobled death like thine, 
Then glory marked thy parting hour, 
Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls 
But cannot chase their silent gloom ; 
Those beams that gild thy native walls 

Are sleeping on thy tomb ! 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the 


Thy green woods wave in vernal air, 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile: 

Not e'en thv dust i* there. 



On thy blue hills no bugle-sound 
Is mingling with the torrent's roar, 
Unmarked, the wild deer sport around ; 

Thou leadst the chase no more ! 
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, 
Those halls where pealed the choral 

strain ; 

They hear the wind's deep murmuring 

And Al\ is hushed again. 

Xo banner from the lonely tower 
Shall wave its blazoned folds on high ; 
There the tall grass, and summer flower, 

Unmarked shall spring and die. 
No more thy bard, for other ear, 
Shall wake the harp once loved by 

Hushed be the strain thou canst not 

Last of a mighty line ! 


CHIEFTAINS, lead on! our hearts beat 


Lead on to Salem's towers I 
Who would not deem it bliss to die, 

Slain in a cause like ours? 
The brave who sleep in soil of thine, 
Die not entombed but shrined, O Pales- 
tine 1 

Souls of the slain in holy war!* 
Look from your sainted rest. 

Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, 
To mingle with the blest ; 

Tel/ us how short the death pang's 

How bright the joys of your immortal 


Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train 
Pour forth your loftiest lays ; 

Each heart shall echo to the strain 
Breathed in the warrior's praise. 

Bid every string triumphant swell 

The inspiring sounds that heroes lovsi 
so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour, 

The wildest rage of fight, 
Thy name shall lend our falchions 


And nerve our hearts with might. 
Envied be those for thce thai fall, 
Who find their graves beneath thy 
sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tomb 
Should chronicle their fame, 

Or pyramid record their doom, 
Or deathless verse their name ; 

It is enough that dust of thine 

Should shroud their forms, O blessed 
Palestine ! 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat 


For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower 1 
We burn to mingle in the strife, 
Where but to die ensures eternal 


It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders ov 
.lie right wing. His deatli dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. P.i-t Glengary, chief 
~il a rival branch of the clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round Ill's head, 
cried out, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning ! ' The Hightandeis received a 
new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before [beta. S** 
the Quarterly Review article of " Cufioden Papers." 

OH! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell ; 
But we paused not one. tear-drop to shed o'er the spot, 


We spared not one moment to murmur " Farewell." 
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " 

And wildly, Clanronald ! we echoed the vow, 
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand ; 
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee now, 
For well has thy death been avenged by thy and, 
When they joined, in wild chorus, the cry of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " . 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call, 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave ; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! " 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race i 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set : 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet I 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
** To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " 


THRONE of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours fourth so oft the light of mental day, 
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam, 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart, 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart ; 
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt, 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt ! 
And by some spell of undefined control, 
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 

Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth ; 

And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, 

Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 

The ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, 

Or speak one thought that interest would conceal ; 

While yet thou seemest the cloudless mirror, given 

But to reflect the purity of heaven : 

O! then how lovely, there unveiled, to trace 

The unsullied brightness of each mental grace I 


When Genius lends thee all his living light 
Where the full beams of intellect unite; 
When love illumines thee with his varying ray, 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, 
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews; 
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
Bid some new feeling to existence start, 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 

And O ! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, 

That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 

Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 

The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 

(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too nigh, 

Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) 

Who does not own, that through the lightning-beam* 

A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams ? 

That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, 

The vestal ray, the spark that cannot die ! 


LIFE'S parting beams were in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue, 
When round him, pealing to the sky, 
The shout of victory rung ! 

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 
A smile so bright illumed his face 
Oh ! never, of the light it shed, 
Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death, whose rapture high 
Transcended all that life could yield; 
His warmest prayer was so to die, 
On the red battle-field ! 

And they may feel, who loved him most, 
A pride so holy and so pure : 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 
A treasure thus secure i 



WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? 

Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells 
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. 

Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet/nore, the depths have more ! What wealth untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. 

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play : 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more I 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 

They hear not now the booming waters roar, 
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. 

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom. 
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 

O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown; 
Yet must thou hear a voice Restore the dead ! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! 
N Restore the dead, thou sea I 


BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreath the cifp ere the wine is poured ! 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale : 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 

1 Originally introduced in the " Forest Sanctuary. 1 * 

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! " 

Page 338. 


And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

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

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell ! 

They have tales of the joyous woods to tell 

Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 

And the bright world shut from his languid eye; 

They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 

And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers I 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear 1 
They were born to blush in her shining hair 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side. 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 

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

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst. 

For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 

They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers! 

Bring flower's to the shrine where we kneel in prayer 

They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 

They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 

With a voice of promise they come and part, 

They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 

They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers I 


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

She had not known her child." Marmion, 

REST, pilgrim, rest ! Thou'rt from the Syrian land, 
Thou'rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know 

By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand, 
And by the darkness of thv sunburnt brow. 


Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part 

So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! 

Alas ! the weary and the changed in heart, 
And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou'rt faint stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : 

Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze, 
The stars gleam out, the Av.. hour is past, 

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou'rt faint and worn hear'st thou the fountain welling 

By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine ? 
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling ? 

He that hath left me trained that loaded vine I 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 

(Oh ! hath a day fled since his childhood's time ?) 
That I might sit and hear the sound I love, 

Beneath its shade the convent's vesper-chime. 
And sit thou there ! for he was gentle ever, 

With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, 
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched lips' fever. 

There in his place thou'rt resting where is he ? 

If I could hear that laughing voice again, 

But once again I How oft it wanders by, 
In the still hours, like some remembered strain, 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody! 
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou seen 

In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth my Guido with the fiery mien 

And the dark eye of this Italian shore ? 

The dark, clear ; lightning eye! On heaven and earth 

It smiled as if man were not dust it smiled I 
The very air seemed kindling with his mirth, 

And I my heart grew young before my child I 
My blessed child ! I had' but him yet he 

Filled all my home even with o'erflowing joy, 
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free. 

Where is he now ? my pride, my flower, my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, 

Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore 
A prouder look his eye a keener light: 

I knew these woods might be his world no more ! 
He loved me but he left me ! Thus they go 

Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too much adoredl 
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, 

And bounded from me with his father's sword I 

Thou weep'st I tremble ! Thou hast seen the slain 

Pressing a bloody turf the young and fair, 
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 

Where hosts have met : speak ! answer ! was he there ? 


Oh I hath his smile departed ? Could the grave 
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee? 

No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave I 

That look gives hope I knew it could not be! 

Still wcep'st thou, wanderer ? Some fond mother's glance 

O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years 
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 

Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears ? 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! what art thou ? 

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on ? 
Look up ! Oh ! is it that wan cheek and brow ! 

Is it alas ! yet joy I my son, my son J 


RING, joyous chords ! ring out again! 

A swifter and a wilder strain ! 

They are here the fair face and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 

But I met a dimly mournful glance, 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 
In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 
And it is not well that woe should breathe 
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath I 
Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 
Leave, leave the hall of song! 

Ring, joyous chords I But who art thou 
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow. 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too welll 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; 
Thdu hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! ring out again 1 
But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye J 


Away 1 there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest! 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of //// spirit is With the dead : 
Thou art but more lone midst th sounds ef mirth- 
Back to thy silent hearth I 

Ring, joyous chords ! ring forth again! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! - 
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 
And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wme, 
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, 
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, 
I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here I 
I know thee ! thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! 
.There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou there's a dark weight on thine away ! 
Back to thy home, and pray 1 

Ring, joyous chords ! ring out again I 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
And bring fresh wreaths ! we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 
On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on 1 
But where are the young and the lovely gone? 
Where are the brows with the Red Cross crowned, 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? 
And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet ? 
They are gone they are fled they are parted all : 
Alas 1 the forsaken hall ! 


SLEEP midst thy banners furled 1 
Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world ! 
Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast. 
Oh ! strong is night for thou too art at rest 1 

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow, 
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh the*, 


Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers ! Now the field is won, 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son J 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring, 
And all the windings of thy native stream. 
Why, this were joy ! Upon the tented plain, 
Dream on, thou Conqueror ! be a child again ! 

But thou wilt wake at morn, 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, 
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'ersweeping \ 
So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee the tired one, slumbering there 1 

Why, so the peasant sleeps 

Beneath his vine I and man must kneel before thee, 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee ! 
Shalt thou be stayed because thy brother weeps ? 
Wake ! and forget that midst a dreaming world, 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furled ! 

Forget that thou, even thou, 

Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'er thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, 
And felt the night-dew chill thy fevered brow I 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press onF 
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 


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

Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more 
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, 

1 A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asanh, formerly corered in with a chapel, now in 
ice. ! was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims. 



When he came from afar, his beads to tell, 
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 
There is heard no 'Ave through thy bowers, 
Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers t 
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, 
And there may the reaper his forehead lave, 
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain 
Bright Fount 1 thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine! 

A voice that speaks of the past is thine, 

It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh 

With the notes that ring through the laughing sky ; 

Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird, 

And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard 1 

Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, 

To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free ? 

Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain 

He hath made thee nature's own again ! 

Fount of the chapel with ages gray ! 
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay ; 
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, 
And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now. 
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought ; 
If peace to the mourner hath here been given, 
Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to heaven 
Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign, 
Who hath made thee nature's own again ! 


THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses, 
Glad summer, fare thee well ! 

Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 
In every wood and dell. 

But e'er the golden sunset 
Of thy latest lingering day, 

Oh I tell me, o'er this checkered earth, 
How hast thou passed away ? 

Jrightly, sweet Summer! brightly 
Thine hours have floated by, 

To the joyous birds of the woodland 

The rangers of the sky ; 

And brightly in the forests, 
To the wild deer wandering free ; 

And brightly, midst the garden flowery 
To the happy murmuring bee : 

But how to human bosoms, 
With all their hopes and fears, 

And thoughts that make them eagle. 

To pierce the unborn years ? 

Sweet Summer 1 to the captive 
Thou hast flown in burning dreams 

Of the woods, with all their whispcru t 

And the blue rejoicing streams ; 

To the wasted and the weary 

On the bed of sickness bound, 
In swift delirious fantasies, 
That changed with every sound ; 



To the sailor on the billows, 

In longings, wild and vain, 
For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 

And the homes of earth again ! 

And unto me, glad Summer ! 

How hast thou flown to me ? 
\fy chainless footstep naught hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 

In memories of the dead 
In shadows from a troubled heart, 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 

In brief and sudden strivings 

To fling a weight aside 
Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 

And all thy roses died. 

Bvt oh! thou gentle Summer I 
If I greet thy flowers once more, 

Bring me again the buoyancy 
Wherewith my soul should soar! 

Give me to hail thy sunshine 
With song and and spirit free ; 

Or in a purer air than this 
May that next meeting be I 


-" Sing aloud 

Old songs, the precious music of the heart." 


SING them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight ! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved, 
And swell them through the torrent's 

The our .liiers loved! 
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and 

Thrill on the bannered wall : 
The songs that through our valleys 

Sent on from age to age, 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 
The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale, 

Cheered homeward through the 

leaves : 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep, [shores 
Where the dark rocks that crest our 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be I a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on, 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round tha 

When evening fires burn clear, 
And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer. 
So shall each unforsioften word, ' 

When far those loved ones roam, 
Call back the hearts which once i 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices of their household band 

Shall breathe their names again; 
The heathcrv heights in vision rise, 

Where, like the stag, they roved. 
Sing to your sons those melodies, 

The songs vour fathera lovedl 



COME, while in freshness and dew it lies, 
To the world that is under the free blue skies ! 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care 
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air. 

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells 
A light all made for the poet dwells 
A light, colored softly by tender leaves, 
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. 

The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree, 
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee ; 
And the voice of cool waters 'midst feathery fern, 
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. 

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth, 
Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth 
There is peace where the alders are whispering low- 
Come from man's dwellings with all their woe! 

Yes ! we will come we will leave behind 
The homes and the sorrows of human kind. 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright blue vein along sunny meads: 

It is well through the rich wild woods to go, 
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs, 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings; 

And to watch the colors that flit and pass, 
With insect-wings, through the wavy grass; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-tree's bark, 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. 

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea: 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow, 
We will bear no memory of earthly woe. 

But if by the forest-brook we meet 
A line like the pathway of former feet 
If, 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot, 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot , 

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed, 
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ; 
Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave. 
Bear token sad of a mortal grave, 



Doubt not but there will our steps be stayed, 
There our quick spirits awhile delayed ; 
There will thought fix our impatient eyes, 
And win back our hearts to their sympathies. 

For what though the mountains and skies be fair, 
Steeped in soft hues of the summer air ? 
'Tis the soul of man, by its hopes arrd dreams, 
That lights up all nature with living gleams. 

Where it hath suffered and nobly striven, 
Where it hath poured forth its vows to heaven 
Where to repose it hath brightly passed, 
O'er this green earth there is glory cast 

And by the soul, 'midst groves and rills, 
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, 
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 
We, only we, may be linked to God 1 


OH! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ! [touch 

Few are the hearts whence one same 

Bids the sweet fountains flow 
Few and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet ; 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes. 

The sound of waves by night, 
The wind that, with BO many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, 
These may have language all thine 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watched through sickness by th> 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made 

Wherein bright spirits blend 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, 

With the same breeze that bend- 
For that full bliss of thought allied 

Never to mortals given, 
Oh ! lav thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto heaven. 



[N sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown 

A wanderer proudly stood 
l!eside the well-spring, deep and lone, 

Of Egypt's awful flood 
The cradle of that mighty birth, 
So long a hidden thing to earth ! 

He heard in life's first murmuring 

A low mysterious tone 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone. 
He listened and his heart beat high : 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 
Rushed burning through his frame, 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame ; 

Though stillness lay, with eve's last 

Round those far fountains of the Nile. 

Night came with stars. Across his 

There swept a sudden change : 
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal 

A shadow dark and strange [fall 
Breathed from the thought, so swift to 
O'er triumph's hour and is this all f 1 

No more than this 1 What seemed it 


First by that spring to stand ? 
A thousand streams of lovelier flow 

Bathed his own mountain-land ! 
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean 
track, [back. 

Their wild, sweet voices, called him 

They called him back to many a glade, 

His childhood's haunt of play, 
Where brightly through the beechen 


Their waters glanced away ; 
They called him, with their sounding 

Back to his father's hills and graves. 

But, darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene, 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom. 
The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 

Where was the glow of power and 
pride ? 

The spirit born to roam ? 
His altered heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ! 
All vainly struggling to repress 
The gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept ! The stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears, 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years ! 
O Happiness ! how far we flee [thee! 
Thine own sweet paths in search of 


THE boy stood on the burning deck 
Whence all but he had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

1 A remarkable description of feelings thus fluctuating from triumph to despondency, is gives 
in Bruce's Abyssinian Travels. The buoyant exultation of his spirits on arriving at the source 
r.f the Nile, was almost immediately succeeded by a gloom, which he thus portrays: " I was, at very moment, in possession of what hnd for many years been the principal object of my 
Ambition and wishes : indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at 
least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the fountains of the 
Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling object in my 
sitrht. I remember that magnificent scene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, 
and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the source of the 
Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy." 

* Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained 
at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been 
abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had readied tho 

"The boy stood on the burning deck 
Whence all but he had tied ; " Page 348. 



Vet beautiful and bright he stood, 
As born to rule the storm 

A creature of heroic blood, 
A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud : " Say, father, say 

If yet my task is done ! " 
lie knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
Ind looked from that lone post of 

In still yet brave despair; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 
" My father ! must I stav?" 

While o'er him fast, through sail and 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder-sound 
The boy oh ! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea ! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part ; 

But the noblest thing which perished 

Was that young faithful heart ! 


'TWAS a lonely thought to mark the 

As they floated in light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 

That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich 


And its graceful cup and bell 
In whose colored vase might sleep the 

Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 

To such sweet signs might the time 
have flowed 

In a golden current -on, 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode, 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly 


Those davs of song and dreams 
When shepherds gathered their flocks 

of old 
By- the blue Arcadian streams. 

So in those isles of delight, that rest 
Far off in a breezeless main, 

Which many a bark, with a weary 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 

Marked thus even thus on earth. 

By the closing of one hope's delight, 
And another's gentle birth ? 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingering still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 

1 The dial was, I believe, formed by Linnaeus, and marked the hours by the opening i4 
Closing, at regular intervals, o{ the flowers arranged in it. 



* Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings." WORDSWORTH. 

THERE'S beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes 
Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise ; 
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o'er our way, 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day. 

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree, 
With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borne downwards by the bee ; 
Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown, 
As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky, 
While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled shadows lie, 
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound, 
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths but sorrow too is there : 
How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air ! 
When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things, 
That through the leafy places glance on many-colored wings. 

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades, 
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades ; 
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone 
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. 

But are we free to do even thus to wander as we will, 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill? 
No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast, 
While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past. 

1 This little poem derives an additional Interest from being affectingly associated with a name 
no less distinguished than that of the late Mr. Dugald Stewart- The admiration he always ex- 
pressed for Mrs. Heman's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of 
melancholy subjects ; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message sug- 
gestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talent in giving more conso'atory views of the 
ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit 
of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and 
loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depress- 
ing, however beautifully and touchmgly such subjects might be treated of. This message was 
faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs. Hemans (who was then residing in 
Wales) sent to the kind friend by whom it had been forwarded, the poem of " Our Daily Paths," 
requesting it might be given to Mr. Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he 
took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, 
" that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above." 

The letter reached Mr. Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country 
residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh the last time, 
alas ! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very 
shortly afterwards. The poem was read by his daughter on his way to Edinburgh, and he ex- 
pressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions ,' 
and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during th* 
few remaining weeks of hishfe. 


They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back 
And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track ; 
They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth, 
And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth. 

Vet should this be ? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field ! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven which tells us, in their flight, 
Of One that through the desert air forever guides them right. 

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease ? 
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace 
And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies, 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies I 


SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief, 

In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, 

And his arms folded in majestic gloom ; 
And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound 
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 

For a pale cross above its greensward rose, 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 

Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes, 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 

Now all was hushed and eve's last splendor shone 

With a rich sadness on the attesting stone. 

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, 
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 

Between the forests and the lake's bright wave ; 

Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak, 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said 
" I listened for the words, which, years ago. 

Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, 

Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

44 Askest thou of him whose house is lone beneath? 

I was an eagle in my youthful pride, 
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, 


To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 
Many the times of flowers have been since then- 
Many, but bringing naught like him again ! 

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, 
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 

Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, 

Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks low; 

But to spread tidings of all holy things, 

Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings. 

" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth have gone, 

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? 

He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, 

And our hearts burned within us as he spoke. 

" He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell : 

Bright must they be ! for there are none that die, 
And none that weep, and none that say ' Farewell I * 

He came to guide us thither ; but away 

The Happy called him, and he might not stay. 

" We saw him slowly fade athirst, perchance, 
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime ; 

Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time 

Therefore we hoped : but now the lake looks dim, 

For the green summer comes and finds not him ! 

"We gathered rouh'd him in the dewy hour 
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 

From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; 

But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long, 

As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue, 
And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head 

Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung 

Knowest thou not how we pass to join the dead? 

It is enough ! he sank upon my breast 

Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray, 
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 

We reared this cross in token where he lay, 
For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died ! 

Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, 

That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. 


" But I am sad ! I mourn the dear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, 

The pathway to the better shore forsaken, 
And the true words forgotten, save by one, 

Who hears them faintly sounding from the past. 

Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye : 

" Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ! 
Heaven darkly works yet, where the seed hath bee 
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 

" Hope on, hope ever! bv the sudden springing 

Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, 

After cold silent months the woods among ; 
And by the rending of the frozen chains, 
Which bound the glorious rivers on the plains. 

" Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, 

But as a lovely song, to leave no trace : 
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broke*, 

And th full dayspring rise upon thy race ! 
And fading mists the better path disclose, 
And the wide desert blossom as the rose." 

So by the cross they parted, in the wild, 

Each fraught with musings for life's after day, 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child, 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon one, midst busy throngs to press 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 


BY the mighty minster's bell, 
Tolling with a sudden swell ; 
By the colors half-mast high, 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; 

Know, a prince hath died! 

By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground 
By the volleying muskets' tone, 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 

In his manhood's pride. 


By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills, 1 
Learn, that from his harvests done. 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright ; 
By the garland on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear 
Broken' is the rose! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all ? 
Buried virgin's coronal, 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead, 

Herdsman's funeral hymn ? 

Tells not each of human woe ? 
Each of hope and strength brought low? 
Number each with holy things. 
If one chastening thought it brings 
Ere life's day grow dim I 


THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain. 
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vowed 
Unto the Temple service. By the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, 
To bring before her God. So passed they on 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, 
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest; 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose. 
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades, 
Making its bank green gems along the wild, 
There, too, she lingered, from the diamond wave 
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 

1 A custom still retained at rural funerals in some pans of England and Wales. 


And softly parting clusters of jet curls 

To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reached, 

The earth's one sanctuary and rapture hushed 

Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 

In light like floating gold. But when that hour 

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 

Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, 

Turned from the white-rolled priest, and round her am 

Clung even as joy clings the deep spring-tide 

Of nature then swelled high, and o'er her child 

Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds 

*}f weeping and sad song. " Alas ! ' she cried, 

* Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes ; 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me. 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart 

How shall I hence depart ? 

* How the Sone paths retrace where thou wert playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride, __ 
By every place of flowers my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

41 And. oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away ? 

While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, 
1 languished for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill ? 

" Under the palm-trees thou no more shah meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, 
As midst the silence of the stars I wake, 

And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewv clouds fall round thce 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed, 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thce, 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 

A cry'which none shall hear ? 

What have I said, my child ! Will He not hear thee. 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? 
Shall He not guard thy rest, 



And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ? 
Thou shall sleep soft, my boy. 

" I give thee to thy God the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And, precious as thou art, 

And pure as dew of Hermon,.He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefined ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! I go my soul may fail me, 
As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks. 

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 

The Rock of Strength. Farewell ! " 


ALL night the booming minute-gun 

Had pealed along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand, 

Before the raging blast, 
Had veil'd her topsails to the sand, 

And bowed her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! brave hearts had 

And true ones died with her! 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that 

A star once o'er the seas, 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 

And sadder things than these ! 

We saw her treasures cast away, 

The rocks with pearls were sown ; 
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands 

Like ashes by a breeze; [shore 

And gorgeous robes but oh ! that 

Had sadder things than these ! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crushed reed thrown aside ; 
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay 

Till then we had not wept 
But well our gushing hearts might say, 

That there a mother slept ! 

For her pale arms a babe had pressed 

With such a wreathing grasp. 
Billows had dashed o'er that fond 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful, midst that wild scene, 

Gleamed up the boy's dead face, 
Like slumber's, trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head, 

With half-shut violet-eye 
He had known little of her dread, 

Naught of her agony 1 



O human love! whose yearning heart, 

Thtmigh all tilings vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu 
Surely thou hast another lot: 

There is some home for thee, [not 
Where thou shalt rest, remembering 

The moaning of the sea ! 


THE trumpet's voice hath roused the 

Light up the beacon pyre ! 
A hundred hills have seen the brand, 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast 
And, hark ! was that the sound of seas ? 

A king to war went past 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call. 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye 
They come not back, though all 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en, for tha marriage altar crowned, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and 

By earthly clarion spread ! 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead? 


" Now in thy youth, beseech of Him 

Who giyeth, upbraiding not, 
That his light in thy heart becomes not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." BERNARD BABTOli 

HUSH ! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, 

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, 

And bowed, as flowers are bowed in night, in prayer. 

Gaze on 'tis lovely ! Childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought! 

Gaze yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? 

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 


Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun 
Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 

Is woman's tenderness how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you silent tears to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 
And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds a wasted shower I 
And to make idols, and to find them clay, 
And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray I 

Her lot is on you to be found untired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And, oh ! to love through all things. Therefore pray \ 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 

Earth will forsake Oh ! happy to have given 

The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto heaven. 


*n est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer k V\d6e meme qu'on redoute." ConiNNBi 

LEAVES have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve, for giad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour 
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears but all are thine. 


Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay. 

And smile at thee hut thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 

"When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee I 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ! 
They have one season all are ours to die I 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set but all 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death I 


" Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." BYRON. 

AND is there glory from the heavens departed ? 
O void unmarked ! thy sisters of the sky 

Still hold their place on high, 

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence, 

Though thou art exiled thence 
No desert seems to part those urns of light, 

Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 


They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ; 
And from the silvery sea 

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning 

Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, 
Even as a dew-drop from thy myrtle spray, 

Swept by the wind away ? 
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
And was there power to smite them with decay ? 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven ? 

Bowed be our hearts to think on what we are, 

When from its height afar 
A world sinks thus and yon majestic heaven 

Shines not the less for that one vanished star ! 

" The inviolate Island of the sage and free." BYSOW. 

ROCKS of my country ! let the cloud 
Your crested heights array, 

And rise ye like a fortress proud 
Above the surge and spray ! 

My spirit greets you as ye stand, 
Breasting the billow's foam : 

Oh ! thus forever guard the land, 
The severed land of home ! 

I have left blue skies behind, 
Lighting up classic shrines, 

And music in the southern wind, 
And sunshine on the vines. 

The breathings of the myrtle flowers 
Have floated o'er my way ; 

The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours, 
Hath soothed me with its lay. 

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, 
The purple heavens of Rome 

Yes, all are glorious, yet again 
I bless thee, land of home ! 

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land 
And thine the guarded hearth ; 

And thine the dead the noble band, 
That make thee holy earth. 

Their voices meet me in thy breeze, 
Their steps are on thy plains ; 

Their names, by old majestic trees, 
Are whispered round thy fanes. 

Their blood hath mingled with th. 
tide . 

Of thine exulting sea : 
Oh, be it still a joy, a pride, 

To live and die for thee ! 



THK kings of old have shrine and 


In many a minster's haughty gloom; 
And green, along the ocean side, 
The mounds arise where heroes died ; 
l!ut show me, on thy flowery breast, 
Earth, where thy nanieloas martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uncheered by 


Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's 


Resigned the bitter cup to take : 
And silently, in fearless faith, 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 

Where sleep they, Earth ? By no proud 


Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 
The still sad glory of their name 
Hallows no fountain unto Fame ; 
No not a tree the record bears 
Of their deep thoughts and lonely 


Yet haply all around lie strewed 
The ashes of that multitude : 
It may be that each day we tread 
Where thus devoted hearts have bled ; 

And the young" flowers our children 

Take root in holy dust below. 

Oh, that the many-rustlinp leaves, 
Which round our homes the suminet 

Or that the streams, in whose gla3 


Our own familiar paths rejoice, 
Might whisper through the starry sky, 
To tell where those blest slumbere'r& 


Would not our inmost hearts be 

With knowledge of their presence 


And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice ? 
But the old woods and sounding 

Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 
So let it be ! Like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret, but their sod, 
Unknown to man, is marked of God ! 


M Pregar, pregar, pregar, 
Ch* altro ponno i mortal! al pianger nati ? " ALFIEKI. 

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye, 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Called thy harvest-work to leave- 
Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
Far from thine own household band ; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 

Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor on the darkening sea 
Lift the heart and bend the knee 1 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first star alike ye see 
Lift the heart and bend the kncef 




" Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauem, 
Wie ruft es dir freundhch und lind ; 
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern ? 
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind ! " 


PH ! when wilt thou return 
To thy spirit's early loves ? 

To the freshness of the morn, 
To the stillness of the groves ? 

The summer birds are calling 
Thy household porch around, 

And the merry waters falling 
With sweet laughter in their sound. 

And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 
From their banks of moss and fern, 

Breathe of the sunny hours 
But when wilt thou return ? 

Oh I thou hast wandered long 
From thy home without a guide ; 

And thy native woodland song 
In thine altered heart hath died. 

Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy spring ; 

And to thee the leaves' light play 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 

But when wilt thou return ? 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower, within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed the noon. 

O'er the image of the sky, 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 
Darkly may shadows lie 

But not for evermore. 

Give back thy heart again 
To the freedom of the woods, 

To the birds' triumphant strain, 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

But when wilt thou return ? 

Along thine own pure air 
There are young sweet voices borne 

Oh ! should not thine bs there J 

Still at thy father's board 

There is kept a place for thee ; 

And, by the smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye, 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look of days gone by, 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said, 
For thee kind bosoms yearn, 

For thee fond tears are shed 
Oh 1 when wilt thou return ? 


How many thousands are wakening now ! 
Some to the songs from the forest bough, 
To the rustling of lea\es at the lattice pane, 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea, 
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glc-c, 
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side, 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 



And some oh, well may their hearts rejoice I 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice : 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, 
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone. 

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath, 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 
Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 

And some, in the gloomy convict cell, 

To the dull deep note of the warning bell, 

As it heavily calls them forth to die, 

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 
And some to the din from the city borne, 
And some to the rolling of torrent floods, 
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. 

So are we roused on this checkered earth : 
Each unto light hath a daily birth ; 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet. 
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. 

But one must the sound be, and one the call, 
Which from the dust shall awaken us all : 
One ! but to severed and distant dooms, 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs? 


I i'oetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, rt- 
vivc-s the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenchcd the enthusiasm which warmed the 
spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by 
vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; and, through the brightness of iu 
prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life." CHANNING.) 

JOY is upon the lonely seas, 
When Indian forests pour 
Forth, to the billow and the breeze 

Their odors from the shore ; 
Toy, when the soft air's fanning sigh 
Btfars on the breath of Araby. 

Oh ! welcome are the winds that tell 

A wanderer of the deep 
Where, far away, the jasmines dwell. 
And where the myrrh-trees weep ! 
Blest on the sounding surge and foam 
Are tidings of the citron's home ! 


The sailor at the helm they meet, 

And hope his bosom stirs, 
Upspringing, midst the waves, to greet 

The fair earth's messengers, 
That woo him, from the moaning main, 
Back to her glorious bowers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade, 
And fount's bright gleam, in island vales 

Of golden-fruited shade : 
Across his lone ship's wake they bring 
A vision and a glow of spring. 

And, O ye masters of the lay ! 

Come not even thus your songs 
That meet us on life's weary way, 

Amidst her toiling throngs ? 
Yes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air. 

Their power is from the brighter clime 

That in our birth hath part ; 
Their tones are of the world, wliich time 

Sears not within the heart 5 
They tell us of the living light 
In its green places ever bright. 

They call us, with a voice divine, 

Back to our early love, 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine, 

Whence far and fast we rove. 
Welcome high thought and holy strain 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again! 


* My heart shall be poured over thee and break." 

ProfJuey of Da nit. 

THE spirit of my land, 
It visits me once more ! though I must die 
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fanned, 

My own bright Italy I 

It is, it is thy breath. 

Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 
Is shaken by the wind, in life and death 

Still trembling, yet the same I 

1 Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his deathbed at Paris, is said to have poured 
forth a Farewell to Italy, in his most impassioned poetry. 


Oh ! that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 
And through thy groves its dying music shower, 

Italy! Italy! 

The nightingale is there, 

The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume, 
The south wind's whisper in the scented air 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, oh ! never more, 

On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore 

My Italy ! farewell ! 

Alas! thy hills among 
Had I but left a memory of my name, 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, 

Unto immortal fame ! 

But like a lute's brief tone, 
Like a roze-odor on the breezes cast, 
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone 

So hath my spirit passed 

Pouring itself away 

As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 

Into a fleeting lay; 

That swells, and floats, and dies, 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassioned sighs 

Which thrilled their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me I 

Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 
When from my bosom, joyously and free, 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, 
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue, 

Sweet friends ! remember me ! 

And in the marble halls, 

Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, 
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, 

Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind for you, 
My memory with all glorious things to dwell ! 
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew 

Sweet friends 1 bright land ! farewell 1 



'O! mein Geist, ich fiihle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem, daa keinem 
Menschen gegonnt ist." TIKCK. 

THE chord, the harp's full chord is hushed, 

The voice hath died away, 
Whence music, like sweet waters, gushed 

But yesterday. 

The awakening note, the breeze-like swell, 

The full o'erswetping tone, 
The sounds that sighed ' Farewell, farewell I" 

Are gone all gone ! 

The love, whose fervent spirit passed 

With the rich measure's flow; 
The grief, to which it sank at last 

Where are they now? 

They are with the scents by summer's breath 

Borne from a rose now shed : 
With the words from lips long sealed in death 

Forever fled. 

The sea-shell of its native deep 

A moaning thrill retains ; 
But earth and air no record keep 

Of parted strains. 

And all the memories, all the dreams, 

They woke in floating by ; 
The tender thoughts, the Elysian gleams 

Could these too die ? 

They died ! As on the water's b-east 
The ripple melts away, 

When the breeze that stirred it sinks to rest- 
So perished they! 

Mysterious in their sudden birth, 

And mournful in their close, 
Passing, and finding not on earth 

Aim or repose. 

Whence were they ! like the breath of flowe 

Why thus to come and go ? 
A long, long journey must be ours 

Ere this we know 



"Was mir fehlt? Mir fehlt ja alles, 
Bin so ganz verlassen hier! " 

Tyrolese Melody. 

THE Hearth, the Hearth is desolate ! the fire is quenched and gone 
That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hushed through day and night 
Dh ! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light ! 

I!ut scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore. 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more. 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy or mirth, 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home alas ! the lonely hearth! 

The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue, 
Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung. 
Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone: 
The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quenched and gone! 

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee? 

Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea ? 

Oh ! some are hushed, and some are changed, and never shall one strain 

Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again. , 

And of the hearts that here were linked by long-remembered years, 

Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister's tears! 

One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone : 

For broKen is the household chain, the bright fire quenched and goncl 

Not so 'tis not a broken chain : thy memory binds them still, 
Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now and chill. 
The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine attesting stone, 
Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own. 

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though called from earth away, 

With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway; 

And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one, 

Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire quenched and gone! 


There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind ; a thousand accidents may, and 
will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscription on th 
mind ; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains forever. 


" Thou hast been called, O sleep ! the friend of woe, 
But 'tis the happy who have called thee o." 


PEACE to thy dreams ! thou art slumbering now 
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow; 


All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast 

Lies 'midst the hush of their heart at rest 

Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 

When eve through the woodlands hath sighed farewell 

Peace ! The sad memories that through the day 

With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, 

The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 

That bowed thee as winds bow the willows's head, 

The yearnings for faces and voices gone 

All are forgotten ! Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten ? It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass: 
Tremblest thou, Dreamer? O love and grief! 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf! 

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 
As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 
On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, 
There's a large tear gathering heavily 
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed: 
Sorrowful Dreamer ! this is not rest ! 

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours- 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. 
Oh, we bear within us mysterious things ! 
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs 
And Passion those gulfs of the heart to fill 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away I 
Well might we look on our souls in fear 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath 
How know we if under the wings of death ? 

1 Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest." PSALM ir, 

OH, for thy wings, thou dove! 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest 


Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird ? 

In what rich leafy glooms, 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred ? 

Over what blessed home, 
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crowned, 

O fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 

Or seekest thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine, 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art! 

Unto the greenwood spray, 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart 1 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove I 

Oh ! to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind. 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroyed 
Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky I 

Wild wish, and longing vain, 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free! 

Go to thy woodland reign : 
My soul is bound and held I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams untold, unknown 

And burning woman's tears, 
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards homewards yet once more. 



Souvent 1'ame, fortifie'e par lar contemplation des choses divines, voudroit d^ployer ses ailes 
vers le ciel. Ello croit qu'au terme de sa carriere un ndeau va se lever pour lui decouvrir des 
scenes de lurniere : rnais quand la mort louche son corps perissable, elle jette un regard en 
arriere vers les plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes mortelles." 


FEARFULLY and mournfully 
Thou biddst the earth farewell ; 

And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one 1 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

Ascend, ascend rejoicing 1 
The sunshine of that shore 

Around thcc, as a glorious robe, 
Shall stream forevermore. 

The breezy music wandering 
There through the Elysian sky, 

Hath no deep tone that seems to float 
From a happier time gone by. 

And there the day's last crimson 
Gives no sad memories birth, 

No thought of dead or distant friends, 
Or partings as on earth. 

Yet fearfully and mournfully 
Thou biddst that earth farewell, 

Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

A land where all is deathless 

The sunny wave's repose, 
The wood with its rich melodies, 

The summer and its rose : 

A land that sees no parting, 
That hears no sound of sighs, 

That waits thee with immortal air 
Lift, lift those anxious eyes ! 

Oh ! how like thee, thou trembler ! 

Man's spirit fondly clings 
With timid 'ove, to this, its world 

Of old familiar things ! 

We pant, we thirst for fountains 

That gush not here below ! 
On, on we toil, allured by dreams 

Of the living water's flow : 

We pine for kindred natures 

To mingle with our own ; 
For communings more full and high 

Than aught by mortal known : 

We strive with brief aspirings 
Against our bonds in vain ; 

Yet summoned to be free at last, 
We shrink and clasp our chain ; 

And fearfully and mournfully 

We bid the earth farewell, 
Though passing from its mists, lik 

In a brighter world to dwell. 

" Many things answered me." Manfred. 

I GO, I go ! and must mine image fade 

From the green spots wherein my childhood played, 

By my own streams ? 

Must my life part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes ? 

1 Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight upwards, is represcptcd looking bads 
sadly and anxiously to the earth. 


Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee ? 

All the sweet counsel, the commur.ion high, 
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 

Poured full and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give, 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

Forevermore I 

Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell, 

Set deep that thought ; 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow, 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, 
With me be fraught ! 

An 1 Memory answered me : " Wild wish, and vain f 
1 have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 

The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
Soon with new shadows filled, new flowers o'ergrown, 

Is theirs no more." 

Hast than such power, O Love ? And Love replied : 
" It is not mine 1 Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust, 

Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain 
'Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust I " 

Song, is the gift with thee ? I ask a lay, 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 

Filled with a tone oh'! not for deathless fame, 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 

And Song made answer : " It is not in me, 
Though called immortal ; though my gifts may be 

All but divine. 

A place of lonely brightness I can give : 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live 

This is not mine ! " 

Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil ? 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke : " I can but still 
Each vain regret 


What if forgotten ? All thy soul would crave, 
Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave, 
Wilt soon forget." 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
As from all nature's voices one reply, 

But one was given. 

" Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own- 
Seek it in heaven." 


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 loved it well I 

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

For dear hath been ils evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends, In other days. 

And oh ! when music's voice is heard 

To nielt in strains of parting woe, 
When hearts to love and grief are stirred, 

Think of me then ! I go, I go J 


** No more of talk where God or angel guest. 
With man, as with his friend, familiar used 
To sit indulgent, and with him partake 
Rural repast." MILTOH. 

ARE ye forever to your skies departed ? 

Oh ! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore? 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 

And ye our faded earth beholds you not I 



Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 

Man wandered from his Paradise away; 
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 

Came down, high guests ! in many a later day. 
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 
'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 

That saw your host's ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and sky i 

Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, 

And worshipped awe-struck, in that fearful place. 

By Chebar's ' brook ye passed, such radiance wearing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ; 
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour, 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, 

'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? 

Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, % 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours ! Your heavenly dwelling 
Ye left, and by the unsealed sepulchral stone, 

In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling, 

That He they sought had triumphed, and was gon< 

Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; 

Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, 

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 

When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met,' 

Are ye not near, when faith and hope rise high, 

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? 

When martyrs, all things for his sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill ; 

One, One is near a spirit holier still ! 

' Kick. x. 





OH ! how could Fancy crown with 


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

Companion of the vine ? 
Thy home, wild plant ! is where each 


Of revelry hath long been o'er. 
Where song's full notes once pealed 

But now are heard no more. 

The Roman on his battle-plains, 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Entwined thee with exulting strains 

Around the victor's tent 
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might 

Better thou lovest the silent scene 

Around the vjctor's grave. 

Where sleep the sons of ages flown, 

The bards and heroes of the past ; 
Where, through the halls of glory 

Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
Where years are hastening to efface 

Each record of the grand and fair ; 
Thou, in thy solitary grace, 

Wreath of the tomb ! art there. 

Oh ! many a temple, once sublime, 

Beneath a blue Italian sky, 
Hath naught of beauty left by time, 

Save thy wild tapestry ! 
And, reared 'midst crags and clouds, 
'tis thine 

To wave where banners wave of 

O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, 

Along his rocky shore. 

High from the fields of air look down 
Those eyries of a vanished race 

Homes of the might", whose renown 

Hath passed, and left no trace. 
But there thou art ! thy foliage bright 
Unchanged the mountain storm can 

brave ; 
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest 

Or deck the humblest grave 1 

Tis still the same I Where'er we 

The wrecks of human power we 

The marvels of all ages fled 

Left to decay and thee ! 
And still let man his fabric rear, 
August, in beauty, grace, and 

strength ; 

Days pass thou ivy never sere ! *~ 
And all is thine at length ! 


WHERE sucks the bee now ? Summer 

is flying, [lying ; 

Leaves round the elm-tree faded arc 
Violets are gone from their grassy dell, 
With the cowslip cups, where the 

fairies dwell ; 
The rose from the garden hath passed 


Vet happy, fair lx>y. is thy natal day ! 
For love bids it welcome, the love 

which hath smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child! 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding 

thy bed, [head. 

And pouring out joy on thy sunny 
Roses may vanish, but this will stay 
Happy and bright is thy natal day ! 

1 '' Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never iere. 1 * 





THOU w.ikest from rosy sleep, to play 
With bounding heart, my boy! 

Before thee lies a long bright day 
Of summer' and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 

To cloud thy fearless eye : 
Long be it thus ! life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 
On thy young spirit's wings 

Now in thy morn forgot not Him 
From whom, each pure thought 

So, in the onward vale of tears, 
Where'er thy path may be. 

When strength hath bowed to evil 

He will remember thee ! 


FEAR was within the tossing bark 
When the stormy winds grew loud, 

And waves came rolling high and 

And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in theil 

And baffled in their skill ; 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea Be still! 

And the wind ceased it ceased ! that 

Passed through the gloomy sky ; 
The troubled billows knew their Lord, 

And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast ; 
They sank, as flowers that fold to 

When sultry day is past. 

O Thou ! that in its wildest hour 
Didst rule the tempest's mood. 

Send thy meek spirit forth in power, 
Soft on our souls to brood ! 

Thou that didst bow the billow's 

Thy mandate to fulfil ! 
Oh, speak to passion's raging tide, 

Speak, and say, Peace be still, !" 


THOU, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy. 
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee, 

And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy, 
Come to this tomb ! it hath a voice for thee! 

Pray ! Thou art blest ask strength for sorrow's hour: 
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. 

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth 
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold 

All the heart's depths before thee bright with truth, 
All the mind's treasures silently unfold, 

Look on this tomb! for thee, too, speaks the grave, 

Where God hath sealed the fount of hope he gave. 


EARTH ! guard what here we lay in holy trust, 
That which hath left our home a darkened place, 

Wanting the form, the smile, now veiled with dust,' 
The light departed with our loveliest face. 

Yet from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is free 

\Ve have but lent the beautiful to thee. 

But thou, O Heaven ! keep, keep what thau hast taken, 
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high ; 

The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken, 
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy 

Guide us where these are with our sisters Sown 

They were of Thee, and thou hast claimed thmc own I 


THOU art sounding on, thou mighty seal 

Forever and the same ; 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee 

Those thunders naught can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone 

From tne rich bowers of earth. 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournful ness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

The Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone ; 
And the songs at Rome''s high triumph poured, 

Are with her eagles flown.. 

And mute the Moorish horn that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free ; 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang 

Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 

Through many an olden clime, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

A DIRGE. 37; 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound. 

Even as first it rolled. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange, 
Where sceptred cities rose! 

Thou speakest of One who doth not change- 
So may our hearts repose. 



THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, 
Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, 
And to fling bright dew from the morning back, 
Fair form I on each image of childhood's track. 

Thou art a thing to recall the hours 
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, 
When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, 
And treasure untold in one captive dove. 

Are they gone ? can we think it while thmt art there, 

Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? 

Is it not spring that indeed breathes free 

And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee ? 

No ! never more may we smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow ; 
Vet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, 

To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, 

To have lingered before thee, and turned, and borne 

One vision away of the cloudless morn. 


CALM on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit, rest thcc now ! 

Even while with us thy footstep trod. 
His seal was on thy brow- 


Dust, to its narrow house beneath I 
Soul, to its place on high ! 

They that have seen thy look in death, 
No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 

But oh ! a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven is now thine own. 


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 ! ** 

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 1 An awe-struck band 

In silence gathering round the silent stand, 

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 gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled 

And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood 

Had long since ebbed 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 

With the loved face once more the young, fair face, 

Midst that rude cavern, touched with sculpture's grace, 

By torchlight and 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 f My friend, my friend I 
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 check 
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 lea f . 
Seared though for thy %ake by the blast of grief! 
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go 
Hearing my image on thy heart, I know, 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I called thee ! With the morning light 
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 ! 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 1 



SING, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured I 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword I 

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. 

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying. 

On Albuera's plain ; 
They that beside us cheerily tracked the flying, 

Far o'er the hills of Spain ; 

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering 

From old Rodrigo's wall, 
The rampart scaled, through 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 lav ing- 
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 1 


** And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside forever it may be a sound, 
A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, 
A flower the wind the ocean which shall wound, 
Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound." 


YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene, 
Fair as it looks, and all softly green ; 
Yet fear thou not for the spell is thrown, 
And the might of the shadow, on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ? 
Oh I in the heart there are stronger powers, 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours ! 

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, 
And loved" and sorrowed, and heard farewells, 
And learned in my own deep soul to look, 
And tremble before, that mysterious book ? 

Have I not. under these whispering leaves, 
Woven such dreams as the young heart, weaves ? 
Shadows yet unto which life seemed bound ; 
And is it not is it not haunted ground ? 

Must I not hear what thou hearest not, 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ? 
Is there not something to rouse but me, 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought ; 
Love, with its passionate visions fraught ; 
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round ; 
And is it not is it not haunted ground * 


Are there no phantoms, but such as come 

By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb ? 

A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, 

Can summon up mightier far than these I 

But I may not linger amidst them here I 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear ; 
Passing and leaving a weight behind, 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind 

Away, away ! that my soul may soar 

As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 

Here from its wing it may never cast 

The chain by those spirits brought back from the past. 

Doubt it not smile not but go thou, too, 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew 
Where thou hast prayed at thy mother's knee, 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free; 

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ; 
When from the idols thy heart hath made, 
Thou hast seen the colors of giory fade. 

Oh ! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh, 

By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye, 

By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, 

Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground. 



Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, 
Where the Red Indian lays his father's dust, 

And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, 
To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust ? 

Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, 

To pour itself upon the wilds again ? 

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race, 
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe ; 

But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, 
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? 

Their singing shafts have reached the panther's lair. 

And where art thou ? thine arrows are not there. 

They rest beside their streams the spoil is won 
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough ; 
The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done 


They hear the tales of old but where art thou ? 
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, 
And there a place is filled that once was thine. 

For thou art mingling with the city's throng, 
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside ; 

Child of the forests ! thou art borne along, 
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. 

But will this be ? and canst thou here find rest ? 

Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast. 

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear 
From the savanna-land, the land of streams ? 

Hearest thou not murmurs which none else may hear? 
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams ? 

They call wild voices call thee o'er the main, 

Back to thy free and boundless woods again. 

Hear them not ! hear them not ! thou canst not find 

In the far wilderness what once was thine ! 
Thou hast quaffed knowledge from the founts of mind, 

And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine. 
Thou knowest the soaring thought, the immortal strain- 
Seek not the deserts and the woods again ! 


IN the full tide of melody and mirth, 

While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, 

Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, 
Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die. 

Forget him not, for many a festal hour, 

Charmed by those strains for us has lightly flown : 
And memory's visions, mingling with their power, 

Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone. 

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays 
Revive life's morning dreams, when youth is fled. 

And, fraught with images of other days, 
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. 

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew 

Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom 

Oh ! what were life, unless such moments threw 
Bright gleams, " like angel visits," o'er its gloom ? 




YES ! thou hast met the sun's last 

From the haunted hills of Rome ; 
By many a bright ^Egean isle 

Thou hast seen the billows foam. 

From the silence of the Pyramid, 
Thou hast watched the solemn flow 

Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 
The ancient realm below. 

Thy heart hath burned, as shepherds 


Some wild and warlike strain, 
Where the Moorish horn once proudly 

Through the pealing hills of Spain. 

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 
Thou hast hea^i the laurels moan, 

With a sound ^f. murmuring in thy 

Of the glory that is gone. 

Hut go thou to the pastoral vales 
Of the Alpine mountains old, 

If thou wouldst hear immortal tales 
By the wind's deep whispers told ! 

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread 
Where man hath nobly striven, 

And life, like incense, hath been shed, 
An offering unto heaven. 

For o'er the snows, and round 

Hath swept a noble flood; 
The nurture of the peasant's vines 

Hath been the martyr's blood! 

A spirit, stronger than the sword, 
And loftier than despair, 


Through all the heroic region poured, 
Breathes in the generous air. 

A memory clings to every steep 

Of long-enduring faith, 
And the sounding streams glad record 

Of courage unto death. 

Ask of the peasant -uhere his sires 
For truth and freedom bled ? 

Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, 
Where lay the holy dead I 

And he will tell thce, all around, 
On fount, and turf, and stone, 

Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 
Their ashes have been sown ! 

Go, when the Sabbnth-bell is heard * 
Up through the wilds to float, 

When the dark old woods and caves 

are stirred 
To gladness by the note ; 

When forth, along their thousand rills, 
The mountain people come, 

Join thou their worship on those hills 
Of glorious martyrdom. 

And while the song of praise ascends, 
And while the torrent's voice, 

Like the swell of many an organ, blends, 
Then let thy soul rejoice. 

Rejoice, that human hearts, through 

Through shame, through death, made 

Before the rocks and heavens have 

Witness of God so long ! 

1 See GILI.Y'S Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, fur an interesting account 
<-f a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. Tlie inhabitant* of these Protestant 
valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during 
trie summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at Uiat season of the year assemble on 
'hat sacred day to worship iu the opcu air* 



PILGRIM ! oh say, hath thy cheek been fanned 
By the sweet winds of my sunny land ? 
Knowest thou the sound of its mountain pines ? 
And hast thou rested beneath its vines ? 

Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, 
A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky, 
Floating away o'er hill and heath 
With the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath ? 

Then say, are there fairer vales than those 
Where the warbling of fountains forever flows ? 
Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave 
O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave ? 

O sunshine and song I they are lying far 
By the streams that look to the western star ; 
My heart is fainting to hear once more 
The water-voices of that sweet shore. 

Many were they that have died for thee, 
And brave, my Spain ! though thou art not free ; 
But I call them blest they have rent their chain- 
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain ! 



NOT for the myrtle, and not for the vine, 

Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam's shrine ; 

And not for the rich blue heaven that showers 

Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers; 

And not for the scent of the citron trees 

Fair peasant I I call thee not blest for these. 

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, 
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw ; 
And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye, 
Like a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky, 
Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees- 
Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 

But for those breathing and loving things 
For the boy's fond arm that around thee clings, 
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, 
In the peace of a trusting child's repose 
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast, 
Oh ! richly I call thee, and deeply blest ! 




THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam 
For the stormy fields of war; 

The maid was left in a smiling home 
And a sunny land afar 

H : t voice was heard where javelin 

Poured on the steel-clad line ; 
Her step was midst the summer flowers, 

Her seat beneath the vine 

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stained his crest; 

While she the gentlest wind of heaven 
Might scarcely fan her breast ! 

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by. 
And again he crossed the seas 

But she had died as roses die 
That perish with a breeze 

As roses die, when the blast is come 
For all things bright and fair 

There was death within the smiling 

How had death found her there ? 


" Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? " Marmion. 

THE stately homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand, 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land ! 

The deer across their greensward 

Through shade and sunny gleam ; 

And the swan glides past them with the 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry homes of England I 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household lova 

Meet in the ruddy light! 
There woman's voice flows forth m 

Or childhood's tale 5s told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed homes of England I 

How softly on thei'r bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell' 

Floats through their woods at morn 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born 

The cottagehomes of England I 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Threugh glowing orchards forth the) 

Each from its nook of leaves; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall ! 
And green forever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit lov^ 

Its country and its God! 



" I have dreamt thou wert 
A captive in thy hopelessness ; afar 
From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 
Whose image unto thee is as a dream 
Of fire and slaughter ; I can see thee wasting. 
Sick of thy native air." 

L. E. L. 

THE champions had come from their fields of war, 
Over the crests of the billows far ; 
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shore*, 
Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars. 

They sat at their feast round the Norse king's board ; 
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured; 
The hearth was heaped with the pine-boughs high, 
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by 

The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme 

Their songs of the sword and the olden time ; 

And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung, 

Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung, 

But the swell was gone from the quivering string, 
They had surrfrnoned a softer voice to sing; 
And a captive girl, at the warriors' call, 
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall. 

Lonely she stood, in her mournful eyes 
Lay the clear midnigbt of southern skies ; 
And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, 
Half-veiled a depth of unfathomed woe. 

Stately she stood though her fragile frame 
Seemed struck with the blight of some inward flame, 
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, 
Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 

And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze, 
O'er her marble cheek by the pine fire's blaze 
No soft hue caught from the south wind's breath, 
But a token of fever at strife with death. 

She had been torn from her home away, 
With her long locks crowned for her bridal-day. 
And brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 

They bade her sing of her distant land 
She held its lyre with a trembling hand, 
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke, 
And the stream of her voice into music broke. 


Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow 

Troubled its murmur, and sad and low ; 

But it swelled into deeper power ere long, 

As the breeze that swept o'er her soul grew strong. 

"THEY bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny landl of thee! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful-sounding seal 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ! in silence let me die, 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure, deep sapphire sky, 

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth 

Its of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north ? 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once more! My spirit shall awake, 
And through the mists of death shine out, my country, for thy sake I 
That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light, 
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by, 
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again yet once, my Sicily ! 

" There are blue heavens far hence, far hence ! but, oh! their glorious blue! 

Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth's deep hue! 

It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home, 

And arching o'er my vintage hills, they hang their cloudless domel 

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore, 

And steeping happy hearts in joy that now is mine no more. 

" And there are haunts in that green land oh I who may dream or tell 

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell ! 

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves, 

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves ; 

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath, 

And the violets gleam like amethysts from the dewy moss beneath. 

"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day- 
Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away; 
They wander through the olive woods, and o'er the shining seas 
They mingle with the orange scents that load the sleepy breeze; 
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there, it were a bliss to die, 
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily ! 

"/may not thus depart farewell ! Yet no, my country! no! 
Is not love stronger than the grave ? I feel it must be so ! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main, 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again. 
Its passions deepens it prevails ! I break my chain I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest in thy sweet air, my home I" 

And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire 
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold, 
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom rolled. 


For her head sank back on the rugged wall 

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall ; 

She had poured out her soul with her song's last tone : 

The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ! 


.* Iran le Terrible, e'tant deji devenu vieux, assiegait Novgorod. Les Boyards, le voyant 
affoibh, )ui demanderent s il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de 1'assaut a son fils. 
Sa fureur fut si grande a cette proposition, que rien ne put 1'appaiser : son fils se prosterna .\ 
ses pieds ; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours apres le malheu- 
reux en mourut. Le pere, alors au de"sespoir, devint indifferent a la guerre comme au pou- 
voir, et ne surve'cut que peu de mois a son fils." Dix Antics d'Exil, par MADAMB Dl 

11 Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 

Jhn wieder haben ! 

Trostlose allmacht, 

Die nicht emrnal in Graber ihren arm 

Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 

Ma Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann ! " 


"There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak 

They tell me this is death! 
And tearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done 
For the honor of thy father's name 

Look up, look up', my son ! 

" Well might I know death's hue ana 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 

"I will not bear that still cold look- 
Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 

Wake as the storm wakes ! I wil 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 

Lift brightly up, and proudly, 
Once more thy kindling eyes ! 

Hath my word lost its power on earth! 
I say to thee, arise 1 

HE sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war; 
He had cast his jewelled sabre, 

That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead 

His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed, 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed 

Through the rich tent made way; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the lord of nations mutely 

Tn the dust, with his renown. 

I ow tones at last, of woe and fear, 

From his full bosom broke 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow 

Burdened with agony. 



" Didst thou not know I loved thee 

Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seemed to thee so stern. 

"Thou wert the first, the first, fair 

That in mine arms I pressed : 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I reared thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee dead J 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave, 
And bury my red sword and spear, 

Chiefs I in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! I have conquered, 

I have slain my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? ye answer not- 

Thou too art mute, my son ! " 

And thus his wild lament was poured 

Through the dark resounding night, 
And the battle knew no more his sword, 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sighed ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he 

Humbly the conqueror died. 


* Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast ; 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth : oh ! therefore, child of songf 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart." 

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, 

Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 

Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, 

And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard 

By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 

Flashing through rock and wood : the sunset's light 

Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, 

And the wind's whisper in the mountain ash, 

Whose clusters drooped above. His head was bowed, 

His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 

1 Founded on the following circumstance related in the Percy Anecdotes of imagination. 

" It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, ncvei 
could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he fre- 
quented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endow- 
ments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for 
this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief ; and addressing himself in 
Irish to her mother, ' Madam,' said he, ' I have often, from my great respect to your family, 
attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some 
evil genius hovers over me ; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy 
sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us ; nay, 
said he emphatically, 'she will not survive twelve months." The event verified the prediction, 
and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard." 


Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood 

Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 

The unchaining of his souK the gush of song 

Many and graceful forms ! yet one alone 

Seemed present to his dream ; and she, indeed, 

With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, 

And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, 

Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 

And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, 

E'en painfully! a creature to behold 

With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen 

Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 

Too dim without its brightness ! Did such fear 

O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one, 

By his own rushing stream ? Once more he gazed 

Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more 

From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out 

A few short festive notes, an opening strain 

Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief 

As if some wailing spirit in the strings 

Met and o'ermastered him ; but yielding then 

To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, 

Like moaning waters o'er the harp he poured 

The trouble of his haunted soul and sang 

" Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sere leaf's trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree, 

I hear thee, O thou voice ! 
And I would thy warning were but for me, 

That my spirit might rejoice. 

" But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 
They hear the wind's low sigh, 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily, 

And the woods but they hear not thee ! 

" Long have I striven 

With my deep-foreboding soul, 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roll. 
There's a young brow smiling near, 

With a bridal white rose wreath 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 

Touched solemnly by death I 


" Fair art thou, Morna! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark-blue summer sky ! 
And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill, 
That makes the dim woods tuneful round 

But soon it must be still ! 

" Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie 
Make not the strength of love thy trust, 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That my hand for thee hath tried, 
But into dirge-notes wild and low 

Its ringing tones have died. 

* Young art thou, Morna! 

Yet on thy gentle head, 
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart 
But bright things go with the summer breezt, 

And thou too must depart ! 

Yet, shall I weep ? 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep 

Too powerful for thy rest I 
And the bitterness I know, 

And the chill of this world's breath- 
Go all undimmed in thy glory, go ! 

Young and crowned bride of death ! 

" Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy thoughts and bright ! 
And soaring hopes, that weie not given 

For the touch of mortal blight ! 
Might we follow in thy track, 

This parting should not be ! 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee ! " 

There was a burst of tears around the bnrd : 
All wept but one and she serenely stood, 
With her clear brow and dark religious eve, 
Raised to the first faint star above the hills. 
And cloudless ; though it might be that her cheek 
Was paler than before. So Morna heard 
The minstrel's prophecy. 


And spring returned, 

Bringing the earth her lovely things again 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



" If there be but one spot on thy name. 
One eye thou fearest to meet, one human voice 
Whose tones thou shnnkest from Woman ! veil thy face. 
And bow thy head and die ! " 

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair, 

(Famed were those tresses in Provenal song,) 
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair 

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving 
Midst the rich curls ; and, oh I how meekly loving 
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face 
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! 
Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, 
Than might beseem a mother's ; on her brow 

Something too much there sits of native scorn, 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow, 

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. 
These may be dreams but how shall woman tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears ? She fell I 
That mother left that child ! went hurrying by 
Its cradle haply not without a sigh, 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung. But no ! it could not thus have been, 
For she went on ! forsook her home, her hearth, 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, 
To live a gaudy and dishonored thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendors of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life, 

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. 

He recked no more of glory : grief and shame 

Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name 

Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls 

Crept year by year : the minstrel passed their walls ; 

The warder's horn hung mute. Meantime the child 

On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, 

A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 

Into sad youth; fo'r well, too well, she knew 


Her mother's tale ! Its memory made the sky 

Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye ; 

Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain 

Would there have lingered ; flushed her cheek to pain. 

If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, 

E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low 

And plaintive. Oh ! there lie such depths of woe 

In a. young blighted spirit ! Manhood rears 

A haughty brow, and age has done with tears ; 

But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 

At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days ; 

And thus it was with her, A mournful sight 

In one so fair for she indeed was fair ; 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light 

Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, 
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, 
Still that fond child's and oh ! the brow above 
So pale and pure ! so formed for holy love 
To gaze upon in silence ! But she felt 
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt 
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that called on heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn 

With alms before her castle gate she stood, 
Midst peasant groups : when, breathless and o'erworn, 

And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid, 
With her sweet voice and proffered hand of aid, 
Turned to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion, in its pushing mood, 
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears 
As rain the hoarded agonies of years 
From the heart's urn ; and with her white lips pressed 
The ground they trod ; then, bun-ing in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out " Oh undenled J 
I am thy mother spurn me not, my child ! " 

Isaure had prayed for that lost mother ; wept 
O'er her stained memory, while the happy slept 
In the hushed midnight ; stood with mournful gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days, 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weighed her being to the earth with shame. 
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, 
The dark remembrances, the altered guise, 


Awhile o'erpowered her ? From the weeper's touch 
She shrank 'twas but a moment yet too much 
For that all-humbled one ; its mortal stroke 
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke 
At once in silence. Heavily and prone 
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone, 
Those long fair tresses they still brightly wore 
Their arly pride, though bound with pearls no more- 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled, 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 

Her child bent o'er her called her : 'twas too late 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate ! 
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard 
How didst thou fall, O bright-haired Ermengarde! 


" O good old man ! how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times." 

At you Likt It, 

FALLEN was the house of Giafar ; and its name, 

The high romantic name of Barmecide, 

A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, 

By the swift Tigris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath, 

Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 

Had so passed sentence : but man's chainless heart 

Hides that within its depths which never yet 

The oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 

Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales 
Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice 
Was there the fountain's ; through those eastern courts, 
O'er the broken marble and the grass, 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! An aged man, 

Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 

His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate 

On a white column's fragment : and drew forth, 

From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 

A tone that shook them with its answering thrill, 

To his deep accents. Many a glorious talc 


He told that sad yet stately solitude, 

Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom, 

Like waters in the waste : and calling up, 

By song or high recital of their deeds, 

Bright solemn shadows of its vanished race 

To people their own halls : with these alone, 

In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts 

Held still unbroken converse. He had been 

Reared in this lordly dwelling, and was now 

The ivy of its ruins, unto which 

His fading life seemed bound. Day rolled on day, 

And from that scene the loneliness was fled; 

For crowds around the gray-haired chronicler 

Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts 

Fear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a breeze 

Wanders through forest branches, and is met 

By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, 

The spirit of his passionate lament, 

As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke 

One echoing murmur. But this might not be 

Under a despot's rule, and, summoned thence, 

The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 

Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 

And with his white lips rigidly compressed; 

Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak 

Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine forth. 

Was it to sue for grace ? His burning heart 

Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, 

And he was changed ! and thus in rapid words, 

The o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way: 

* And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave, 
With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave ? 
What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land? 
I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band ! 

" My chiefs 1 my chiefs ! the old man comes that in your halls was nursetl- 
That followed you to many a fight, where flashed your sabres first 
That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart : 
Oh ! must the music of that name with him from earth depart ? 

" It shall not be ! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still, 
With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill ; 
The wind's free flight shall bear it on as wandering seeds are sown, 
And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and thrilling tone. 

" For it is uot as a flower whose scent with the drooping leaves expires, 
And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires; 
It is written on our battle-field with the writing of the sword, 
It hath left upon our desert sands a light in blessings poured. 

" The founts, the many gushing founts which to the wild ye gave, 
Of you, my chiefs ! shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave ; 


And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim's way, 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day. 

" The very walls your bounty reared for the stranger's homeless head, 
Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead ! 
Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern i ung, 
And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst its young. 

" It is enough ! Mine eye no more of joy or splendor sees 
I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and to the breeze ! 
I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair, 
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs ! are there." 

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 

O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a thought 

Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought 

Of his youth's once-loved friends, the martyred race, 

O'erflowed his softening heart " Live ! live ! " he cried, 

" Thou faithful unto death ! Live on, and still 

Speak of thy lords they were a princely band 1 " 


' Weep not for those whom the vale of the tomb, 

In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes, 

Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom, 

Or earth had profaned whafwas born for the skies. 

I MADE a mountain brook my guide 
Through a wild Spanish glen, 

And wandered on its grassy side, 
Far from the homes of honest men. 

It lured me with a singing tone, 
And many a sunny glance, 

To a green spot of beauty lone 
A haunt for old romance. 

A dim and deeply bosomed grove 

Of many an aged tree, 
Such as the shadowy violets love, 

The fawn and forest bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut-bough 

There on the waters lay, 
The bright stream reverently below 

Checked its exulting play; 


And bore a music all subdued, 

And led a silvery sheen 
On through the breathing solitude 

Of that rich leafy scene. 

For something viewlessly around 
Of solemn influence dwelt, 

In the soft gloom and whispery sound 
Not to be told, but felt ; 

While sending forth a quiet gleam 

Across the wood's repose, 
And o'er the twilight of the strtim, 

A lowly chapel rose. 

A pathway to that still retreat 
Through many a myrtle wound, 

And there a sight how strangely swe* 
My steps in wonder bound. 

1 Suggested by a scene beautifull^jdeschbed in the. Recollections r/ ike Peninsula. 



For on a brilliant bed of flowers, 
E'en at the threshold made, 

As if to sleep through sultry hours, 
A young fair child was laid. 

To sleep ? oh ! ne'er on childhood's 

And silken lashes pressed, 
Did the warm living slumber lie 

With such a weight of rest! 

Yet still a tender crimson glow 
Its cheeks' pure marble died 

'Twas but the light's faint streaming 

Through roses heaped beside. 

I stooped the smooth round arm was 

The soft lips' breath was fled, 
And the bright ringlets hung so still 

The lovely child was dead 1 

" Alas I " I cried, " fair faded thing ! 

Thou hast wrung bitter tears, 
And thou hast left a woe, to cling 

Round yearning hearts for years I " 

But then a voice came sweet and low 

I turned, and near me sate 
A woman with a mourner's brow, 

Pale, yet not desolate. 

And in her still, clear, matron face, 

All solemnly serene, 
A shadowed image I could trace 

Of that young slumberer's mien. 

" Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said 
With lips that faintly smiled, 

" As here I watch beside my dead, 
My fair and precious child. 

" But know, the time-worn heart maybe 
By pangs in this world riven, 

Keener than theirs who yield, like me, 
An angel thus to heaven ! " 


[Loins, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ba 
of the Empire in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he 
died 'in neglect and poverty. " After his decease, his mother Matilda privately invited h 
children to return to Germany ; and by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when 
Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves 
before him in the srarb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the 
victor softened." Miss BENGKR'S Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia.\ 

THE Kaiser feasted in his hall 

The red wine mantled high; 
Banners were trembling on the wall 

To the peals of minstrelsy : 
And many a gleam and sparkle came 

From the armor hung around, 
As it caught the glance of the torch's 

Or the hearth with pine-boughs 

Why fell there silence on the chord 
Beneath the harper's hand ? 

And suddenly from that rich board, 
Why rose the wassail band ? 

The strings were hushed the knights 
made way 

For the queenly mother's tread, 
As up the hall, in dark array, 

Two fair-haired boys she led. 

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's 

And still before him stood ; 
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 

Flushed the proud warrior-blood: 
And "Speak, my mother! speak I" 
he cried, 

" Wherefore this mourning vest : 
And the clinging children by thy side, 

In weeds of sadness drcst ! " 


" Well may a mourning vest be mine, 

And theirs, my son, my son ! 
Look on the features of thy line 

In each fair little one ! 
Though grief awhfle within their eyes 

Hath tamed the dancing glee, 
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies 

Thy brother's children see ! 

'.' And where is he, thy brother where ? 

He in thy home that grew, 
And smiling with his sunny hair, 

Ever to greet thee flew ? 
How would his arms thy neck entwine, 

His fond lips press thy brow 1 
My son ! oh, call these orphans 
thine ! 

Thou hast no brother now! 

" What! from their gentle eyes. doth 

Speak of thy childhood's hours, 
And smite thee with a tender thought 

Of thy dead father's towers ? 
Kind was thy boyish heart and true, 

When reared together there, 
Through the old woods like fawns ye 

Where is thy brother where ? 

" Well didst thou love him then, and 

Still at thy side was seen ! 
How is it that such things can be 

As though they ne'er had been ? 
Evil was this world's breath, which 

Between the good and brave ! 
Now must the tears of grief and shame 

Be offered to the grave. 

"And let them, let them there be 
poured ! 

Though all unfelt below 
Thine own wrung heart, to love re- 

Shall soften as they flow. 
Oh ! death is mighty to make peace ; 

Now bid his work be done ! 
So many an inward strife shall cease 

Take^ take these babes, my son ! " 

His eyes was dimmed the strong man 

With feelings long suppressed ; 
Up in his arms the boys he took, 

And strained them to his breast. 
And a shout from all the royal hall 

Burst forth to hail the sight ; 
And eyes were wet midst the brave 
that met 

At the Kaiser's feast that night. 


1 Devant vous est Sorrente ; li de'meuroit la sceur de Tasse, quand il vint en pc'le'rin dcmander 
a cette obscure amie un asyle contre 1'injustice des princes. Ses longues douleurs avaienf 
presque egare 1 sa raison ; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie." Corinne. 

SHE sat, where on each wind that 

The citron's breath went by, 
While the red gold of eventide 

Burned in the Italian sky. 
Her bower was one where daylight's 

Full oft sweet laughter found, 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful at her knee 

Her children stood that hour, 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee 

Hushed as by words of power. 
With bright fixed wondering eyes, that 

Up to their mother's face, 
With brows through parted ringlets 

Thej stood in silent grace. 



While she yet something o'er her 

Of mournfulness was spread 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read , 
1 he proud undying lay, which poured 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword,' 

The triumph, and the tears 

Fhe read of fair Erminia's flight, 

Which Venice once might hear 
Fung on her glittering seas at night 

By many a gondolier. 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page 

Young holy hearts were stirred ; 
And the meek tears of woman flowed 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and 

Came sweet, each pause between, 
When a strange roice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turned a wayworn man, 
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 

Of stately mien, yet \vild and wan, 
Of proud yet mournful eye. 

But drops which would not stay fot 

From that dark eye gushed free, 
As pressing his pale brow, he cried. 

" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 

" Am I so changed ? and yet we t\vc 

Oft hand in hand have played ; 
This brow hath been all bathed in dev 

From wreaths which thou hast made- 
We have knelt down and said ore 

And sung one vesper strain. 
My soul is dim with clouds of care 

Tell me those words again ! 

" Life hath been heavy on my head 

I come a stricken deer, 
Bearing the heart, midst crowds that 

To bleed in stillness here " 
She gazed, till thoughts that long had 

Shook all her thrilling frame 
She fell upon his neck and wept, 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! and who was he. 

The weary one, the unknown, 
That came the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own ? 
He was the bard of gifts divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine, 

He of the sword and pen 1 


THERE came a bard to Rome ; he brought a lyre 
Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant sky, 
To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre, 
Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high; 
For on each chord had fallen the gift of fire, 
The living breath of Power and Victory, 
Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest, 
Sighed but to flee away and be at rest. \ 

It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, 
and pen, was superior to all men. 

, with his sword 


He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth 
Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been 
Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth, 
Wild fairy bowers, and groves of deathless green, 
And fields where mail-clad bosoms prove their worth, 
When flashing swords light up the stormy scene : 
He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame, 
The Child of Visions from a dungeon came. 

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, 

With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls 

On the blue waters of the Adrian deep 

His numbers had been sung ; and in the halls, 

Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep. 

It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured walls, 

Had princes listened to those lofty strains. 

While the high soul they burst from pined in chains. 

And in the summer gardens, where the spray 
Of founts, far glancing from their marble bed, 
Rams on the flowering myrtles in its play, 
And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that spread 
Round the deep golden citrons, o'er his lay 
Dark eyes, dark soft Italian eyes, had shed 
Warm tears, fast glittering in that sun whose light 
Was a forbidden glory to his sight 

Oh ! if it be that wizard sign, and spell, ' 
And talisman, had power of old to bind, 
In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell, 
Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind, 
Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell 
High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find 
Joy in the rush of storms, even such a doom 
Was that high minstrel's in his dungeon-gloom. 

But he was free at last ! the glorious land 
Of the white Alps and pine-crowned Apennines, 
Along whose shore the sapphire seas expand. 
And tne wastes teem with myrtle, and the shrines 
Of long-forgotten Gods from Nature's hand 
Receive bright offerings still with all its vines, 
And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay ; 
The seal was taken from the founts of day. 

The winds came over his cheek the soft winds, blending 

All summer sounds and odors in their sigh ; 

The orange-groves waved round ; the hills were sending 

Their bright streams down ; the free birds darting by, 

And the blue festal heavens above him bending, 

As if to fold a world where none could die. 

And who was he that looked upon these things ? 

If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were wings. 


To bear him o'er creation ; and whose mind 

Was an air harp, awakening to the sway 

Of sunny Nature's breathings unconfined, 

With all the mystic harmonies that lay 

Far in the slumber of its choids enshrined, 

Till the light breeze went thrilling on its way. 

There was no sound that wandered through the sky 

But told him secrets in its melody. 

Was the deep forest lon'ely unto him, 

With all its whispering leaves ? Each dell and glade 

Teemed with such fo r ms as on the moss-clad brim 

Of fountains, in their sparry grottoes, played. 

Seen by the Greek of yore through twilight dim, 

Or misty noontide in the laurel shade. 

There is no solitude on earth so deep 

As that where man decrees that man should weep ! 

But oh! the life in Nature's green domains, 

The breathing sense of joy 1 where flowers are springing 

15y starry thousands on the slopes and plains, 

And the gray rocks and all the arched woods ringing, 

And the young branches trembling to the strains 

Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine winging 

Their fearless flight, and sylvan echoes round, 

Mingling all tones to one /Eolian sound. 

And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams, 

And the low cadence of the silvery sea, 

And reed-notes from the mountains, and the beams 

Of the warm sun all these are for the free ! 

And they were his once more, the bard whose dreams 

Their spirit still have haunted. Could it be 

That he had borne the chain ? Oh ! who shall dare 

To say how much Man's heart unci ushed may bear ? 

So deep a root hath hope ! but woe for this 

Our frail mortality, that aught so bright, 

So almost burthened with excess of bliss, 

As the rich hour which back to summer's light 

Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss 

Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight 

Of the green earth, must so be bought with years 

Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears, 

And feeding, a slow fire, on all its powers, 
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain, 
If hardly won at length, too late made ours, 
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain 
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers 
Which withered in the noontide, ne'er again 
To lift their heads in glory. So doth Earth 
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth. 


The sailor dies in sight of that green shore, 

Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seemed to lie 

On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar 

Called up to sunlight by his fantasy. 

And when the shining desert-mists that wore 

The lake's bright semblance, have been all passed Hy, 

The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain wave, 

Which dashes from its rock, too late to save. 

Or if we live, if that too dearly bought, 

And made too precious by long hopes and fears, 

Remain our own love, darkened and o'erwrought 

By memory of privation love, which wears 

And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought, 

Becomes the shadow of our closing years. 

Making it almost misery to possess 

Aught watched with such unquiet tenderness. 

Such unto him, the Bard, the worn and wild, 
And sick with hope deferred, from whom the sky. 
With all its clouds in burning glory piled, 
Had been shut out by long captivity. 
Such freedom was to Tasso. As a child 
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye 
In its too radiant glance from day to day, 
Reads that which calls the brightest first away. 

And he became a wanderer in whose breast 

Wild fear which, e'en when every sense doth sleep, 

Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest, 

Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep 

Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest 

O'er treasures burthening life, and buried deep 

In cavern-tomb, and sought through shades and stealth; 

By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth. 

But woe for those who trample o'er a mind ! 
A deathless thing ! They know not what they do, 
Nor what they deal with. Man perchance may bind 
The flower his step hath bruised ; or light anew 
The torch he quenches ; or to music wind 
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew : 
But for the soul ! oh ! tremble, and beware 
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there! 

For blindness wraps that world our torch may turn 
Some balance fearfully and darkly hung: 
Or put out some bright spark whose ray should burn 
To point the way a thousand rocks among ; 
Or break some subtle chain which none discern, 
Though binding down the terrible, the strong, 
The o'ersweeping passions, which to loose on life 
Is to set free the elements for strife. 


Who then to power and glory shall restore 

That which our evil rashness hath undone ! 

Who unto mystic harmony once more 

Attune those viewless chords ? There is but One I 

He that through dust the stream of life can pour, 

The Mighty and the Merciful alone. 

Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade 

He leaves to Man the ruin Man hath made. 


" Shall I make spirits (etch me what I please? 
Resolve me of all ambiguities ? 
Perform what desperate enterprises I will ? 
I'll have them fly to India for gold, 
Ransack the ocean for orient pear), 
And search all corners of the New-found World 
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates." 

MARLOW'S fauttut. 

AN old man on his deathbed lay, an old yet stately man ; 

His lip seemed moulded for command, though quivering now, and wan; 

By fits a wild and wandering fire shot from his troubled eye, 

But his pale brow still austerely wore its native mastery. 

There were gorgeous things from lands afar, strewn round the mystic room \ 
From where the orient palm-trees wave, bright gc;.i and dazzling plume ; 
And vases with rich odor filled, that o'er the couch of death 
Shed forth, like groves from Indian isles, a spicy summer's breath. 

And sculptured forms of olden time, in their strange beauty white, 
Stood round the chamber solemnly, robed as in ghostly light ; 
All passionless and still they stood, and shining through the gloom, 
Like watchers of another world, stern angels of the tomb. 

'Twas silent as a midnight church, that dim and mystic place, 
While shadows cast from many thoughts o'erswept the old man's face. 
He spoke at last, and low and deep, yet piercing was the tone, 
To one that o'er him long had watched, in reverence and alone. 

" I leave," he said, " an empire dread, by mount, and shore, and sea, 
Wider than Roman Eagle's wing e'er traversed proudly free ; 
Never did King or Kaiser yet such high dominion boast, 
Or Soldan of the sunbeam's clime, girt with a conquering host. 

" They hear me they that dwell far down where the sea-serpent lies, 
And they, the unseen, on Afric's hills that sport when tempests rise: 
And they that rest in central caves, whence fiery streams make way, 
My lightest whisper shakes their sleep, they hear me, and obey. 

" They come to me with ancient wealth with cr&wn and cup of gold. 
From cities roofed with ocean-waves, that buried them of old ; 


Thev come- from Earth's most hidden veins, which man shall never find. 
With gems that have the hues of fire deep at their heart enshrined. 

" But a mightier power is on me now it rules my struggling breath ; 
I have swayed the rushing elements but still and strong is Death, 
I quit my throne, yet leave I not my vassal-spirits free 
Thou hast brave and high aspirants, youth! my Sceptre is for thee' 

" Now listen ! I will teach thee words whose mastery shall compel 
The viewless ones to do thy work, in wave, or blood, or hell ! 
But never, never mayst thou breathe those words in human ear, 
Until thou'rt laid, as I am now, the grave's dark portals near." 

His voice in faintness died away, and a sudden flush was seen, 

A mantling of the rapid blood o'er the youth's impassioned mien 

A mantling and a fading swift, a look with sadness fraught ; 

And that too passed and boldly then rushed forth the ardent thought. 

" Must those high word% of sovereignty ne'er sound in human ear ? 
I have a friend a noble friend as life our freedom dear ! 
Thou offerest me a glorious gift a proud majestic throne, 
But I know the secrets of his heart and shall I seal mine own ? 

"And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love 
Oh! is not her full, boundless faith, all power, all wealth above? 
Must a deep gulf between the souls, now closely linked, be set ? 
Keep, keep the Sceptre-Ileave me free, and loved and trustful yet 1 * 

Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply 
"Well hast thou chosen ! I blame thee not I that unwept must die. 
Live thou, beloved and trustful yet ! No more on human head 
Be the sorrows of unworthy gifts from bitter vials shed \ " 


" Yet speak to me ! I have outwatched the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wandered o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me I 
This once once more ! " Manfred. 

* THOU'RT gone ! thou'rt slumbering low, 

With the sounding seas above thee: 
It is but a restless woe, 

But a haunting dream to love thee 1 
Thrice the glad swan has sung 

To greet the spring-time hours, 
Since thine oar at parting flung 

The white spray up in showers. 


There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home ; 
*^ome to me from the ocean's dead ! thou art surely of them come ! " 

Twas Ulla's voice ! Alone she stood 

In the Iceland summer night, 
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood 

From a dark rock's beetling height 

" I know thou hast thy bed 

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee ; 
The storm sweeps o'er thy head, 

But the depths are hushed around thee. 

What wind shall point the way 

To the chambers where thou'rt lying? 
Come to me thence, and say 

If thou thought's! on me in dying 

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek. 

Come to me from the ocean's dead I thou'rt surely of them speak ! fc 

She listened 'twas the wind's low moan, 

'Twas the ripple of the wave, 
'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone 

As it startled from its cave. 

" I know each fearful spell 

Of the ancient Runic lay, 
Whose muttered words compel 

The tempest to obey. 
But I adjure not thee 

By magic sign or song ; 
My voice shall stir the sea 

By love the deep, the -strong ! 

By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her sighs, 

Come to me from the ocean's dead ! by the vows we pledged arise I " 

Again she gazed with an eager glance, 

Wandering and wildly bright ! 
She saw but the sparkling waters dance 

To the arrowy northern light 

" By the slow and straggling death 

Of hope that loathed to part, 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart- 
By the weight of gloom which clings 

To the mantle of the night, 
By the heavy dawn which brings 

Naught lovely to the sight 

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear, 
Come to me from the ocean's dead! Awake, arise, appear 1 " 


Was it her yearning spirit's dream? 

Or did a pale form rise, 
And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam, 

With bright, still, mournful eyes ? 

" Have the depths heard ? They have I 

My voice prevails thou'rt there, 
Dim from thy watery grave 

O thou that wert so fair ! 

Yet take me to thy rest! 

There dwells no fear with love; 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 

While the billow rolls above! 

Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead. Stay for me, stay ! I come ! " 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main ; 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe 

Shut, and grew still again. 


THINE is a strain to read among the hills, 
The old and full of voices, by the source 

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills 
The solitude with sound ; for in its course 

Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 

Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, 

Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, 
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 

There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 

Sinks with a' golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 

When night hath hushed the woods, with all their bird*, 
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 

As antique music, linked with household words ; 
While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move, 
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 

Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, 
Thy verse hath' power that brightly might diffuse 



A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around ; 
From its own glow of hope and courage high, 
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy ! thou art e'en as one 

Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 

vSees where the springs of living waters lie: 
Unseen awhile they sleep till, touched by thee, 
Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free. 


s Emperor -A'.hcrt of H'apsburp, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called 
hr. the Parriciue, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments 
y ' female peasant, who happened to be passing.] 

A MONARCH on his deathbed lay 

Did censers waft perfume, 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, 

Through his proud chamber's gloom? 
He lay upon a greensward bed, 

Beneath a darkening sky 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 

Had he then fallen as warriors fall, 

Where spear strikes fire with spear? 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier? 
Not so nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod, 
\Y!icre he, the helpless lord of realms, 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends with words of 

And princely vassals nigh ? 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the glazing eye? 
A peasant girl that royal head 

Upon her boso.yi laid, 
And, shrinking rot for woman's dread. 

The face of death surveyed. 

Alone she sat: from hill and wood 

Red sank the moumful sun; 
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood 

Treason its worst had done. 
With her long hair she vainly pressed 

The wounds, to stanch their tide 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast 

Imperial Albert died ! 

" Umile in tantt gloria." PBTR ARCH. 

IF it be sad to speak of treasures gone, 

Of sainted genius called too soon away, 
Of light from this world taken, while it shone 

Yet kindling onward to the perfect day- 
How shall our grief, if mournful these things bo, 
Flow forth, O thou of many gifts ! for thee ? 


Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard ? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power, 
Have we not felt its breath in every word 

Wont from thy lips as Hermon's dew to shower? 
Yes ! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burned- 
Of heaven they were, and thither have returned. 

How shall we mourn thee ? With a lofty trust, 
Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 

Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, 

And yet can weep ! for nature thus deplores 

The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture, be allowed ! 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, 
Not to decay, but unto death hast bowed, 

In those bright regions of the rising sun, 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. 

Praise ! for yet one more name with power endowed 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; 

Yet one more image on the heart bestowed 
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness ! 

Thine, Heber, thine ! whose memory from the dead 

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led ! 


* WHY wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall 
Mine is a fair and pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture forever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers piay, 
Through the long bright hours of the summer day , 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know- 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! " 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune, 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 



"Oh I my mother sings at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under her own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee; 
I dreamt last night of that music low 
Lady, kind lady 1 oh, let me go ! " 

" Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy I no more, 
Nor hear the song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyard nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest die." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away ? 

But I know that my brothers are there at play 

I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell 

Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well ; 

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flo^ 

Lady, kind lady I oh, let me go ! " 

" Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fem by the spring's green side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill? 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow- 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go 1 " 


" I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
That which is veiled from waking thought ; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer." WORDSWORTH. 

ANSWER me, burning stars of night! 

Where is the spirit gone, 
That past the reach of human sight 

As a swift breeze hath flown ? 
And the stars answered me "We roll 

In light and power on high; 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask that which cannot die." 

O many-toned and chainless wind I 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and sea ? 
And the wind murmured in reply 

" The blue deep I have crossed, 
And met its barks and billows high, 

But not what thou hast lost." 


Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer 1 have ye a home for those 

W hose earthly race is run ? 
j'hebright clouds answered " We de- 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart, 

For that which cannot die." 

Sak, then, thou voice of God within, 

f hou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me, through life's restless din 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered "Be thou still! 

Enough to know is given ! 
Clouds, winds, and stars //4'rpart ful- 

Thine is, to trust in Heaven." 


i" Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a 
skirmish with a detachment of French troops on the zoth of August, 1813, a few hours after 
the composition of his popular piece, The Sword Song. He was buried at the village of 
Wobbelm in Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently de- 
posited yerses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected 
to his memory is of cast-iron ; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favor- 
ite emblem oi Korner' s, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave 
of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him 
long enough to complete his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the 
cemetery is engraved one of his own lines : 

' Venriss die treuen Todten nicht.' 
(Forget not the faithful dead.) " 

'-See RICHARDSON'S Translation of 'Korner 't Life and Works, and DOWNB'S Letters from 

GREEN wave the oak forever o'er thy rest, 

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
Thy place of memory as an altar keepest ; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills were poured, 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 

Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! By the father's hand 

Here shall the child of after years be led, 
With his wreath -offering silently to stand 

In the hushed presence of the glorious dead 
Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, 
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee, 

And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 

Wept as they veiled their drooping banners o'er the*) 

And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 


Thou hast a hero's tomb : a lowlier bed 

Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying 
The gentle girl that bowed her fair young head 

When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 
Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave ! 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; but for her, 
To whom the wide world lield that only spot, 

She loved thee ! lovely in your lives ye were, 
And in your early deaths divided not. 

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy, what hath she ? 
Her own blessed place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 
The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, 

Since first in childhood midst the vines ye played, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two and when the spirit passed, 
Woe to the one, the last ! 

Woe, yet not long ! She lingered but to trace 
Thine image from the image of her breast- 
Once, once again to see that buried face 

But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er- 
It answered hers no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled ; 

What then was left for her the faithful-hearted? 
Death death, to still the yearning for the dead I 

Softly she perished : be the flower deplored 
Here with the Lyre and the Sword ! 

Have ye not met ere now ! so let those trust 
That meet for moments but to part for years 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust- 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 

Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell : 
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell 1 * 

l The following lines, addressed to the author of the above by the venerable father ol 
Corner, who, with the mother, survived the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower, here comnx 
ay not be uninteresting to the German reader : 

Wohllaut tor.t aus der Feme von freundlichen Luften getragen, 

Schmeichelt mit lindemder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, 

Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschait, 

Die rum Tempel die brust nur fOr das Wiirdlge weihn. 

Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Junghng 

Hingerogen gefiihlt, wird ihm ein glaicndcr Lohn. 

Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche merit tremd ut I 

Uber Lander und Mer reichen sich beyde die Hand. 

Tkiodor A tnurt 



A SONG for the death-day of the brave 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride. 2 

He went with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, 

Only to die. 

He went with lyre whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 

Had thrilled to the name of his God 

And his fatherland. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 

Like a southern stream that no frost 
hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death-day of the brave 
A song of pride ! 

"For him that went to a hero's grave, 
With the sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet 

To turn the flight, 
And a guiding spirit for after days. 

Like a watch-fire's light. 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mother's 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful beautiful and bright, 

In life and death 1 

A song for the death-day of the brave < 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave. 

With the sword, his bride ! 


" I come 

To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree 
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, 
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
Its morning incense, is my friend." BARRY CORNWALL 

THERE were thick leaves above me and around, 

And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 

As of soft showers on water ; dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still 
They seemed but pictured glooms ; a hidden rill 
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream, 
Under the fern-tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of a soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, 

Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down 
And steeped the magic page wherein I read 

Of royal chivalry and old renown, 

1 On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, addressed to Mr. Richardson, the Iran* 
lator of his works, in which he speaks of " The D^ath-dny of his son." 

See The Sward, Song composed on the morning of his death. 


A tale of Palestine. 1 Meanwhile the bee 

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours 
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 

Blue skies, and amber sunshine : brightly free, 

On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly 

Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by ; 

And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon. 

But ere long, 
All sense of these things faded, as the spell 

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong 
On my chained soul. 'Twas not the leaves I heard ; 
A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirred, 
Through its proud floating folds. 'Twas not the brook 

Singing in secret through its glassy glen ; 

A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high, 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, 
Shadowed by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout 
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out, 
Sent through an eastern heaven, whose glorious hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue : 
And harps were there I heard their sounding strings 
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. 
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track, 
What called me from its flood of glory back ? 
A voice of happy childhood ! and they passed, 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast 
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone, 
My heart so leaped to that sweet laughter's tone. 


"His very heart athirst 
To gaze at nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possessed 
With visions prompted by intense desire ; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distai't, such as he would die to find : 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. CowpkK. 

THE hollow clash of waves ! the ceaseless roar ! 
Silence, ye billows ! vex my soul no more. 

Talisman Tale of tht Cnuadtrt. 


There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, 

Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ; 

Oh ! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 

As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear ! 

Through the feathery fern and the olive bought, 

And the gleam on its path as it steals away 

Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 

And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 

Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, 

They haunt me ! I dream of that bright spring's flow, 

I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe ! 

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry 
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by. 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 

Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round ? 

Know ye it, brethren! where bowered it lies 

Under the purple of southern skies? 

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 

In through the cloud of its clustering vines, 

And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, 

Borne from the mountain in dewy hours, 

And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening shades. 

Like shooting stars in the forest glades, 

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall 

Speak ! have ye known, have ye felt them all ? 

The heavy rolling surge ! the rocking mast ! 
Hush ! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast ! 

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 

The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, 

The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, 

The sighing of reeds as the day declines, 

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow 

That steeps the wood when the sun is low, 

The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 

To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still 

I hear them ! around me they rise, they swell, 

They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell 

They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, 

And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high away, away ! 

Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray! 

It is there ! down the mountain I see the sweep 
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 
With the burden and glory of flowers they bear 
Floating upborne on the blue summer air, 



And the light pouring through them in tender gleams, 

And the flashing forth of a thousand streams ! 

Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go 

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, 

To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, 

Massy and still, on the greensward's breast. 

To the rocks that resound with the water's play 

I hear the sweet laugh of my fount give way 1 

Give way ! the booming surge, the tempest's roar 
The sea-bird's wail shall vex mv soul no more. 


' Der rasche Kampf verewigt cinen Mann : 
Er talle gleich, so prciset ihn das Lied. 
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen 
Der Uberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau, 
Zahlt keine Nachwelt." GOETHB. 

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb. 

With shield and crested head. 
Sleeps soundly in the purple gloom 

By the stained window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner, from its flashing spear, 

Flung out o'er many a fight ; 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance 

Chief ! were not these things thine ? 

A lofty place where leaders sate 
Around the council board ; 

In festal halls a chair of state 
When the blood-red wine was poured: 

A name that drew a prouder tone 
From herald, harp, and bard : 

Surely these things were all thine own- 
So hadst thou thy reward. 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at 

By the armed knight is laid, 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes arrayed j 

What was thy tale ? O gentle mate 

Of him, the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate, 

What bard hath sung of thee? 

He wooed a bright and burning star 

Thine was the void, the gloOm, 
The straining eye that followed far 

His fast- receding plume; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang but when did Fame take 

Of griefs obscure as these ? 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day 
While bending o'er thy broidered flow 

With spirits far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains, 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim- 

These fill no minstrel strains. 
A still, sad life was thine ! long yean 

With tasks unguerdoned fraught- 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervor poured, 

A'lms to the pilgrim given . 
Oh ! happy, happier than thy lord, 

In that lone path to heaven ' 




* Look now abroad ! Another race has filled 

Those populous borders wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up. and fertile realms are tilled ; 
Ths land is full of harvest and green meads." BRYANT. 

THE breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles m >ored their 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 
They, the true-hearted, came ; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear; 
They shook the depths of the desert 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 
v And the stars heard and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim 

woods rang 
To the anthem of the free I 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's 

foam ; [roared 

And the rocking pines of the forest 

This was their welcome home 1 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band ; 

Why had they come to wither there, 
Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 
Lit by her deep love's truth ; 

There was manhood's brow serenely 

And, the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of 
war ? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trode. 
They have left unstained what ther< 
they found 

Freedom to worship 


** And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside forever ; it may be a sound 
A tone of music summer's breath, or spring 

A flower a leaf the ocean which may wound 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 

Childe Hartli 

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, 

And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no more ; 

Is not this all a mystery ? Who shall say 

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way ? 


The sudden images of vanished things 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why ; 
Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, 

Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by ; 
A rippling wave the dashing of an oar 
A flower-scent floating past our parents' door ; 

A word scarce noted in its hour perchance, 

Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 
A smile a sunny or a mournful glance, 

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; 
Are not these mysteries when to life they start, 
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ? 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 

Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 

Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ; 
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear 
These are nient's mysteries who shall make them clear I 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, 
In a low tone which naught can drown or still, 

'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall ? 
Why shakes the spirit thus ? 'Tis mystery all ! 

Darkly we move we press upon the brink 

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 
Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think 

Are those whom death has parted from our lot! 
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made 
Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly for knowledge strives in vain to feel 

Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 
Yet undismayed for do they not reveal 

The immortal being with our dust entwined ? 
So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake 
Stall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 



" Thou shall lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, 

The powerful of the earth the wise the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre." BRYANT. 

AND shrink ye from the way 

Linger then yet awhile, 

To the spirit's distant shore ? 

As the last leaves upon the bough ! 

Earth's mightiest men, in armed array, 

Ye have loved the light of many a 

Are thither gone before. 


The warrior-kings, whose banner 

That is taken from you now. 

Flew far as eagles fly, 

There have been sweet singing voices 

They are gone where swords avail 

In your walks, that now are still ; 

them not, 

There are seats left void in your earthly 

From the feast of victor}'. 


And the seers who sat of yore 
By Orient palm or wave, 
They have passed with all their starry 

Which none again may fill. 

Soft eyes are seen no more, 
That made spring-time in your heart 
Kindred and friends are gone before 

Can^<? still fear the grave ? 

And ye still fear to part? 

We fear ! we fear ! the sunshine 
Is joyous to behold, 

We fear not now, we fear not ! 
Though the way through darknesa 

And we reck not of the buried kings, 
Nor the awful seers of old. 

bends ; 
Our souls are strong to follow them, 
Our own familiar friends 1 

- Ye shrink ! the bards whose lays 

Have made your deep hearts burn, 

They have left the sun and the voice 


of praise, 

For the land whence none return. 

It waved not through an eastern sky, 

And the beautiful, whose record 

Beside a fount of Araby ; 

Is the verse that cannot die, 

It was not fanned by southern breeze 

They too are gone, with their glorious 

In some green Isle of Indian seas ; 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 

From the Jove of human eye. 

O'er stream of .Afric, lone and deep. 

Would ye not join that throng 
Of the earth's departed flowers, ' 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 

And the masters of th_ mighty song 

Through the laburnum's dropping gold 

In their far and fadeless bowers ? 

Rose the light shaft of orient mould, 

Those songs are high and holy, 
But they vanquish not our fear : 

And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet 

Not from our path these flowers are 

Strange looked it there ! The willow 



We fain would linger here 1 

Where silvery waters near it gleamed; 

1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Lei Jarditu. 



The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the desert's tree, 
And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers ; 
Lamps, that from flowering branches 


On sparks of dew soft color flung ; 
And bright forms glanced a fairy 

Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng. 
Seemed reckless all of dance or song . 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow and long black hair 
A stranger, like the palm-tree there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. 
He passed the pale-green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came, 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him its rustling spoke- 
The silence of his soul it broke ! 
It whispered of his own bright isle 
That lit the ocean with a smile ; 
Ay to his ear that native tone 
Had something of the sea-wave's moan 

His mother's cabin-home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay. 
The dashing of his brethren's 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; 
All through his wakening bosom 

He clasped his country's tree, and 

wept ! 

Oh ! scorn him not ! The strength 


The patriot girds himself to die, 
The unconquerable power which fills 
The freeman battling on his hills, 
These have one fountain deep and 


The same whence gushed that child- 
like tear 1 



THOU sleepest but when wilt thou wake, fair child ? 
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild ? 
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of mom? 
When the first rich breath of the rose is born ? 
Lovely thou sleepest ! yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes ; 
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see 
When will the hour of thy rising be ? 

Not when the fawn wakes not when the lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. 
Grief with vain passionate tears hath we< 
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; 
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath pressed 
Thy meek-dropt eyeHds and quiet breast ; 
And tht glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, 
Shall color all blossoms, fair child ! but tliee. 


Thou'rt gone from us, bright one ! that thou shouldst die, 

And life be left to the butterfly ! ' 

Thou'rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough 

Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! 

How may we love but in doubt and fear, 

How may we anchor our fond hearts here ; 

How should e'en joy but a trembler be, 

Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee ? 


THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all 1 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; 
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, 
And gladdened the sailor like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades ; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I looked on the mountains a vapor lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou breakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a^leam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy way, 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to-day, 
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turncst not from the humblest grave. 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

1 A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured oo the monument. 


Sunbeam of summer ! oh, what is like thee ? 

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! 

One thing is like thee to mortals given, 

The faith touching all things with hues of heaven I 


Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs ; bring back 
The love that I have lost ! " 

WHAT wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute : 

Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 

Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, 
E'en as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a corpse and glade, 

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 

When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, 

And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters they too hear thy call, 

Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their sleep! 

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers the fairy peopled world of flowers ! 

Thou from the dust hath set that glory free, 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And penciling the wood anemone : 
Silent they seem yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring! 

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs ? 
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art 
What wakest thou inthe heart ? 

Too much, oh I there too mnch ! We know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, 

What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, 
Gush for the faces we no more may see I 

How are we haunted, in the wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 


Looks of familiar love, that never more, 

Never more on earth our aching eyes shall meet. 
Past words of welcome to our household door, 

And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet- 
Spring ! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why revivest thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? 

Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 

Yes, gentle Spring ! no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 


THE hills all glowed with a festive light, 

For the royal city rejoiced by night: 

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, 

Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 

Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire ; 

Like a shooting meteor was every spire ; 

And the outline of many a dome on high 

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. 

I passed through the street. There were throngs on throngs- 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs ; 
There was music forth from each palace borne 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn ; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang, 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 
Rich and victorious was every tone, 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ? 

Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain ! 

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell 

Grief in the homes they left must dwell : 

Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, 

And bowing the beauty of woman's head ! 

Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan 

For the many brave to their slumbers gone ? 

I saw not the face of a weeper there 

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare ! 

I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd 

The music of victory was all too loud ! 

Mighty it ruled on the winds afar, 

Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car 


Through torches and streamers its flood swept by t 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants turn, 

If its deep story thy heart would learn J 

Ever too bright is that outward show, 

Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. 

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view 

The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true ; 

Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal : 

So must thy spirit be taught to feel 1 


* There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 
Joy's visits when most brief." 


BY the soft green light in the woody glade, 

On the banks of moss where thy childhood played, 

By the household tree through which thine eye 

First looked in love to the summer sky, 

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 

Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath, 

Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 

Holy and precious oh, guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath 'lulled thee into many a dream, 
By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes, 
By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 

When twilight called unto household mirth, 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told, 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind " Good-night! 

By the smiling eye, and the loving tone, 

Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 



It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray 
From the pure first-loves of its youth away 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home- 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! 


" Roma, Roma, Roma! 

Non e plu come era prima." 

ROME, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satst a queen; 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street, 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bowed at thy feet. 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

.Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now? 

Thou hast thy skies ! 

lue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright 1 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With colored light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome ! for thy dower, 
Flushing tall cypress-bough, 

Temple and tower ! 

| And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear, 

While night, o'er tomb and shrine 
Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung, 
Sweeps through the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell, 

On thy soft air 
Lingers and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the south's rich gift 

Of sudden song 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : 
Rome, Rome! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 




THE sea-bird's wing o'er ocean's breast 

Shoots like a glancing star, 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far ; 
And yet that splendor wins thee not 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells ut on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and sky. 

Look round thee ! O'er the slumber- 
ing deep 

A solemn glory broods ; 
A fire hath touched the beacon-steep, 

And all the golden woods ; 
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 

Burn with the amber light ! 
What spell from that rich pageantry 

Chains down thy gazing sight ? 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling linked to earth ! 
Is not yon speck a bark which bear* 

The loved of many a hearth ? 
Oh I do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, 

Crowd her frail world even now, 
And manhood's prayer and woman's 

Follow her venturous prow ? 

Bright are the floating clouds above, 

1 he glittering seas below ; 
But we are bound by cords of love 

To kindred weal and woe. 
Therefore, amidst this wide array 

Of glorious things and fair, 
My soul is on that bark's lone way - 

For human hearts are there. 


BIRDS, joyous birds of the wander ng wing I 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ? 
" We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 
From the alms that wave through the Indian sky, 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 

" We have swept o'er cities in song renowned 

Silent they lie with the deserts round ! 

We have crossed proud rivers whose tide hath rolled 

All dark with the warrior-blood of old; 

And each worn wing hath regained its home, 

Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? 
" We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, 
> And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt 
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built! " 

O joyous birds ! it hath still been so ; 
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! 
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep : 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot 
Since last ye paVted from that sweet spot ? 



"A change we have found there and many a change 1 

Faces and footsteps, and all things strange ! 

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 

And the young that were have a brow of care, 

And the place is hushed where the children played 

Naught looks the same, save the nest we made I " 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair ? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed 
So may we reach our bright home at last I 


THEY grew in beauty side by side. 
They filled one home with glee ; 

Their graves are severed far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow : 

She had each folded flower in sight 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, midst the forest of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar-shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one 
He lies where pearls lie deep ; 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapt his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; 

She faded midst Italian flowers 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee ! 
They that with smiles lit up the hall, 

And cheered with song the hearth ! 
Alas, for love ! if thou wert all, 

And naught beyond, O Earth I 


{A short time before the death of Mozart, a-stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in 
deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, 
for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer im- 
mediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate ; and the sensitive anxiety 
with which he labored to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died 
within a few days after composing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed af 
his interment.] 

" These birds of Paradise but long to flee 

Back to their native mansion." Prophecy of Dante, 

A REQUIEM ! and for whom ? 
.For beauty in its bloom? 


For valor fallen a broken rose or sword ? 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ? 

Not so it is not so ! 

The. warning voice I know, 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone } 

A solemn funeral air 

It called me to prepare, 
And my heart answered secretly my own! 

One more then, one more strain, 

In links of joy and pain, 
Mighty th: troubled spirit to enthrall I 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay the last of all ! . 

The last ! and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! 

Must leave its festal skies, 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found 1 

Yet have I known it long : 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been the o'ermastering flam* ; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent, 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind, 

Which none may stay or bind, 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll 1 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest 

Shall I then fear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown ? 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire, 

And this unsettled fire 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 



One more then, one more strain ; 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought, 

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 


THOU thing of years .departed ! 

What ages have gone by 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony. ' 

Temple and tower have mouldered, 
Empires from earth have passed, 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 

And childhood's fragile image, 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survives the proud memorials reared 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest ? 

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart! 

One moment of a thousand pangs 
Yet better than to part ! 

Haply of that fond bosom 

On ashes here impressed, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child I 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavished 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, naught remained 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better, then, to perish, 
Thy form within its clasp, 

Than live and lose thee, precious one 
From that impassioned grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love ! human love 1 what art thou? 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust! 

Immortal, oh ! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness- 
It must, it must be so ! 


O LOVELY voices of the sky, 

That hymned the Saviour's birth 1 
Are ye not singing still on high, 
Ye that sang " Peace on earth ? " 
To us yet speak the strains 

Wherewith, in days gone by, 
Ye blessed the Syrian swains, 
O voices of the sky ! 

O clear and shining light! whose beams 

That hour heaven's glory shed 
Around the palms, and o'er the streams, 
And on the shepherd's head ; 

Be near, through life and death, 

As in that holiest night 
Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, 
O clear and shining light ! 

1 The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the unr 
covering of Hcrculaneum. 



O star! which led to Him whose love 

Brought down man's ransom free ; 
Where art thou ? 'Midst the hosts 

May we still gaze on thee ? 

In heaven thou art not set, 

Thy rays earth might not dim, 
Send them to guide us yet, 
O star which led to Him ! 


TWAS early d?y, and sunlight streamed 

Soft through a quiet room, 
That hushed, but not forsaken seemed, 

Still, but *ith naught of gloom. 
For there, serene in happy age 

Whose hope is from above, 
A father communed with the page 

Of heaven's recorded love. 

Pure fell \he beam, and meekly bright, 

On hi?, gray holy hair, 
And touched the page with tenderest 

As if its shrine were there 1 
But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 

With something lovelier far 
A radiance all the spirit's own, 

Caught not from sun or star. 

Some word of life e'en then had met 

His calm, benignant eye ; 
Some ancient promise, breathing yet 

Of immortality ! 

Some martyr's prayer, wherein the 

Of quenchless faith survives : 
While every feature said " / knmo 

That my Redeemer lives ! " 

And silent stood his children by, 

Hushing their very breath, 
Before the solemn sanctity 

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
Silent yet did not each young breast 

With love and reverence melt ? 
O ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 

Tkat home where,god is felt 1 


" His early days 

Were with him in his heart.** 


THE voices of two forest boys, 

In years when hearts entwine, 
Had filled with childhood's merry 


A valley of the Rhine : 
To rock and stream that sound was 

Gladsome as hunter's bugle-tone. 

The sunny laughter of their eyes, 
There had each vineyard seen ; 

Up every cliff whence eagles rise, 
Their bounding step had been: 

Ay !. their bright youth a glory threw 

O er the wild place wherein they grew. 

1 This Hula poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs. Joanna Riillie, 
was to her " a thing set apart," as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved 
mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish " that Mrs. 
Henians would embody in poetry a picture that so wanned a daughter's heart : " 

" Upon going into our dear father's sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him 
deeply encaged reading his Bible, and, being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we 
retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The 
bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased 
the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some 
immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and wo 
felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our 
hearts, we whispered to each other, ' Oh ! if Mrs. Hemans could only see our father at this 
moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene ; for even as we gaze upoc it, the bright gleam 
is vanishing.' 

" December 9, 1826." 

* For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see LSHtrmiU t* lt*ttt. 



But this, as day-spring's flush, was 


As early bloom or dew; 
Alas ! 'tis but the withered leaf 
That wears the enduring hue 1 
Those rocks along the Rhine's fair 

Might girdle in their world no more. 

For now on manhood's verge they 

And heard life's thrilling call, 
As if a silver clarion wooed 

To some high festival ; 
AIR! parted as young brothers part, 
With love in each unsullied heart. 

They parted. Soon the paths divide 
Wherein our steps wer? one, 

Like river-branches, far and wide, 
Dissevering as they run ; 

And making strangers in their course, 

Of waves that had the same bright 

Met they no more ? Once more they 


Those kindred hearts and true ! 
'Twas on a field of death, where yet 

The battle-thunders flew, 
Though the fierce day was wellnigh 

And the red sunset smiled its last. 

But as the combat closed, they found 
For tender thoughts a space, 

And e'en upon that bloody ground 

Room for one bright embrace, 
And poured forth on each other's neck 
Such tears as warriors need not check. 

The mists o'er boyhood's memory 

All melted with those tears, 
The faces of the holy dead 

Rose as in vanished years ; 
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever-blest, 
Lifted its voice in each full breast J 

Oh ! was it then ? time to die ? 

It was ! that not in vain 
The soul of childhood's purity 

And peace might turn again. 
A ball swept forth 'twas guided \vell-~ 
Heart unto heart those brothers fell ! 

Happy, yes, happy thus to gol 

Bearing from earth away 
Affections, gifted ne'er to know 

A shadow a decay 
A passing touch of change or chill, 
A breath of aught whose breath can 

And they, between whose severed 


Once in close union tied, 
A gulf is set, a current rolls 

Forever to divide ; 
Well may they envy such a lot, 
Whose hearts yearn on but mingle 


" Well may 1 weep to leave this world thee all these beautiiul woods, and plains, aud 
tills." Lights and Shadows. 

Go to the forest shade 

Seek thou the well-known glade, 
There, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 

Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, 

Like dark eyes, rilled with sleep, 
And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. 

Bring me their buds, to shed 
Around my dying bed 


A breath of May and of the wood's repose ; 

For I, in sooth, depart 

With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glow*. 

Fain would I stay with thee I- 
Alas ! this may not be ; 

Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours 1 
Go where the fountain's breast 
Catches, in glassy rest, 

The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers. 

I know how softly bright, 

Steeped in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now ; 

Go to the pure stream's edge, 

And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow ! 

Then, as in Hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well knowest thou that fair tree 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honeyed lime above : 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower 
For on that spot we first revealed our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last 

Through dim wood-lanes we passed, 
While dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve- 
Yet shall their odor soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life, youthi summer all that I must leave ! 

And oh ! if thou wouldst ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace 

'Tis that some thought of me, 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 


I bid mine image dwell 

(Oh ! break not thou the spell !) 

In the deep wood and by the fountain-side; 
Thou must not, my beloved 1 
Rove where we two have roved, 

Forgetting her that in her spring-time died I 


Give me but 

Something whereunto I may bind my heart ; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affections tendrils round. 

WOULDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom ? 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb ? 
Drink of this cup ! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought; 
Drink ! and the spoiler shall pass thee by, 
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves lie. 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
If the loved had left me, one by one ? 
Take back the cup that may never bless, 
The gift that would make me brotherless. 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ! 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, 
Over the mighty in air that dwell ? 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep ? 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 

And would not fear, at my coming, then 
Hush every voice in the homes of men ? 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ? 
Young cheeks with a name ess thrill turn pale ? 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn. 

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose ? 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charmed to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow : 
Look on its flushing or fading hue, 
And learn if the trusted be false or true I 

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, 
Though my heart's wealth be but poured on dust I 


Let not a doubt in my soul have place, 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile 
That glory would pass could I look on guile I 

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be, 
Favored of spirits! poured forth on thee ? 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, 
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best? 

Oh ! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, 

But a human heart where my own may lean! 

A friend, one tender and faithful friend, 

Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend 

And, leaving not either on earth alone, 

Bid the bright, calm close of our lives be one ! 


Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna 
Del valor que en los siplos venideros 
Tendran los Hijos de la fuerte Espana, 
Hijos de tal padres herederos. 

Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto 

Debe con juslo titulo cantarse, 

Y lo quc puede dar materia al canto. 

Numancia d* CervaitUt. 


THE history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism which forme 
the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the siege of Tanfa, 
which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho, King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother, 
Don Juan, by Guzman, surnamed the Good.* The second is related of Aionso Lopez de 
Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the rny 
of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of 
Trastamara. 1 

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it 
appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger color 

1 See Ouintana's Vidas de Espanoltt CtKbrti, p. $3. 
* See the preface to Southey's CkranUU u/tkt Cid, 


of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted "to describe 
high passions and high actions," by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high- 
minded loyalty which had thus been proved, " faithful unto death," and by surrounding her 
ideal dramatis persona with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry 
She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon Valencia 
del Cid as the scene to give them 

" A local habitation and a name." 


ALVAR GONZALEZ, Governor of Valencia. 



ABDULLAH, A Moorish Prince, Chief of the Army 

besieging Valencia. 
' GAKCIAS, A Spanish Knight. 

EI.MINA, Wife to Gonzalez. 

XIMENA, Her Daughter. 

THERESA, An A ttendant. 

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &*c. 


Room in a Palace of Valencia. XIMENA tinging to a Lute. 

" THOU hast not been with a festal throng 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the hall of song 
A mien so dark as thine ! 

There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
Thou hast brought from some disastrous field 
That brow of wrath and gloom ! " 

44 And is there blood upon my shield ? 

Maiden, it well may be ! 

We have sent the streams, from our battle-field. 
All darkened to the sea ! 

We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine ; 
And the ground is wet but not with rain, 
Deep dyed but not with wine I " 

" The ground is wet but not with rain 

We have been in war array, 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die, 
And the stripling meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by, 
In the Roncesvalles* Strait. " 


" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft ; 
And they that moved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 

There's many a fair young face 
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er ; 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more ! " 

" Alas ! for love, for woman's breast, 

If woe like this must be ! 
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest, 
And a white plume waving free ? 
With his proud quick-flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state ? 
Doth he come from where the swords flashed high, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ?" 

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw, and marked him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
But it is nolyont/i which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns, 
Till it rests amidst the slain I " 

" Thou canst not say that he lies low, 

The lovely and the brave ? 
Oh ! none could look on his joyous brow, 
And think upon the grave 1 
Dark, dark perchance the day, 
Hath been with valor's fate ; 
But he is on his homeward way, 

From the Roncesvalles' Strait 1 " 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now, 
Though it browse his greensward bed ! 
I have seen the stripling die, 
And the strong man meet his fate, 
Where the mountain winds go sounding by, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ! " 

(ELMINA enters.) 

Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days, 
Mine own Ximcna! Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts ? 


Xim. My mother, this 

Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds ; 
And these are not the halls wherein my voice 
First poured those gladdening strains. 

Elm. Alas ! thy heart 

(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls, thus suddenly begirt, 
Thou shouldst have tracked ere now, with step as light, 
Their wild wood-paths. 

Xim. I would not but have shared 

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice, 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush 
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild 
O' the summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. And 'tis well ! 
Should not a hero's child be trained to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fixed face of death without dismay ? 

Elm. Woe ! woe ! that aught so gentle and so young 
Should thus be called to stand i' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot ; but thod, my child, shouldst move 
. As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers, 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fallen 
On dark and evil days ! 

Xim. Ay, days that wake 

All to their tasks ! Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring ; and womanhood 
Is summoned unto conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior souls. Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts : 
Not amidst joy. 

Elm. Hast thou some secret woe 

That thus thou speakst ? 

Xim. What sorrow should be mine, 

Unknown to thee ? 

Elm. Alas ! the baleful air 

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fallen, 
And wrought an early withering ! Thou hast crossed 
The paths of death, and ministered to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught 


A wild and high expression, which at times 

Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike 

What youth's bright mien should wear. My gentle child ! 

I look on thce in fear ! 

Xim. Thou hast no cause 

To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step 
Of armed men break on our morning dreams ! 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are' falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Hath chilled their fiery blood ; it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. My father comes 
Oh ! speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 

(GONZALEZ enters.) 

Elm. My noble lord t 

Welcome from this day's toil ! It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mailed bosom from the corslet's weight. 
To rest at fall of eve ? 

Con. There may be rest 

For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport : but unto him 
Who keeps the watch-])! ace on the mountain-height, 
When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms 
\Vho speaks of rest ? 

Xim. My father, shall I fill 

The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sounds thou lovest ? 

Gon. If there be strains of power 

To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its 'proud career unshackled, dashing clown 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to those ! 
I have need of such, Xiniena ! we must hear 
No melting music nowl 

Xim. I know all high 

Heroic ditties of the elder time, 
Sung by the mountain-Christians, in the holds 
Of the everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear- 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strains 


Wherein the dark serranoj * teach the rocks, 
And the pine-forests, deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst them hear 
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid ? 

Gon. Ay, speak of him ; for in that name is power, 
Such as might rescue kingdoms ! Speak of him ! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
I* the annals of their house on such a name, 
How should they take dishonor by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their father's halls 
First lead her as a guest ? 

Elm. Oh, why is this ? 

How my heart sinks ! 

Gon. It must not fail theejv/, 

Daughters of heroes ! thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise forever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till the infidel, 
O'erawed, shrank back before them ? Ay, the earth 
Doth call them martyrs, but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them martyrs! 
Why, Heaven but claimed their blood, their lives, and not 
The things which grow as tendrils round their hearts ; 
No, not their children ! 

Elm. Mean'st thou ? knowst thou aught ?- 

I cannot utter it My sons ! my sons ! 
Is it of them ? Oh ! wouldst thou speak of them ? 

Gon. A mother's heart divineth but too well ! 

Elm. Speak, I adjure thee ! I can bear it all. 
Where are my children ? 

Gon. In the Moorish camp 

Whose lines have girt the city. 

Xim. But they live ? 

All is not lost, my mother ! 

Elm. Say they live. 

Gon. Elmina, still they live. 

Elm. But captives ! They 

Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff amidst the wilds 
Where the rock-eagle seemed not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom ! And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor ! Oh ! how was this? 

Gon. Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, 

1 Serranos mountaineers. 


With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elm. Tis enough. 

And when shall they be ransomed ? 

Gon. There is asked 

A ransom far too high. 

Elm. What ! have we wealth 

Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while. wear fetters ? Take thou all for them, 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us, 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! Why, thou art one, 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage of a warrior's helm, 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou knowest not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart, 
Amidst it deep affections undisturbed, 
May dwell in silence. 

Xim. Father, doubt thou not 

But we will bind ourselves to poverty, 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this, 
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father ! 
We can bear all things. 

Gon. Can ye bear disgrace ? 

Xim. We were not born for this. 

Gon. No, thou sayest well I 

Hold to that lofty faith, My wife, my child ! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns ? If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light ! But he, for whom 
Freedom and life may but be worn with shame, 
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elm. Gonzalez, -who must die ? 

Gon. (hurrit <ily). They on whose lives a tearful price is set, 
But to be paid by treason ! Is't enough ? 
Or must I yet seek words ? 

Elm. That look saith more I 

Thou canst not mean 

Gon. I do ! why dwells there not 
Power in a glance to speak it ? They must diel 
They must their names be told Our sons must die 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Xim. ' Oh! lookup! 

My mother, sink not thus ! Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elm. (in a low voice']. Whose knell was in the breeze? 

N-\ no, not theirs! 
Whose wast the blessed voice that spoke of hope ? 


And there is hope ! I will not be subdued 
I will not hear a whisper of despair I 
For nature is all-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gon. (solemnly). Hope but in Him 

Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quivered in the father's hand. 
Just raised to strike, sent forth His awful voice 
Through the stiil clouds, and on the breathless air. 
Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope : 
It rests with Him. 

Elm. TTiou canst not tell me this ! 

Thou father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gon. If there have been 

Men in whose bosoms nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowving torrent, silencing 
The austere aitti yet divine remonstrances 
Whispered by faith and honor, lift thy hands ; 
And to that heaven which arms the brave with strength 
Pray, that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

Elm. Then their doom is sealed I- 

Thou wilt not save my children ? 

Gon. Hast thou cause, 

Wife of my youth ! to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word traitor ? They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, 
Died not for this ! 

Elm. Oh, cold and hard of heart ! 

Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy Soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight ! Men ! men ! too much is yours 
Of vantage ; ye that with a sound, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted-up affections, o'er whose void 
Our yearning hearts must wither ! So it is, 
Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not 
My heart is bursting, and I must be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ! I must be heard 
Give me my sons ! 

Gon. That they may live to hide 

With covering hands the indignant flush of shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of him 


They called their father ! Was the oath, whereby 

On the rltar of my faith, I hound myself, 

With an unswerving spirit to maintain 

This free and Christian city for my God, 

And for my king, a writing traced on sand 

That passionate tears should wash it from the earth, 

Or even the life-drops of a bleeding heart 

Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 

The last light vessel's wake ? Then never more 

Let man's deep vows be trusted ! though enforced 

By al the appeals of high remembrances, 

And Silent claims of the sepulchres, wherein 

His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, 

On their good swords ! Thinkest thou / feel no pangs ? 

He that hath given me sons doth know the heart 

Whose treasure He recalls. Of this no more. 

'Tis vain. I tell thee that the inviolate cross 

Still from our ancient temples must look up 

Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot 

I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 

That I, the son of warriors men who died 

To fix it on that proud supremacy 

Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 

From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 

In impious joy to trample ! 

Elm. Scorn me not 

In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong 
Thy heart is not as mine/ My brain grows wild ; 
I know not what I ask ! And' yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate since it must fall, 
That cross must fall at last ! There is no power, 
No hope within this city of the grave, 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breaths heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Ben&ath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark 
Than the arrow of the desert. Even the skies 
O'erhang the desolate splendor of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth, 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood. 
But who shall cope with famine and disease 
When leagued with armed foes? Where now the aid, 
Where the long-promised lances, of Castile ! 
We are forsaken in our utmost need 
Bv heaven and earth forsaken ! 

'Con. If thl ! Jf 

(And yet I will not deem it), we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 

Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death, 
Through high conviction that their suffering land, 


By the free blood of martyrdom alone, 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elm. Oh ! I have stood 

Beside thee through the beating storms of life, 
With the true heart of unrepining love, 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily, 
In the parched vineyard, or the harvest-field, 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day: But now the hour, 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, 
Owning that woe is mightier ! Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband ! Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gmi. Urge me not, 

Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found 
Worthy a brave man's love ! oh, urge me not 
To guilt, which through the midst of blinding tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elm. All, all thy gentle race 

The beautiful things that around thee grew. 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom them all ? 
She too, thy daughter doth her smile unmarked 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day ? 
Shadows are gathering round her seest thou not 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send, 
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul, 
Telling of early fate. 

Gon. I see a change 

Far nobler on her brow ! She is as one, 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laughed upon the awakening heart, 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul, And let the torch 
W r hich but illumed the glittering pageant, fade 1 
The altar-flame, i' the sanctuary's recess, 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! She hath put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Even as a breast-plate. Ay, men look on her, 
As she goes forth, serenely to her tasks, 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips ; they look on heri 


Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

I'-lm- And seest thou not 

In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration ? They have cause 
To tremble, who behold the unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought, 
Investing youth with grandeur ! From'the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me ; 
Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied ; 
His children's lives 1 

Xim. Alas ! this may not be, 

Mother! I cannot. [Exit XIMENA 

Gon. My heroic child ! 

A terrible sacrifice thou claimst, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death ! 

Elm. Is't thus in thine ? 

Away ! what time is given thee to resolve 
On what I cannot utter? Speak ! thou knowst 
Too well what I would say. 

Gon. Until ask not ! 

The time is brief. 

Elm. Thou saidst I heard not right 

Gon. The time is brief. 

Elm. What ! must we burst all ties 

Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined ; 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch, 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Poured forth in slumber, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! It is not thus ! 
We must have time to school us. 

Gon. We have but 

To bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elm. Love ! love ! there are soft smiles and gentle words, 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in and 'tis mockery all ! 
A faithless mist, a desert -vapor, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! There is none, 
In all this cold, and hollow world, no fount 


Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 

A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith 

To his fair son the father's eye doth turn. 

Watching his growth. Ay, on the hoy he looks, 

The bright glad creature springing in his path 

But as the heir of his great name, the young 

And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 

Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 

This is man's love ! What marvel ? you ne'er made 

Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 

While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings 

His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair 

Waved softly to your breath ! You ne'er kept watch 

Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 

And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 

On your dim weary eye ; not yours the face 

Which, early faded through fond care for him, 

Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, 

Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er smoothed 

His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, 

Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 

Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lip to his, 

When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries, 

With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 

No ! these are woman" 1 ! tasks ! In these her youth, 

And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 

Steal from her all unmarked ? My boys ! my boys ! 

Hath vain affection borne with all for this ? 

Why were ye given me ? 

Con. Is there strength in man 

Thus to endure ? That thou couldst read, through all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of woe doth rend ! 

Elm. Thy heart thy heart ! Away 1 it feels not now t 
But an hour comes to tame the mightv man 
Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall Heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening ! May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! For me, my voice . 

Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds ; my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep 
Though kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep, 
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle ! you the while 
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But all, all glorious conquerors, chieftains, kings, 
To people that cold void ! And when the strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast 


Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 

A fiery wakening ; if at last you pine 

For the glad voices, and the bounding steps, 

Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 

Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 

Of eyes that laughed with youth, and made your board 

A place of sunshine ; when those days are come, 

Then, in your uttei desolation, turn 

To the cold world, the smiling, faithless would, 

Which hath swept past you long, and bid it quench 

Your soul's deep thirst with/amf! immortal fame! 

Fame to the sick of heart ! a gorgeous robe, 

A crown of victory, unto him that dies 

In the burning waste, for water 1 

Con. This from thee I 

Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. 
Elmina I forgive thee ! [Exit KLMINA. 

Aid me, Heaven! 

From whom alone is power ! Oh 1 thou hast set 
Duties so stern of aspect, in my path, 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallowed! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials 1 Doth not He 
Who made us know the limits of our strength ? 
My wife ! my sons ! Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus ! 


SCENE II. The Aisle of a Gothic Church. 
HERNANDEZ, GARCIAS, and others. 

Her. The rites are closed. Now, valiant men depart, 
Each to his place I may not say, of rest 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But blessed be those who toil 
For after-days I All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors, through the lingering hours 
Of the night-watch ! 

Gar. Ay, father ! we have need 

Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have looked 
A thousand times upon my couch of heath, 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves looked e'en as though their source 
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a knightly crest 


Rolled with them to the deep. And, in the years 
Of rr\y long exile and captivity, 
With the fierce Arab I have watched beneath 
The still pale shadow of some lonely palm, 
At midnight in the desert ; while the wind 
Swelled with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Pressed on my weary heart. 

Her. (thoughtfully.) Thou little knowest 

Of what is solitude ! I .tell thee, those 
For whom in earth's remotest nook, howe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas there beats one human heart, 
There breathes one being, unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound 
Heard o'er the din of life, are not alone ! 
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone : 
For there is that on earth with which they hold 
A brotherhood of soul ! Call him alone, 
Who stands shut out from this ! and let not those 
Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot ! A lonely hour 
Is on its way to each, to all ; for Death 
Knows no companionship. 

Gar. I have looked on Death 

In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weighed down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries, 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth, 
Omens in heaven ! The summer skies put forth 
No clear bright stars above us, but at times, 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds, the array 
Of spears and banners, tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 

Her. Ay, last night I too 

Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens : 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts in the air, when, as they closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were flung 
Through the dull glare broad cloudy banners forth, 
And chariots seemed to whirl, and steeds to sink, 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy ; then swift darkness rushed 
Down on the unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. I looked 


And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 

Was blotted from heaven's face I I looked again- 

And from the brooding mass of cloud leaped forth 

One meteor-sword, which o'er the reddening sea 

Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give 

Unto a rocking citadel ! I beheld, 

And yet my spirit sunk not. 

Gar. Neither deem 

That mine hath blenched. But these are sights and souno. 
To awe the firmest. Knowst thou what we hear 
At midnight from the walls ? Were it but the deep 
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal, 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses 
Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en the air 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sighed on its hollow breezes I To my soul, 
The torrent rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Her. (with solemnity']. If to plunge 

In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear 

Chargers and spearmen onwards ; and to make 

A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark, 

On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows ; 

If thus to dare were valor's noblest aim, 

Lightly might fame be won ! But there are things 

Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 

And courage tempered with a holier fire ! 

Well mayst thou say that these are fearful times, 

Therefore be firm, be patient ! There is strength, 

And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 

To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, 

When red swords meet in lightning ! But our task 

Is more and nobler ! We have to endure, 

And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 

And to defend an altar ! If we fall, 

So that our blood make but the millionth part 

Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 

To die upon her bosom, and beneath 

The banner of her faith ! Think but on this, 

And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 

Suffering, yet hoping all things Fare ye well. 
Gar. Father, farewell. 

These men have earthly ties 


And bondage on their natures ! To the cause 

Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 

Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 

Hath called to be the awakener of a land, 

Should have his soul's affections all absorbed 

In that majestic purpose, and press on 

To its fulfilment, as a mountain-born 

And mighty stream, with all its vassal-rills, 

Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 

To dally with the flowers Hark ! What quick step 

Comes hurrying through the gloom at this dead hour ? 

(ELMINA enters.) 

Elm. Are not all hours as one to misery ? Why 
Should she take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose ? 

Her I know thy griefs ; 

But there are trials for the noble heart, 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to the unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elm Think thou not 

I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With am imperious claim, from all whose form, 
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering! 
Father ! I ask thine aid. 

Her. There is no aid 

For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud, 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elm. There is no aid ! art thou a man of God ? 
Art thou a man of sorrow ? for the world 
Doth call thee such and hast thou not been taught 
By God and sorrow ? mighty as they are, 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Her. Is there power 

With me to save thy sons ? implore of Heaven 1 

Elm. Doth not Heaven work its purposes by mani 
I tell thee thou canst save them ! Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor ? Unto him thy words 
Are e'en as oracles - 

Her. And therefore ? Speak ! 

The noble daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hath naught to ask, unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage. Dost thou shrink? 

Elm. Have pity on me, father ! I must speak 
That from the thought of which but yesterday 


I had recoiled in scorn ! But this is past. 

Oh ! we grow humble in our agonies, 

And to the dust their birthplace bow the heads 

That wore the crown of glory ! I am weak 

My chastening is far more than I can bear. 

Her. These are no times for weakness. On our hills 
The ancient cedars, in their gathered might, 
Are battling with the tempest ; and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain ! what wouldst thou with thy lord? 

Elm. Look not upon me thus ! I have no power 
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye 
Off from my soul ! What ! am I sunk to this ? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes 1 How my sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace 
On their majestic line ! My sons ! my sons ! 
Now is all else forgotten ! I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last, 
When earth's young flowers were opening to the sun. 
Death sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deemed 
All sorrow light to mine ! But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds ! Oh! I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer 
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst wi 
The father to relent, to save his sons I 

Her. By yielding up the city ? 

Elm. ' Rathef say 

By meeting that which gathers close upon us 
Perchance one clay the sooner ! Is it not so ? 
Must we not yield at last ? How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword ? 

Her. How long ? While He 

Who shadows forth His power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul, 
Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, with solemn joy ! How long ? 
And who art thou, that, in the littleness- 
Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bound* 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stayed, and flow no further? But the Power 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assigned 
No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve I 


Elm. Oh ! there are time*. 

When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Her. Who dies in vain 

Upon his country's war-fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars ? Feeble heart ! 
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood, 
Thus poured for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land, 
Whose sons, through centuries of woe, have striven, 
And perished by her temples, sink awhile, 
Borne down in conflict ! But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills ; and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest I Earth receives 
Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 

Elm. Then it must be ! And ye will make those lives, 
. Those young bright lives, an offering to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Her The mantle of that day 

May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elm. What led me here ? 

Why did I turn to thee in my despair ? 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man! 
Go to thv silent home ! there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! What knows thy heart? 

Her. W^Bian ! how darest thou taunt me with my woes? 
Thy children too shall perish, and I say 
It shall be well ! Why takest thou thought for them? 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health, 
Unprized, to melt away, i' the bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyself ? Why, what -have earth 
To pay thee back for this ? Shall they not live 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten ? Years of thought, 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
That changed not, though to change be this world's law- 
Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, whose blood 
Marks, e'en like branding iron ? to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness ? 
Doth not all hope end thus ? or e'en at best 
Will they not leave thee ? far from thee seek room. 
F->r the o'erflowings of their fiery souls, 
On life's wide ocean ? Give the bounding steed, 


Or the winged bark to youth, that his free course 
May be o'er hills and seas; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ! 

Elm. Not so ! it is not so ! 

Thou dost but torture me ! My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Her. Others too have worn 

The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet ; 
I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth, 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
"Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elm. It may not be ! 

Wkose grief is like a mother's for her sons ? 

Her. My son lay stretched upon his battle-bier, 
And there were hands wrung o'er him which had caugl. 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elm. What tale is this ? 

Her. Read you no records in this mien, of things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water ? Lofty birth, 
War, peril, power ? Affliction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish ! I was once a chief 
A warrior nor as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father I 

Elm. Then thy heart can feel I 

Thou wilt have pity ! 

Her. Should I pity thee ? 
Thy sons will perish gloriously their blood 

Elm. Their blood ! my children's blood ! Thou speakest 

as 'twere 

Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! My fair boys! 
Man ! hast thvu been a father ? 

Her. Let them die ! 

Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimmed 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls ! Thou thinkest it much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 
Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness, 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the naming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful, 


As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 

Ay, fear them, fear the loved ! Had I but wept 
O'er my son's grave, or o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dewdrops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young verdure, I might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elm. (disdainfully.} Bat he fell in war ! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ? 

Her. Glory .'Peace, 

And listen ! By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I reared him to take joy 
I* the blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day -king ! His quick blood 
Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up, 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds 
But this availeth not ! Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest, and his plume 
Waved like a torch, above the battle-storm, 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk, 
And banners were struck down. Around my steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seemed to stand between my soul and heaven, 

Then came the thunder-stroke ! 

Elm. 'Tis ever thus I 

And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That.thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with all deep love I He died ? 

Her. Not so ! 

Death I Death ! Why, earth should be a paradise, 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died, 
With his young fame about him for a shroud 

I had not learned the might of agony, 
To bring proud natures low ! No I he fell off 
Why do I tell thee this ; what right hast thou 
To learn how passed the glory from my house ? 
Yet listen ! He forsook me ! He, that was 
As mine own soul, forsook me ! trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain ; 
And, for. the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God ! Now, talk of-death ! 

Elm. Oh ! I can pit}- thee - 

Her. There's more to hear. 

I braced the corslet o'er my heart's deep wound, 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking ; 


Elm. And ye met 

No more ? 

Her. Be still ! we did ! we met once more, 

God had his own high purpose to fulfil, 
Or thinkest thou that the sun in his bright heaven