A.... ~c,y.-   i   v? Ad -- -
ov~4-7/3/'<A  I     -'/




















ORION




THlE
COMPLETE WORKS
OF
M R S. H E MA N S,
REPRINTED ENTIRE FROM THE LAST ENGLISH EDITION.
EDITED BY HER SISTER.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. 11.
NEW YOKE
D. APPI,ET(;N & COMPANY, 200)t lPriADVWAY.
1853.




ii
1;
i',
Ii._i




CONTENTS
THE  VESPERS  OF PALERMO                    The Effigies,                        1i
-A  Tragedy,                        7   The Landilg of the Pilgrim Fathers 1'6
Annotatioss on the Vespers of Pa-          The Spirit's Mysteries,             a6
lermo,                             69   The Departed,                        169
The Palm-Tree,                      17C
SONGS OF THE CID.                            The Child's Last Sleep,             171
Thle Cid's Departure into Exile,    70   The Srnbeam,                          172
The Cid's Deathbed,                  71   Breathirrgs of Spring,               173
Tile Cid's Fuleral Procession,       72   The liluminated City,                174
Tihe Cil'6 lRisiing,                 74   The Spells of Home,                  175
Notes on Ditto,                      75   Roman's Girl's Sonrg,                176
The Distant Ship,                   177
ON  A  FLOWER  FROM   THE                    Tihe Birds of Passage,              178
FIELD OF GRUTLI,                   76   The Graves of a Househlold,          179
ON A I.EAF  FPROI TIE TOMB                   Mozart's Requiem,                    ib.
OF VIRGIL,                         77   The Image in Lava,                   181
TIHE CHIEFTON'S SON,                   ib.   Christmas Carol,                    182
A FRAGMENT,                            78   A Fatther Reading the Bible,         183
ENGLAND'S DEAD,                        79   Tihe Meetirg of the Brothers,       184
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS, 80   Tihe Last Wish,                                   185
THE VOICE OF SPRING,                   82   Fairy Favors,                        187
Critical Annotations,               188
RECORDS OF WOMAN:
Arabella Stuart,                     84 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS:The Bride of the Greek Isle,         90   A Spirit's Return,                    193
The Switzer's Wife,                  95   The Lady of Provence,                 199
Properzia Rossi,                     98   Tile Coronation of Inez de Castro,  203
Gertrude, or Fidelity till Death,    101   Italian Girl's Hymn to thle Virgirn, 205
Imelda,                             102   To a Departed Spirit,                206
Editlr, a Tale of the Woods,        105   The Chamois Iiuntter's Love,         2o7
The lndian City,                    110   The lndlian withl his Dead Chlild,   2n0
The Peasaort Girl of the Rhone,    115   Song of Emigoration,                  209
Indian Woman's Death-Song,          117   The  Kinr of Arragotn's Lamert for
Joan of Arc in Rheirns,             118      his Brother,                      211
Pauline,                            121   The Return,                          212
Juana,                              123   Tihe Vaudois' WVire,                 213
The American Forest Girl,           121   Tlhe Gnerilla Lender's Vow,          215
Costanza,                           126   Thlekla at her Lover's Grave,        216
Madeline, a Domestic Tale,          12:   Thie Sisters of Scio,                217
The Queen of Prussia's Tomb,    131   Berinardlo Del Carpio,'218
Thile Memorial Pillar,               33   The Tomb of MaIItlnine Lantlhans,  220
The Grave of a Poetess,             134   The Exile's Dirge,                   221
Notes on Records of Woman,          136   The Dreamillg Chiltd,                222
The Charmed Picture,                P23
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:                        Partint  Words,                      221
The Homes of England,               137   TIhe Messa're to the Dead,           225
The Sicilianl Captive,              138   The Two lornes,                      226
Ivan the Czar,                      140   The Soldlier's Deathbed,             22
Carolan's Prophecy,                 142   The Image in the Heart,              228
The Lady of the Castle,             145   Thle Lanl(l of Dreams,               229
The Mourner for the Barmecides,  147   Woman on the Field of Battle,           231
The Spanish Chapel,                 149   Tho Deserted House,                  232
The Kaiser's Feast,                 151   Tile Stranger's Heart,               233
Tasso and Ihis Sister,              152   To a Remembered Picture,             234
Ulla, or the Adjuration,            154   Come Home,                           235
To Wordsrorthl,                     156   The Fountain of Oblivion,             ib
A Monarcu's Deathbed,               157
To the Memory of Heber,             it). MISCELLANEOUS POEMS -
The Adopted Child,                  158   The Bridal Day,                      237
Invocation,                         159   The Ancestral Song,                  239
Korner ansd his Sister,             160   The Magic Glass,                     24C
The Death-day of Korner,            162   Coritnne at the Capitol,             24a
An Hour of Romance,                 163   TIhe Ruin,                           243
A  Voyager's Dream of Lallsl,       164   Tile Minster,                        244!11




iv.                                  CONTENTS.
The Song of Night.                     245   The Brigoanc Leader and his Wife, 309
The Storm-nPaiite-  in his Dungeon, 247   The Chdcl's Return froin the WoodThe Two Voices,                        248       lanels,                              31U
The Partisn  Ship,                     249   The Faith of Love,                       311
The Last'Tree of the Forest,          250   Tire Sister's Dretiam,                   312
The Streams,                           251   A Farewell to Abbiotsford,               313
Tile Voice of the Wind,                253    O'Collinor's Clbil(l,                   314
Tire Vigil of Arms,                    254    The Praler for Lite,                    315
Tile  Heart of Bruce in  Melrose              Tile  Ve'eosile to Death,               31t
Abbey,                               256   T! e Victor,                             31
Natture's Farewell,                    257   Lires written for tshe Album  at
The Beiiigs of the Mlind,              258       Rosalia,                             31t
The Lyre's Lament,                     259   Tile Voice of the Waves,                 3it
Tasso's Cororsation,                   260)   Tile Ilautted -louse,                   3P2(
The Better Laiid,                      261    Thle Sllepherl-Poet o' the Alps,        321
Tihe Wounded Eargle,                   262   To t)ie A1Mountain Winds,                32:
Sadiness and Mirth,                    263   The Procession,                          32e
Tile Nightinrale's Death-Song,        264   Thle Broken Lute,                        322t
The Diver,                             265   Thle Burial in tile Desert,             331
The Requiem  of Genius,                267    To a Picture of the Aladonna,           33r
Triumphiant Music,                     268   A Thlolghlt of the Rose, e33.
Second Si-ht,                          269    Driearns of Heavein,                    33e
Thle Sea-ird' Flyillng Ilad,           270   T'Ile'isi,                            33'
The S eeper,                            ib.   Critical Annotations by  Professor
Tile Mlirror ill tile Deserted Hall,   271      LNorton,                              33: 
To thle Daugliter of Bernard Barton, 272    Writteu after Visiting a Tomb,            341
Tihe Star o' the Minre,                 it).   Epitaph,                               34;
Washinlgtol's Statue,                  273   Prolsogue to the Tragedy of Fiesco, 31,,
A  hourllht of Home at Sea,            ib.   To Hilioe Regollid,                      ib
To rise ItMemiory of a Sister-in-Law, 274    () ve 11ours,                            34,
To ani Orphan,                           b.  Tl'e Freed Birdl                         ib
Hywnml Iby the Siclbed ofa Mtother,  275   Mariuerite of lrance,                    34s
Wllere is the Sea,                     276   To (arolibe,                             341
To My Own Portrait,                     ib.   Tlie WVlanderer,                        350
No More,                               277   The Flower of thle Desert,                ib.
ThouLght from an Italian Poet,         278   Troubadour Song,                         351
Passing Away,                           ih.   Scenies aind Passages from the TasThe Angler,                            279       so of Goethe  5' 52
Deati anid the Warrior,                280   OnD the Iplliogenia of' Goethe,;60
Song for all Air by Hlummel,          281   Tile IH-Iug'ensot's Farewell,           372
To the Alemnory of Lord Charles               The Engir!lish 1o,         -;;3
Ml-rlay,                             282    Anlltique Gireek Lnmeent,               365
Tihe Bruolen Chais,                     1i.   To tile Blue Aiienione,                 396
Tihe Sllaidow of a Flower,             283   Thle Soeig of Pesritence,                367
Lises to a Butterfly Resting on a
Skrlil,                              2Si4 NATIONAL LYRICS:The Bell at Sea,                        lb.   Tire'Th'ienes of Sonul,                368
Tihe Slubsterranoean  Stream,          285   Rhiine    on        te oSo serm  Sle  dier s, 369
Tihe Silesnt MrIllttudle,              286   A Sori of Delos,                        370,
The Antique Sepulchre,                 287   Ancienlt Gieek Chant of Victory,    W7L
Eovenir g Sowig of the Tyrolese Pea-           Naptes-a Sonll of the Sytcn,           372
sants,                               288''The Fall of 1)'Assas,                 373
The Melnory of the Dead,               289   The Burial of' William  the ConHe Walked witil God,                   2Y0       queror,                              374
Tire Rold of Aarosn,                   291
The Voice of God,                       ib. LYRICS. -SONGS  OF A  GUARThe Fountaint of MTarah,               292       t)IAN  SPIRIT:The Penlitelt's Offering,               ir).   Near tliee, still near thee,           376
Tile Sculptureed Childiten,            293    Oi! droop tirou not,                   357
Womansi allsd Famne,                   2'r5 lirinlt's Song,                           327
A Tlitrugl t o  tlse Future, 2h6'I'e Sisters, a Balladl,            il.
The Voice of' lsics                    2'97   Tile Last Sonui of Sappho,              385
Tihe Aingel's Greetilnr,               228 1Di, e,                                    381
A Farewell to Wales,                    ib.   A Sueng of the Rose,                    382
1nupsorstu Liles Addressed to Miss            Nirit-  l3ixvinlg Flowers,              383. A. L.                              299    Tile  Wa'nderer   anid  the  Night
A Panrtinl  Song,                       ib.     Floweris,                             384
\Ve Rettlrnl iio AIore,                300   E(SlD, Soln,    lb.
To a  Vallsterslit- Femnale Sint-er    30 1   TIle'tltrd Drum,                       38h'i'The hPaller,                                   e     Swan a    the Skylark,        366
Thre C    l's First Grief,             302
To trie Niw-xvLs,rn,'             3,13 SONG(  S  OF StAIN:
l'rtt i)t.Str!l-S(rr  df Alcestis,     30)i    Alliet Bh, lc Sung,                   388
The lt(,te f)t'Lv.,                  3)(3   T i eZ "  z i   Iu,                     lb.
B,.,,k-:t,!t.l Flw-ers, 3S.7   Th, 1                 (, VCne Son'S                   339'or a''ii lce of S.t. Ceciia,        38    Seek by ti, siivesvi).arro,               3o
B-si'iill~l  sore,                                                ig                  3a09




CONTENTS.
Spanish Evening Hymn,                  390 THE LEAGUE  OF THE ALPS,   431
Bird  that art singia,  on Ebro's side, ib.   Notes to ditto,                        43?
lIoorish Gatherin a  S.ng,             391
Thte Song of  Mina's Sot'ier's         ib. SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,
Mother, ol, sia'g me to rest,          ib.      &c.: —                               438
Ther'ee are soundts iu tile dark Rlon-        Tile English Martyrs,                  439
cesvalies,                           39.2   Flowers and Mtsic ill a Room of
The Curfew Song of England,            ib.      Sickless;,                           445
mlie Call to Battle,                   393    Catiedtlra Ilvmn,                     450
ootd Walk anld Hymn,                 453
SOhNGS FOR  SUMMIER  HOURS: -                   Prayer of tile Lonely Student,         456
And I, too, ill Arcadia,               394   Thle Traveller's Eveniien- S gonl,      458
Tile Watlderilg Wind,                  395   Burial of anl Em-iolrat's Clil,         460
Are ye not mteisst'd, fair Flowers,    396   Easter Day ill a  aIounltai ChurchWillow Sonig,                          it).     yard,                                463
Leave me  not yet,                     397   The Child Readting thle Bible,          466
Tile Orang-e Bou-gh.                   ib.   A Poet's Dyin- Hyame,                   468
The Strealn set fee,                   398   Tle Funeral Day of Sir Walter
Tlle Summer's Call,                    399      Scott,                               470
Ol! Sikylark, for thly win,           400   Tile Prayer in tile Weilderless,       472
Genius siinil a to Iove,              ib.   Prisomers' Evenine   Service,           474
Music at a Deatlbed,                   402   tIel-n of the Vauois e   ountiillee rs,     477
M1arslhal Schwerill's Gravt,           403   Thie lndlian's Revenate,                478
The Fallen Linme-Tree,                 404   Prayer at Sea  after Victory,           483
Evetinee  Soil- of tie WAeatry,        484''ONGS OF CAPTIVITY.                            Tihe Dal of Plowers,                   ib.
Intro(liuction,,                      404   Ilvimn of tile Trlaveller's Househlold, 488
Tile Brother's Dirge,                  405   A Praver of At:lection,                 490
rile Alpine Heorn,                     ib.'The Painter's Last                       eYork,  ib
Oil, ye Voices,                        406     lotijer's Litany  by thle Sickebed of
I drearn of all thinoe s free,         ib.      a Clhill,                            493
Far o'er tile Sea,                     407   Niglht IvmIn at Sea,                    494
The Invocation,                       lb.
Tile Song of Hiope,                    408 FEMIA LE   CTIARACTERS   OF
I'hle Bird at Sea,                     ib.      SCR! PTURE, A SERLIES OF
Tihe Dyint CGirl and Flowers,          409      SONNETS:Thie  Ivy Sonel,                       410     I. Ilvocation,                        494
File Music of St. Patrick's,          411    II. Invocation contitetel,             495
Keene, or Lament of ae Irish Mio-            911. Tie Sotlg  of MIiriam,             ib
tler,                                412   IV. Ruthi,                               it'
Far Away,                              413    V. Tie Vigil of Rizpal,                4gf
iThe Lyre and Flower,                  ib.   VI. Thie Rerly of tile Shlunamite
Sistet! silnce I met thee last,        414           \/Womaiea,
Tile Lonely Bird,                      ib.  VII. The. \ innunciation,.
Di.e at Sea,                           415 VIII. Tih- dolenr of the Virgi,          40
Piegrim's Soeeg to tile Evelia, Star, il)  ItX. Tlee Pelitent alOilttilttg Chlrist's
Tite Meeting of'the Ships,             416           feet,
Come Away,                            417    X. bMary at the Feet of Chris.,         I.
Fair Hlelene of Kirconnel,             ib    XI.  l  The Sisters of Bethany, &c.,      8
M/usic friom Shlore                   418  X I [. Melmorial of Mary,                   t.
Look oal te.ith tly cloudless eyes, i). XLII. Tile'Mo.tell o.f Jerusalem at
It' thou hiast crushi'd a lower,      4i            the Cross,.
Brightly lhast thou fled,             420 XIV. Mary Magdalene at tihe Sepu''I he Bel of Heath,                     b.          cre,                             496.Sairy Soleg,                          421  XV.  The Same, bearin   Tidlir (s of
Whlat woke the buried sound,           ib.          tile Resurrectionl,              ib.
O! if' thou wilt not give tiine  heart, 4'22   The  Two Monuments,                    ib.
Look oil me thus no more,              ib,   Tie Cotlagee Girl,                      501
Siieg to me, Gondlolier,               ib.    Tle  eattle Fiell,                      ib.
O'el the tar bitlue  ounltains,       423   A. Penitent's Reitrn,                    502
Ohl, tilou breeze ot Spring,           it),   A Tliou-lt of Paradise.                5()3
Comte to me dreams of Ileaven,        424   Let us Depart,                           505
Good-Nigiht,                           ii.   To a Picture of Chrise,    arlng tihe
Let hler depart,                      425       Cross.                               5n6
flowr can that love so deep, so lone, i).   Co ltrriuning's wit h Th, gh lt,         507
Water-Lilies,                         426
Tihe Broken Flower,                    ie. SONNETS  DEVaOTIC;  SAL  AND
I would we hadl nIot met again,       427            3AI G~{ORIAL -
Fairies' Recall,                      aib.      i. The Sacredl tar.                  508
Tile Rockl Beside tie Sea,            423      II. To a Fameilv  Bit e,               ib.
O:, ye voices gonle,                  ib.    III. Repose of a Itol, Faleily,       ib.
ly a mountain stream at rest,          ib.    IV. Picture of Intal); Christ with
Is there some spirit sighinll'        429           Flowers,                         509
Tie Name of Egla,                      ib.     V. On a Remembe ed Picture of
Old Norwvay,                           430          Christ,                           ie.
aomt to me, gentle sleep,             431    VI. Chlildrenl wlnom  Ieus  Blessed, 510




vi.                             CONTENTS.
VII. Mountain Sanctuaries,        510  XIX. A Prayer,                       91
VIII. The Lilies of the Field,     ib.   XX. Prayer continued,              ib.
IX. The Birds of the Air,         511  XXI. Memorial of a Conversation,  522
X. The Raising of the Widow's
Soil,                       ib. RECORDS  OF THE AUTUMN
XI. The Olive Tree,               ib.       OF 1834:XII. The Darkness of the Crucifixion, 512    I. The Return of Poetry,       522
XI11. Places of Worship,            ib.   II. To Silvio Pellico on reading
XIV. Old Church in an English Park, ib.       his " Priglone,"               ib.
XV. A Church in North Wales,   513  III. To the Same Released,             523
XVI. Louise Schepler,               ib.  1V. Onl a Scene in a Dargle,       it).
XVII. To the Same,                  514   V. On reading Coleridge's Epitaph 524
The Water-Lily,                    ib.  VI. Ont the Datura Arborea          ib
VII. Desrin and Performance,       ib.
RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF                VIII. Hope of Future Communios
1834:-                                 with Nature,                  525
I. A Vernal Thought,           515  IX. Dreams of the Dead,              ib.
II. To the Sky,                  ib.   X. The Poetry of the Psalms,       ib.
III. On Records of Immature Genius,                       516 DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRA
[V. On watching the flight of a          TION,                            529
Skylark,                     ib
V. A Thought of the Sea,        ib. THOUGHTS   DURING   SIeK
VI. Distant Sound of the Sea at          NESS: —:
Evening                     517   I. Intellectual Powers,            529
tII. The River Clwyd in North          II. Sickness like Night,           530
Wales,                      ib. 111. On Retzsch's TDesign of the'I1I. Orchard Blossoms,           ib.       Aigel of Death,               ib.
1X. To a Distant Scene,          518  IV. Remembrance of Nature,          631
X. A Remembrance of Grasmere, ib.  V. Flighlt of the Spirit,             ib.
XI. Thoughts connected with trees, ib. VI. Flowers,                       kb.
XIl. The Same,                    519 VII. Recovery,                       632
XII. On Reading Paul and Vir-           Sabbath Sonnet                     ib.
ginia in Childhood,          ib. Critical Remarks on the Genius oa
XIV. A Thought at Sunset,          ib.    Mrs. Hemans, by Delta —by the
XV. Images of Patriarchal life    520    late Letitia Elizabeth LandonXVI. Attraction of the East,       ib.    and by H. F. Chorley,             ib.
XVI11. To an Aged Friend,           ib. Ditto by Professor Norton,          29
I[VIII. Foliage,                    St Juvenile Poems,                       551
ii




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
DRAMATIS PERSON-E.
COUNT DI PROCIDA.           GUIDO.
RAIMOND DI PROCIDA, his Son.  ALBERTI.
ERYBERT, Viceroy.           ANSELMO, a Monk.
1)E COUCI.                  VITTORIA.
MONTALBA.                   CONSTANCE, Sister to Eribett
Nobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, 4c. 6Ic.
ScENE-Palermo.
ACT 1.
SCENE 1.-A Valley with Vineyards and Cottages.
Groups of Peasants-PRocIDA, disguised as a
Pilgrim, among them.
1st Pea. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time
In days gone by! I can remember well
The old familiar melodies that rose
At break of morn, from all our purple hills,
To welcome in the vintage. Never since
Hath music seem'd so sweet. But the light hearts
Which to those measures beat so joyously,
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice
Of joy through all the land.
2d Pea.               Yes! there are sounds
Of revelry within the palaces,
And the fair castles of our ancient lords,
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear,
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise
At midnight's deepest hour.
3d Pea.               Alas! we sat,
In happier days, so peacefully beneath
The olives and the vines our fathiers rear'd,
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps
Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er
The storm might gather. But this yoke of Franoe




8            THE VESPERS OF PALERMO
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bow'd
E'en to the earth.
Pea.'s Child.  My father, tell me when
Shall the gay dance and song again resound
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale?
1st Pea. When there are light and reckless hearts once more
In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy,
Men meet not now to quaff' the flowing bowl,
To hear the mirthful songff, and cast aside
The weight of work-day care:-they meet to speak
Of wrongs and son-ows, and to whisper thoughts
They dare not breathe aloud.
Pro. (from th'e background.) Ay, it is well
So to relieve th' o'erburthen'd heart, which pants
Beneath its weight of wrong; but better far
In silence to avenge them!
An Old Pea.            What deep voice
Came with that startling tone?
1st Pea.                  It was our guest's,
The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn'd here
Since yestermorn. Good neighbors mark him well:
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien accords
Ill with such vestments. H ow he folds round him
His pilgrim cloak, e'en as it were a robe
Of knightly ermine! That commanding step
Should have been used in courts and camps to move.
Mark him!
Old Pea. Nay, rather, mark him not; the times
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?
A Youth. He spoke of vengeance!
Old Pea.                       Peace! we are beset
By snares on every side, and we must learn
In silence and in patience to endure.
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.
Pro. (coming forward indignantly.) The word is death!
And what hath life fobr thee,
That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing?
Whose vely soul is moulded to the yoke,
And stamp'd with servitude. What! is it life,
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest e'en then,
Strangers should catch its echo?-Is there aught
In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek
Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought
Of hazarding some few and evil days,
Which drag thus poorly on'?
Some of Peas.         Away, away!




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                 9
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.
Pro. Why, what is danger?-Are there deeper ills
"Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain'd'i he cup of bitterness till nought remains
T'o fear or shrink from-therefore, be ye strong!
Power dvweleth with despair.-Why start ye thus
it words which are but echoes of the thoughts
I,ek'd ir yvour secret souls?-Full well I know,
There is not one among you, but hath nursed
Kornme proud indignant feeling, which doth make
rie conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs,' nd thline-and thine,-but if within your breasts! here is no chord that vibrates to my voice,
Thlen fare ye well.
A youth (coming forward.) No, no! say on, say on!'here are still free and fiery hearts e'en here,
['hat kindle at thy words.
Pea.                If that indeed
T'Ihou hast a hope to give usPro.                     There is hope
For all who suffer with indignant thoughts
W'hich work in silent strength. What! think ye Heaven,
O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile
His crested head on high?-I tell you, no!
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king,
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn
On the red scaffbld died. Yet not the less
Is Justice throned above; and her good time
Comes rushing on in storms; that royal blood
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth,
And hath been heard. The traces of the past
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven forget.
Pea. Had we but arms and leaders we are men
Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these,
What wouldst thou have us do?
Pro.                      Be vigilant;
And when the signal wakes the land, arise!
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well.    [Exit PROCIDAs
1st Pea. This man should be a prophet: how he seem'd
To read our hearts with his dark searching glance
And aspect of command! and yet his garb
Is mean as ours.
2d Pea.      Speak low; I know him well.
At first his voice disturb'd me, like a dream
Of other days, but I remember now
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served
Beneath the banners of our kings!'Tis he
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long,
The Count di Procida.
Pea.             And is this he?




10     ~     THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Then Heaven protect him! for around his steps
Will many snares be set.
1st Pea.           He comes not thus
But with some mighty purpose; doubt it not;
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one,
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved
True to our native princes. But away!
The noontide heat is past, and from the seas
Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; now
We may resume our toil.               [Exeunt Peasants
SCENE I1.-A Terrace of q Castle.
ERIBERT, VITTORIA.
Vit. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart
Blighted and cold?-Th' affections of my youth
Lie slumbering in the grave: their fount is closed,
And all the soft and playful tenderness
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet
Deep wrongs have sear'd it; all is fled from mine.
Urge me no more.
Eri.          0 lady! doth the flower
That sleeps entomb'd through the long wintry storms,
Unfold its beauty to the breath of Spring,
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair,
Wake at love's voice?
Vit.             Love!-make love's name thy spell
And I am strong!-the very word calls up
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array'd
In arms against thee — Know'st thou whom I loved,
While my soul's dwelling place was still on earth?
One who was born for empire, and endow'd
With such high. gifts of princely majesty,
As bow'd all hearts before him!-Was he not
Brave, royal, beautiful?-and such he died;
He died!-hast thou forgotten?-And thou'rt here,
Thou meet'st my glance with eyes which coldly look'd
-Coldly!-nay, rather with triumphant gaze,
Upon his murder!-Desolate as I am,
Yet in -the mnien of thine affianced bride,
Oh! my lost Conradin! there should be still
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe
The hearts of thine assassins.
Eri.                  Haughty dame;
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed,
Know, danger is around thee: thou hast foes
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone
Can shield thee from their arts.
Vit.                    Provengal, tell
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart
Which hath its little world of loved ones round,
For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys




'T;l,  Vl'ESPEiS OF PALERMO.           11
['hat make earth Paradise. I stand alone;
-'lThey that are blest may fear.
Eri.                     Is there not one
Who ne'er commands in vain?-proud lady, bend'rhy spirit to thy fate; for know that he,
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path,
O'er the bow'd neck of prostrate Sicily,
Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king,
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon
My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power
Against his mandates?
Fit.              Viceroy, tell thy lord,
That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land,
Souls may not all be fetter'd. Oft, ere now,
Conquerors have rock'd the earth, yet fail'd to tame
Unto their purposes that restless fire
Inhabiting man's breast.-A spark bursts forth,
And so they perish!-'tis the fate of those
Who sport with lightning-and it may be his.
-Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free.
Eri.'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again
Bethink thee, lady!-Love may change —hath changed
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye
Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well.
-Look to it yet!-To-morrow I return.     [Exit ERIraET.
Vit. To-morrow!-Some ere now have slept and dreamt
Of morrows which ne'er dawn'd-or ne'er for them,
So silently their deep and still repose
Hath melted into death!-Are there not balms
In nature's boundless realms, to pour out sleep
Like this on me?-Yet should my spirit still
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear
To his a glorious tale of his own isle,
Free and avenged.-Thou. should'st be now at work,
In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high,
Through the red heaven of' sunset!-sleep'st thou still,
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread
The glowing vales beneath?    [PRoCIDA enters, disguised.
Ha! who art thou,
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step
Dost steal upon me?
Pro.              One, o'er whom hath pass'd
All that can change man's aspect!-Yet not long
Shalt thou find satety in forgetfulness.
-I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous,
Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence
-Know'st thou this lady?               [He shows a rtng
Vit.                 Righteous Heaven! the pledge
Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown
By him who perish'd, and whose kingly blood




12           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
E'ei yet is unatoned.-My heart beats high-Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida,
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer!
Pro.                    Call me so,
When my great task is done. Yet who can tell
If the return'd be welcome? —Many a heart
Is changed since last we met.
rVit.                  Why dost thou gaze
With such a still and solemn earnestness,
Up.:;n my alter'd mien?
Pro.              That I may read
If to the widow'd love of Conradin,
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride;
I now entrust my fate.
Vit.             Thou, Procida,
That thou shouldst wrong me thus!-prolong thy gaze
Till it hath found an answer.
Pro.'Tis enough.
I find it in thy cheek whose rapid change
Is from death's hue to fever's; in the wild
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye,
And in thy wasted form. Ay,'tis a deep
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace,
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters
Of noble suffering:-on thy brow the same
Commanding spirit holds its native state,
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voie
Of Flrme hath told afar, that thou should'st wed
This tyrant Eribert.
Vit.           And told it not
A tale of insolent love-repell'd with scorn,
Of stern commands and fearful menaces,
Met with indignant courage?-Procida!
It was but now that haughtily I braved
His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand,
With its fair appanage of wide domains 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon,
To reconiperlse his crimes. —I smiled, ay, smiledIn proud security, for the high of heart
lave still a pathway to escape disgrace,
Though it be dark and lone.
Pr o.                 Thou shalt not need
To tread its shadowy mazes  Trust my words:
I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad,
Whi h will not slumber till its path be traced
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live!
It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see
The mighty expiation; for thy heart
Forgive me that I wrong'd its faith) hath nursed
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set
Deep on thy marble brow.
Vit.               Then thou canst tell




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                 13
By gazing on the wither'd rose, that there'rime, or the blight, hath work'd!-Ay, this is in
Thy vision's scope: but oh! the things unseen,
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind
To ruin struck by grief! —Yet doth my soul,
Far'midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope,
Wherein is bright vitality.-'Tis to see
His blood avenged, and his fair heritage,
My beautiful native land, in glory risen,
Like a warrior from his slumbers!
Pro.                        Hear'st thou not
With what a deep and ominous moan, the voice
Of our great mountain swells?-There will be soon
A fearful burst!-Vittoria! brood no more
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go fbrth
Amidst thy vassals (yet be secret still)
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark
Thou'lt find already kindled. I move on
In shadow, yet awakening in my path'rlThat which shall startle nations. Fare thee well.
Vit. When shall we meet again?-Are we not'those
Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou not
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near
While thus we hold communion?
Pro.                       Yes, I feel
Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee,
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not
Make womanisB tears our offering on his tomb;
EIe shall have nobler tribute!-I must hence,
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time.
[Exeunt separately
SCENE III.-The Sea-Shore.
RAIMOND DI PROCIDA, CONSTANCE.
Con. There is a shadow far within your eye,
Which hath of late been deepenling.  You were wont
Upon the clearness of your open brow
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well,
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul,
To hide it from affection. Why is this,
My Raimond, why is this?
Raim.                Oh! from the dreams
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still
A wild and stormy wakening?-They depart,
Light after light, our glorious visions fade,
The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil'd,
Lies pale around; and life's realities
Press on the soul. from its uniathom'd depth
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts,
In all their fearful strength!-'Tis ever thus,
vOm. I.-2




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
And doulbly so with me; for I awoke
With high,spirings, making it a curse
To breathe where noble minds are bow'd, as here.
-To breathe!-It is not breath!
Con.                       I know thy grief,
-And is't not mine?-for those devoted men
Doorn'd with their life to expiate some wild word,
Born of the social hour. Oh! I have knelt,
E'eri at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears,
Imnploring him to spare. His heart is shut
Against my voice; yet will I not forsake
The cause of mercy.
Raim.            Waste not thou thy prayers,
Oh, gentle love, for them. There's little need
For pity, though the galling chain be worn
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart!
There is a world beyond the oppressor's reach,
And thither lies their way.
Con.                  Alas! I see
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul.
Raim. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my words
From ftelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance,
A tone of bitterness! Oh! when thine eyes
With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix'd
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget
All else in their soft beams; and yet I came
To tell theeCon.       What? What would'st thou say? O speak!Thou would'st not leave me!
Raim., I have cast a cloud,
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes,
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone,
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more
In the clear sunny light of youth and joy,
E'en as before we met-before we loved!
Con. This is but mockery.-Well thou know'st thy love
Hath given me nobler being; made my heart
A home for all the deep sublimities
Of strong affection; and I would not change
Th' exalted life i draw from that pure source,
With all its chequer'd hues of hope and fear,
E'en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind i
Have I deserved this?
BRaim.             Oh! thou hast deserved
A love less fatal to thy peace than mine.
Think not'tis mockery!-But I cannot rest
To be the scorn'd and trampled thing I am
In this degraded land. Its very skies.
That smile as if but festivals were held
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me doAwn
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine
For freedom's charter'd air. I would go forth




Toi:A VESPERS OF PALERMO.              1b
To seek my noble father: he hath been
Too long a lonely exile, and his name
Seems fading in the dim obscurity
Which gathers round my fortunes.
Con.                        Must we part!
And is it come to this! Oh! I have still
Deem'd it enough of joy with thee to share
E'en grief itsel -and now-but this is vain:
Alas! too deep, too fond, is woman's love.
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves
The treasures of her soul!
Raim.                Oh, speak not thus!
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold
Upon my inmost heart.-I leave thee but
To be more worthy of a love like thine.
For I have dreamt of fame!-A few short years,
And we may yet be blest.
Con.                 A few short years
Less time may well suffice for death and foite
To work all change one earth!-To break the ties
Which early love had form'd; and to bow down
Th' elastic spirit, and to blight each flower
Strewn in life's crowded path! but be it so!
Be it enough to know that happiness
Meets thee on other shores.
Raim.                 Where'er I roam.
Thou shalt be with my soul!-Thy soft low voice
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back
Life's morning fresnness.-Oh! that there should: be
Things, which we love with such deep tendernss,
But through that love, to learn how much of woe
Dwells in one hour like this!-Yet weep thou not!
We shall meet soon; and many days, dear love,
Ere I depart.
Con.     Then there's a respite still,
Days!-not a day but in its course may bring
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside
Th' impending blow we shrink from.-Fare thee well.
( Returning.
-Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell!
Thou would'st not so deceive me?
TRaind.                    Doubt me not,
Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again.
[Exit CONSTANCE.
Raim. (after a pause.) When shall I breathe in freedom,
and give scope
To those untamable and burning thoughts,
And restless aspirations, which consume
My heart i' th' land of bondage!-Oh! with you
Ye everlasting images of power,
And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep,




Ifs          TIlE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced;
With you my sbul finds room, and casts aside
The weight that doth oppress her.-But my thoughts
Are wandering far; there should be one to share
This awful and majestic solitude
Of sea and heaven with me.
[PRocIDA enters unobserveid
It is the hour
He named, and yet he comes not.
Pro. (coming forward.)      He is here.
Raim. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, whose glance
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue
Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours;
Reveal thyself, what art thou.
Pro.                     One, whose life
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms,
With still a mighty aim. But now the shades
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come
To this, my native land, that I may rest
Beneath its vines in peace.
Raim.                  Seek'st thou for peace?
This is no land of peace; unless that deep
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's thoughts
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien
With a dull hollow semblance of repose,
May so be call'd.
Pro.          There are such calms full oft
Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been
So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured,
To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink,
That it should irk my spirit to put on
Such guise of hush'd submissiveness as best
May suit the troubled aspect of the times.
R1(im. Why, then, thou art welcome, stranger, to the land
Where most disguise is needful.-He were bold
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face;
And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn
From the same past their long remembrances,
Now meet in terror, or no more; lest hearts
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour,
Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds
Might whisper to our conquerors.-This it is,
To wear a foreign yoke.
Pro.               It matters not
To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit,
And can suppress its workings, till endurance
Becomes as nature. WVe can tame ourselves
To all extremes, and there is that in life




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                 17
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp
Even when its lofty climes are all reduced
To the poor common privilege of breathing,Why dost thou turn away?
Raim.                 What wouldst thou with me?
I dee. n'c thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived,
And made its throne on thy commanding brow,
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn
So to abase its high capacities
For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest.
What wouldst thou with me?
Pro.                    I would counsel thee.
Thou must do that which men-ay, valiant menHourly submit to do; in the proud court,
Ard in the stately camp, and at the board
O, midnight revellers, whose flush'd mirth is all
A strife, won hardly.-Where is he whose heart
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze
Of mortal eye?-If vengeance wait the foe,
Oi fate th' oppressor,'tis in depths conceal'd
BK oeath a smiling surface.-Youth, I say,
K'tp thy soul down!-Put on a mask!-'tis worn
Al lie by power and weakness, and the smooth
Ai d specious intercourse of life requires
Its aid in every scene.!laim.           Away, dissembler!
Lie hath its high and its ignoble tasks,
Fi-ted to every nature.  Will the free
Aid royal eagle stoop to learn the arts
B1 which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey?
It as because I will not clothe myself
In a vile garb of coward semblances,
That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart,
To bid what most I love a long farewell,
And seek my country on some distant shore,
Where such things are unknown!
Pro. (exultingly.)          Why, this is joy:
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears,
And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds,
To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing
Oppression hath not crush'd.-High-hearted youth,
Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again
Visit these shoresRaiin.         My father! what of him?
Speak! was he known to thee?
Pro.                      In distant lands
With him I've traversed many a wild, and look'd
On many a danger; and the thought that thou
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy,
Oft through the storm hath cheer'd him.
Raim.                            Dost thou deem
That still he lives?-Oh! if it be in chains,
2*




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell,
Say but he lives-and I will track his steps
E'en to earth's verge!
Pro.             It may be that-he lives,
Though long his name hath ceased to be a word
Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound
May yet be heard!-Raimond di Procida,
Rememberest thou thy father?
Raim.                   From my mind
His form hath faded long, for years have pass'd
Since he went forth to exile: but a vague,
Yet powerful image of deep majesty,
Still dimly gathering round each thought of him,
Doth claim instinctive reverence; and my love
For his inspiring name hath long become
Part of my being.
Pro.         Raimond! doth no voice
Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms
That would enfold thee now?-My son! my son!
Raimn. Father!-Oh God!-my father! Now I know
Why my heart woke before thee 
Pro..                    Oh! this hour
Makes hope reality; for thou art all
My dreams had pictured thee!
BZairnm.                Yet why so long
E'en as a stranger hast thou cross'd my paths,
One nameless and unknown!-and yet I felt
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice.
Piro. Because I would not link thy fate with mine,
Till I could hail the dayspring of that hope
Which now is gathering round us.-Listen, youth!
Thou hast told me of a subdued and scorn'd
And trampled land, whose very soul is bow'd
And fashion'd to her chains:-but I tell thee
Of a most generous and devoted land,
A land of kindling energies; a land
Of glorious recollections!-proudly true
To the high memory of her ancient kings,
And rising in majestic scorn, to cast
Her alien bondage off!
Rairn.            And where is this?
Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily!
Her spirit is awake, and moving on,
In its deep silence mightier, to regain
Her place amongst the nations; and the hour
Of that tremendous effort is at hand.
Raizm. Can it be thus indeed?-Thou pour'st new life
Through all my burning veins!-I am as one
Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep
To the full glorious day.
Prio.              Thou shalt hear more!
Thou shalt hear things which would-which will arouse




T';JE, VESPERS OF PALER'M().
The proud free spirits of our ancestors
E'en from their:nl:,rble rest. Yet mark me well!
13e secret! —fbr along my destined path
I yet must darkly move. —Now, follow me;
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts
There lies a nation's strength.
Raidr.                   My noble father!
Thy words have given me all for which I pinedAn aim, a hope a purpose!-And the blood
Dotll rush in warmer currents through my veins,
As a bright fountain fiom its icy bonds
By the quick sun-stroke freed.
Pro.                      Ay, this is well!
Such natures burst men's chains!-Now, follow me. rExeunt.,
ACT II.
SCENE l.-Apartment in a Palace.
ERIBERT, CONSTANCE.
Con. Will you not hear me?-Oh! that they who need
Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live,
While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars,
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus,
In their vain exercise of pageant power,
Hard and relentless!-Gentle brother, yet'Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven
Whnose noblest joy is pardon.
Eri.'Tis too late.
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads
With eloquent melody-but they must die.            [trace
Con. What!-die -for words?-for breath which leaves no
To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends,
And is, being utter'd, gone?-Why,'twere enough
For such a venial fault to be deprived
One little day of'man's free heritage,
Heaven's warm and sunny lightt!-Oh! if you deem
That evil harbors in their soufs, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stern Justice wake.
fri.                   I am not one
Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been
Where power sits crown'd and arm'd.-And, mark me, sister!
To a distrustful nature it might seem
Stranige, that your lips thus earnestly should plead
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er mny being
Suspicion holds no power.-And yet, take note
-I have said, and they must die.
Con.                       Have you no fear' 
Eri. Of what — that heaven should fall?
Con. No!-But that earth




20           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Should arm in madness.-Brother! I have seen
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en'midst festal throngs,
With such deep hatred settled in their glance,
My heart hath died within me.
Eri.                     Am I then
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl,
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?
Con. Oh! Books are no illusions, when the soul,
Which may not speak in words, can find no way
Put theirs, to liberty!-Have not these men
Bra re sons, or noble brothers?
Lri.                    Yes! whose name
It rests with me to make a word of fear,
A sound forbidden'midst the haunts of men.
Con. But not forgotten!-Ah! beware, beware
-Nay, look not sternly on me.-There is one
Of that devoted band, who yet will need
Years to be ripe for death.-He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek
The spring-tinle glow is lingering.'Twas but now
His mother left me, with a timid hope
Just dawning in her breast: a-nd I-1 dared
To foster its faint spark. —You smile! —Oh! then
He will be saved!
Eri.         Navy, I but smiled to think
What a fond fool is Hope!-She may be taught
To deem that the great sun will change his course.
To work her pleasure; or the tomb give back
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth,'tis strange!
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus
Have mock'd the boy's sad mother-I have said.
You should not thus have mock'd her!-Now farewl! 3
[Exit' Lci i Fe;rr.
Con. Oh, brother! hard of heart! —for deeds like Li:. se
There must be fearful chastening, if on high
Justice doth hold her state. —And I must tell
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son
Is thus to perish! —Haply the dread tale
May slay her too —for Heaven is merciful.
—'Twill be a bitter task!             [Exit CONsTANcg.
SCENE II. —A ruined Tower, surrounded by Woods.
PROCIDA, VITTORIA.
Pro. Thy vassals are prepared then?
Vit.                            Yes, they wait
Thy summons to their task.
ro n. Keep the flame bright,
But hidden till this hour. —Would'st thou dare, lady,
To join our counsels at the night's mid watch,
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross?
Vit. What should I shrink from?




THEL VESP!;IS O)F PALERMIO.
Pro.                         Oh! the forest patth
Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams
Through their high arches; but when powerful night
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds
Of her mysterious winds; their aspect then
Is of another and more fearful world;
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms.
Waking strange thoughts, almost too much fbr this,
Our frail terrestrial nature.
Vfit.                Well I know
All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' abodes
Where through the silence of mny soul have pass'd
Voices, and visions from the sphere of those
That have to die no more!-Nay, doubt it not!
If such unearthly intercourse hath o'er
Been granted to our nature,'tis to hearts
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone,
Unmadden'd could sustain the fearful joy
A.nd glory of its trances!-at the hour
Which makes guiit tremulous, and peoples earth
And air with infinite, viewless multitudes,
[ will be with thee, Procida.
Pro.                   Thy presence
Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse
That which mlay strengthen our majestic cause
With yet a deeper power.-Know'st thou the spot?
Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone
In these dim woods, but I have visited
Its tangled shades.
Pro.          At midnight then, we meet. LExit PRociDA.
Vit. Why should I fear?-Thou wilt be with ine, thou
Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul,
Spirit of him I love! that meet'st me still
In loneliness and silence; in the noon
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths,
Known hut to me; for whom thou giv'st the winds
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice,
Till my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy!
-Thou willjbe with me there, and lend myv lips
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame,
That thou art unavenged!                [Exit VITToRIP
SCENE II.-A Chapel, with a ilonument on which is laid a
swor d.-Zlloonlight.
PROCIDA, RAIMOND, MONTALBA.
Mon. And know you not my story?
Pro.                            In the lands
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs
Were numbered with our country's; but their tale




THE VESPERS OF PALERMICO.
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear.
I would fain hear it now.
3/Mon.              Hark! while you spoke,
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze
Which even like death came o'er me-'twas a night
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon.
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves,
And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth,
Clothed with a phantom life; when, after years
Of battle and captivity, I spurr'd
My good steed homewards.-Oh! what lovely dreams
Rose on my spirit!-There were tears and smiles,
But all of joy! —And there were bounding steps,
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love
D tir twine so fondly round the warrior's neck
When his plumed helm is doff'd-Hence, feeble thoughts!
-I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine!
Raim. And were they realized?
Ml3on.                      Youth! Ask me not,
But listen!-I drew near my own fair home 
There was no light alon, its walls, no sound
Of' bugle, pealing from the watch-tower's height
At my approach, although my trampling steed
Made the earth ring; yet the wide gates were thrown
All open.-Then my heart misgave me first,
And on the threshold of my silent hall
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by
With the same deep and dirge-like tone, which pierced
My soul e'en now.-I call'd-my struggling voice
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's names;
They answer'd not-I roused my failing strength,
And wildly rush'd within.-And they were there.
Raim. And was all-well?
lion.                  Ay, well!-for death is well,
And they were all at rest!-I see them yet,
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail'd
To stay th' assassin's arm!
Raim. Oh, righteous Heaven!
Who had done this?
Mon.            Who!
Pro.                   Canst thou question, who?
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds,
In the cold blooded revelry of crime,
But those whose yoke is on us?
Raim.                    Man of woe!
What words hath pity for despair like thine?
Mon. Pity!-fond youth!-My soul disdains the grief
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies,
To ask a vain companionship of tears,
And so to be relieved!
Pro.               For woes like these,
There is no sympathy but vengeance.




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                23
illon.                        None!
Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts
Might catch the spirit of the scene!-Look round!
We are in the awful presence of the dead;
Within yon tomb they sleep, wlose gentle blood
Weighs down the murderer's soul. —They sleep!-but I
Am wakeful o'er their dust!-I laid my sword,
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone,
As on an altar; and the eternal stars,
And heaven, and night, bore witness to Mny vow,
No more to wield it, save in one great cause,
The vengeance of the grave!-And now the hour
Of that atonement comes! [He takes the sword from the tomb.
Baim. My spirit burns!
And my full heart almost to bursting swells.
-Oh! for the day of battle!
Pro.                   Raimond, they
Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die,
-But not in battle.
Rairm.         How, my father?
Pro.                          No!
Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach
Another lesson.-But the appointed hour
Advances.-Thou wilt join our chosen band,
Noble Montalba?
fIon.        Leave:he for a time,
That I may calm my soul by intercourse.
With the still dead, before I mix with men,
And with their passions. I have nursed for years,
[n silence and in solitude, the flame
Which doth consume me; and it is not used
Thus to be look'd or breathed on.-Procida!
I would be tranquil-or appear so-ere
I join your brave confederates. Through my heart
There struck a pang-but it will soon have pass'd.
Pro. Rernember! —in the cavern b.y the cross.
Now, fbllow me, my son.   [Exeunt PROCIDA acnd RAIiaorm_
1160n. (After a pause, leaning on the tomb.) Said he,
"' y son?" —Now, why should this man's life
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son,
And I be desolate?-How strange a sound
Was that-" my son!"-I had a boy, who might
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow
As doth this youth.-Why should the thought of him
Thus haunt me?-When I tread the peopled ways
Of life again, I shall be pass'd each hour
By fathers with their children, and I must
Learn calmly to look on.-Methinks'twere now
A gloomy consolation to behold
All'men bereft, as I am!-But away,
Vain thoughts!-One task is left for blighted hearts,
And it shall be fulfill'd.            [Exit MONTAL3A.




24           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
SCENE IV.-Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by Rocks ana
Forests  A rude Cross seen among the Rocks.
PROCIDA, RAIMOND.
Pro. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies
Of midnight, and in solitary caves,
Where the wild forest creatures make their lair —
Is't thus the chiefs of' Sicily must hold
The councils of their country?
Raim.                   Why, such scenes
In their primeval majesty, beheld
Thus by faint starlight, and the partial glare
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire
Far deeper thoughts than pillar'd halls, wherein
Statesmen hold weary vigils.-Are we not
O'ershadow'd by that Etna, which of old
With its dread prophecies, hath struck dismay
Through tyrant's hearts, and bade them seek a home
In other climes?-Hark! from its depths e'en now
What hollow moans are sent!
Enter MONTALBA, GuIDO, and other SICILIANS.
Pro. Welcome, my brave associates!-We can share
The wolf's wild freedom here!-Th' oppressor's haunt
Is not'midst rocks and caves. Are we all met?
Sicilians. All, all!
Pro.            The torchlight, sway'd by every guol,
But dimly shows your features. Where is he
Who from his battles had return'd to breathe
Once more without a corselet, and to meet
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles,
Blent with his dreams of home?-Of that dark talb
The rest is known to vengeance!-Art thou here,
With thy deep wrongs, and resolute despair,
Childless Montalba?
M1on. (advancing.) He is at thy side,
Call on that desolate father, in the hour
When his revenge is nigh.
Pro.                  Thou, too, come forth,
From thine own halls an exile!-Dost thou inake
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still,
While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls,'Wave their proud blazonry?
First Sicilian.        Even so. I stood,
Last night, before my own ancestral towers
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat
On my bare head-what reck'd it?-There was joy
Within, and revelry; the festive lamps
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs,
I' th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deemn'i
Who heard their melodies!-but there are thoughts
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows
Known to the mountain echoes.-Procida!




THE VESPERS OF I'ALEItMO.
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh.
Pro. I knew a young Sicilian-one wvhose heart
Should be all fire. On that rmost guilty day,
When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower
Of the land's knight-ood perish'd; he, of whom
I speak, a weeping boy, wh ise innocent tears
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid,
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms,
Calling upon his fith-,r, whose last look
Tuirn'd full on hirn its parting agony,
The father's blood gush'd o'er h;'m! —and the boy
Then dried his itears, and with a kindling eye,
And a proud flush on his youlng cheek, look'd up
To the bright heaven.-Doth he remember still
That bitter hour?
Second Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword
Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.
Pro. Our land shows gallantly-but there are men'Who should be with us now, had they not dared
In some wild moment of festivity
To give their full he arts way, and breathe a wish
For freedom!-and some traitor-it might be
A breeze perchance-bore the ftrbidden sound
To Eribert:-so they must die-unless
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select
Some other victim first! —But have they not
Brothers or sons among us?
Gui.                   Leeok on me!
I nave a brother-a youn!g high-soul'd boy,
And beautiful as a sculptor's Dre(am, with brow
That wears, amidst its (lark rich curls, the stamp
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is
A. glorious creature!-But hi. doom is seal'd'With their's of whom you spoke; and I have knelt— Ay, scorn me not!'twas for his life-I knelt
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on
That heartless laugh of cold malignity
We know so well, and spurn'd me.-But the stain
Oc shame like this, takes blood to wash it off;
And thus it shall be cancel'd!-Call on me,
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
Pro. I call upon thee o20w! The land's high soul
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues
To deeper life befobre'it. Inhis chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom!-Ay,'tis thus
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame
With most unconscious hands.-No praise be hers
For what she blindly works!-Wheil slavery's cup
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant
To dull our senses, through each burning vein
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength
VoL. 11-3




G6           I'TH'E VESPERS OF PALERMO.
To burst man's fetters-and they shall be burst!
[ have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy; but a power
Abides in human will, when bent with strong
Unswerving energy on one great aim,
To make and rule its fortunes!-I have been
A wanderer in the fullness of my years,
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas,
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands,
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near:
But we must give the signal. Now, before
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye
Is on our hearts-whose righteous arm befriends
The arm that strikes for freedom-speak! decree
The fate of our oppressors.
MIon.                Let them fall
When dreaming least of peril!-When the heart,
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget
That hate may smile, but sleeps not.-Hide the sword
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls
Of' banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines
Red in the iestal torchlight; meet we there
And bid them welcome to the feast of death.
Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words
Scarce meet our ears.
MIlon. Why, then, I thus repeatTheir import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth
In some free festal hour-and woe to him
Who first shall spare!
Raim.            Must innocence and guilt
Perish alike?
M1on.     Who talks of innocence?
When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence e
Let them all perish!-Heaven will choose its own,
Why should their children live?-The earthquake whelms
Its undistinguish'd thousands, making graves
Of peopled cities in its path-and this
Is heaven's dread justice-ay, and it is well!
Why then should we be tender, when the skies
Deal thus with man?-What if the infant bleed?
Is there hot power to hush the mother's pangs?
What if the youthful bride perchance should fall
In her triumphant beauty?-Should we pause?
As if death were not mercy to the pangs
Which make our lives the records of woes?
Let them all perish!-And if one be found
Amidst our band to stay th' avenging steel
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love,
Then be his doom as theirs! (A pause.) Why gaze ye thus!
Brethren, what means your silence!
Sicilians.                    Be it so!
If one among us stay th' avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
-- ----  ~~ —-— C —-~ CI —T-~ —~   ~ -   _~_~_~~  1_-__  _ U




TIlE VESPERS OF PALERMO.              27
Pledge we our faith to this?
Raim. (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith to thie!
No! I but dreamt I heard it:-Can it be?
My countrymen, my father!-Is it thus
That freedom should be won?-Awake!-awake
To loftier thoughts!-Lift up, exultingly,
On the crown'd heights and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner!-Let your trumpet's blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger's yoke no longer!-What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,.Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at-ay, yours and mineA murderer! Heard ye?-Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days?-Oh friends! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Oi the elder timne as rallying words to ilen,
Sounds full of might and immortality!
And shall not ours be such?
ila1on.              Fond dreamer, peace!
Fame! What is fame?-Will our unconscious dust
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave,
At the vain breath of praise?-I tell thee, youth,
Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst,
Which must be quench'd though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.                                   I 
Pro.               Oh, my son!
The time is past for such high dreams as thine,
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly faith
And chivalrous honor are but things whereon
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
And, for our names-whate'er the deeds by which
We burst our bondage-is it not enough
That in the chronicle of davs to come,
We, through a bright "Fdr Ever," shall be call'd
The men who saved their country?
Raim.                       Many a land
Hath bow'd beneath the yoke, and then arisen,
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,
And on the open field, before high heaven,
Won such majestic vangeance, as hath made
Its name a power on earth.-Ay, nations own
It is enough of glory to be call'd
The children of the mighty, who redeem'd
Their native soil —but not by means like these.
Mon. I have no children.-Of Montalba's blood
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins




THE VEiPERS OF' ALERMU.
Of aught that breathes?-Why, what have I to do
With far futurity?-My spirit lives
But in the past.-Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, then return,
Strong in thy desolation; but till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
Raim.                  Montalba! know,
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power among you, I would say
Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet
As knights, as warriors!
Mon.              Peace! Have we not borne
Th' indellible taint of contumely and chains?
We are not knights and warriors. Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy! we are slaves-and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave's disgrace.
Raim.                Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your counsels. He that still
Would hold his lofty nature undebased,
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
Pro. And is it thus indeed?-dost thou forsake
Our cause, my son!
Raim.          Oh, father! what proud hopes
This hour hath blighted!-yet, whate'er betide,
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven's bright face-and this is mine,
And shall be still.              [      Ex it RaIMoND.
Pro.          He's gone!-Why, let it be!
I trust our Sicily hath many a son
Valiant as mine. Associates!'tis decreed
Our ibes shall perish. We have but to name
The hour, the scene, the signal.
M1on.                     It should be
In the full city, when some festival
Hath gather'd throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts
To brief security. Hark! is there not
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze?
\,re gre betray'd.-Who art thou?       [VITTuRIA enters.
Pro.                        One alone
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil
That shades thy noble brow.
[She raises her veil, the Sicilians draw back with respect.j
Sicilians.                Th' affianced bride
Of our lost king!
Pro.          And more, Montalba; know
Within this form there dwells a soul as high
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved,
Or patriots on the scaffold
W~tit.               Valiant men!




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO                93
I come to ask your aid. You see me, one [
Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held
In token and memorial of the dead.
Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth,
But to behold one great atonement made,
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts,
A tyrant's will should force me to profane
Heaven's altar with unhallow'd vows-and live
Stung by the keen unutterable scorn
Of my own bosom, live-another's bride?
Sicilians: Never, oh, never!-fear not, noble lady!
Worthy of Conradin!
Vit.            Yet hear me still,
tIis bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears
With his insulting eye of cold derision,
And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works,
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes,
-Say, is this meet?
Gui.           We deem'd these nuptials, lady
Thy willing choice; but'tis a joy to find
Thou art noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs,
This shall not be.
Pro.         Vittoria, thou art come
To ask our aid-but we have need of thine.
Know, the completion of our high designs
Requires-a festival; and it must be
Thy bridal!
Vit.    Procida!
Pro.             Nay, start not thus,'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair
With festal garlands, and to bid the song
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No-nor yet
To meet your suitor at the glitt'ring shrine,
Where death, not love, awaits him?
Vit.                        Can my sorld
Dissemble thus?
Pro.         We have no other means
Of winning our great birthright back from those
Who have usurp'd it, than so lulling them
Into vain confidence, that they may deem
All wrongs forgot; and this may be best done
By what I ask of thee.
SMon.            Then we will mix
With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feaas
The harvest of' the grave.
Vit.                A bridal day!
-Must it be so?-Then, chiefs of' Sicily,
I bid you to my nuptials! but be there
With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus alone
Mly guests should be adorn'd.
Pro.                  And let thy banquet
3*




30'I'HE VESPERS OF PAIlERMO.
Be soon announced, for there are noble  en
Sentenced t) die, for whom we fain would purchase
Reprieve with other blood.
Vit.                Be it then the day
Preceeding that appointed for their doomm.
Gui. My brother, thou shalt live!-Oppression boasts
No gilt of prophecy!-it bult remains
To name our signal, chiefs!
I0o7.               The Vesper-bell!
Pi o. Even so-the Vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band,
YW.oaring the guise of antic revelry,,~t 11 enter, as in some fantastic pageant,
Tlhe halls of Eribert; and at the hour
Devw,ted to the sword's treimendous task,
I follow with the rest.-The Vesper-bell!
That sound shall wake th' avenger; for'tis come,
The time when power is in a voice, a breath,
To burst the spell which bound us. But the night
Is waning, with her stars, which, one by one
NWIarn us to part. Friends, to your holmes!-y ur homes?
That name is yet to win.-Away, prepare
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls.
The Vesper-bell! Remember!
Sicilians.              Fear us not.
The Vesper-bell!                         rExeunt oemnre
ACT I1I.
SCENE 1.-Apartment in a L:atace.
ERIBERT, VITTORIA.
Vit. Speak not of love-it is a word with deep
Strange magic in its melancholy sound,
To summon up the dead; and they should rest,
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things
WVe must throw from us, when the heart would gather
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes;
Therefore, no more of love!-But, if to robe
This form itt bridal ornamnents-to smile
(I can smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand
At th' altar by thy side; —if this be deem'd
Enough, it shall be done.
Eri.                My fortune's star
Doth rule th' ascendant still! (Apart.)-If not of love,
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy,
And with exulting heartFit.                 - There is no joy!
-Who shall look through the far futurity,
And, as the shadowy visions of events
Develop on his gaze,'midst their dim throng,
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say,




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
"This will bring happiness?"-Who shall do this?
-Who, thou and I, and all!-There's One, who sits
In His own bright tranquillity enthroned,
High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond
Their thickest clouds; but we, from whose dull eyes
A grain of dust hides the great sun —e'n we
Usurp his attributes, and ta!k, as seers,
Of future joy and grief!
Eri.               Thy words are'strange.
Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace
To thy majestic beauty.-Fair Vittoria!
Oh! if my caresVit.           I know a day shall come
Of peace to all. Ev'n from my darken'd spirit.
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised,
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down.
Serenely to repose. Of' this no more.
I have a boon to ask.
Eri.            Command my power,
And deem it thus most honor'd.
Vit.                     Have I then
Soar'd such an eagle pitch, as to command
The mighty Eribert?-And yet'tis meet;
For I bethink me now, I should have worn
A crown upon this forehead. Generous lord!
Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bearing
A sense of deep repose, have lull'd me oft
To peace-which is forgetfulness; I mean
The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be
The summons to our bridal-Hear you not?'ro our fair bridal!
Eri.          Lady, let your will
Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless'd,
Proving my homage thus.
Vit.                Why, then,'tis mine
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day,
And I may be content. Yet much remains
For thought to brood on, and I would be left
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert!
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now
Part we a few brief hours; and doubt not, when
I'm at thy side once more, but I shall stand
There-to the last!
Eri.           Your smiles are troubled, ladyMay they e'er long be brighter! Time will seem
Slow till the Vesper-bell.
-Fit.'Tis lover's phrase
To say-Time lags; and therefore meet for you:
But with an equal pace the hour moves on,




32            THE VESPERS OF PALERAIO.
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing,
Pleasure or-fate,
Eri.         Be not so full of thought
On such a day,-Behold, the skies themselves
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile
Unshadow'd by a cloud.
Vit.'Tis very meet
That Heaven (which leves the just) should wear a smile
In honor of his fortunes.-Now, my lord,
Forgive me if' I say, farewell until
Th' appointed hour.
Eri.          Lady a brief farewell. [Exeunt separately.
SCENE II.-The Seashore.
PROCIDA, RAIMOND.
Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory
Of this, our daring enterprise?
Raim.                    Oh, father!
I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word,
Hath to my soul been as a trampet's voice,
Making my nature sleepless -But the deeds
Whereby'twas won-the high exploits, whoseLtale
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast
Than such as thou requirest.
Pro.                   Every deed
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim
The freedom of our country; and the sword
Alike is honor'd in the patriot's hand,
Searching'midst warrior-hosts, the heart which gave
Oppression birth; or flashing through the gloom
Of' the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch,
At dead of night.
Baim. (turning away.) There is no path but one
For noble natures.
Pro.          Wouldst thou ask the man
Who to the earth hath dash'd a nation's chains,
Rent as with Heaven's own lightning, by what means
The glorious end was won!-Go, swell th' acclaim:
Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path
To that most bright and sovereign destiny
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it call'd
A stern necessity but not a crime!
Bairn. Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn'd
Ev'n from thy voice.-The high remembrances
Of other days are stirring in the heart
Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of men
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild
Acts that would bear Heaven's light-and suchbe mine!
Oh, father! is it yet too late to draw
The praise and blessing of' all valiant hearts




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                33
On our most righteous cause?
Pro.                    What wouldst thou do?
Rairn. I would go forth, and rouse th' indignant land
To generous combat. Why should freedom strike
Mantled with darkness?-Is there not more strength
Ev'n in the waving of her single arm
Than hosts can wield against her!-I would rouse
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless
To its proud sphere-the stormy field of fight!
Pro. Ay! and give time and warning to the foe
To gather all his might:-It is too late.
There is a work to be this eve begun,
When rings the Vesper-bell: and, long before
To-morrow's sun hath reach'd i' th' noonday heaven
His throne of burning glory, every sound
Of the Provengal tongue within our walls,
As by one thunderstroke-(you are pale my son)Shall be forever silenced!
Raim.              What! such sounds
As falter on the lip of infancy,
In its imperfect utterance T or are breathed
By the fond mother, as she lulls her babe?
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air
Pour'd by the timid maid?-Must all alike
Be still'd in death; and wouldst thou tell my heart
There is no crime in this?
Pro.                 Since thou dost feel
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power
Are means that might avert it.
tRaim.                   Speak! oh speak!
Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name,
Shouldst thou betray us!
Raim.              Father! I can bearAy, proudly woo-the keenest questioning
Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty,
-The power that searches thought.
Pro. (after a pause.)        Thou hast a brow
Clear as the day-and yet I doubt thee, Raimond!
Whether it be that I have learn'd distrust
From a long look through man's deep-folded heart 
Whether my paths have been so seldom cross'd
By honor and fair mercy, that they seem
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus
My unaccustom'd gaze; —howe'er it beI doubt thee!-See thou waver not-take heed.
Time lifts the veil from all things!    [Exit PRocID. 
Raimrn.                     And'tis thus
Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith
We clothed our idols, drop!-Oh! bitter day,
When, at the crushing of our glorious world,




34           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
We start, and find men thus!-Yet be it so!
Is not my soul still powerful in itself
To realize its dreams?-Ay, shrinking not
From the pure eye of Heaven, my brow may well
Undaunted meet my father's.-But away!
Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance!-Love is yet
Mightier than vengeance.                [Exit Rmnox-D
SCENE III.-Gardens of a Palace.
CONSTANCE, alone.
Con. There was a time when my thoughts wander'd not
Beyond these fairy scenes!-when but to catch
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze
From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest,
Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade
Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough
Of happiness.-How have these calm delights
Fled from before one passion, as the dews,
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled
By the great sun!                      [RAIMOND enters.
Raimond! oh! now thou'rt comeI read it in thy look-to say farewell
For the last time-the last!
Raim.               No, best beloved!
I come to tell thee there is now no power
To part us but in death.
Con.               I have dreamt of joy,
But never aught like this.-Speak yet again 
Say we shall part no more!
Baim.                 No more, if love
Can strive with darker spirits, and he is strong
In his immortal nature! all is changed
Since last we met. My father-keep the tale
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance,
From Eribert-my father is return'd:
I leave thee not.
Con.         Thy father! blessed sound!
Good angels be his guard!-Oh! if he knew
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate
Even a Provengal maid!-Thy father!-now
Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see
The sunny happiness of earlier days
Look from thy brow once more!-But how is this?
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine 
And in thy look is that which ill befits
A tale of joy.
Raim.      A dream is on my soul.
I see a slumberer, crown'd with fowers, and smiling
As in delighted visions, on the brink
Of a dread chasm; and this strange fantasy
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts
il_._ _  --,_ ____ _  _.. _  1Zt




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                D
I cannot but be sad.
Con.           Why, let me sing
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well,
And this will banish it
Raim.            It may not be.
Oh! gentle Constance, go not forth to-day;
Such dreams are ominous.
Con.                 Have you then forgot
My brother's nuptial feast?-I must be one
Of the gay train attending to the shrine
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy
Will print earth lightly now.-What fear'st thou, love t
Look all around! the blue transparent skies,
And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase
All thought of evil.-Why, the very air
Breathes of delight!-Through all its glowing realms
Doth music blend with fragrance, and e'en here
The city's voice of jubilee is heard.
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds
Of human joy!
Raim.        There lie far deeper thingsThings that may darken thought for life, beneath
That city's festive semblance. I have pass'd
Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark'd
A stern intelligence in mecting eyes,
Which deem'd their flash unnoticed, and a quick
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe
Its mien with carelessness; and now and then,
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand
Pointingby stealth to some one, singled out
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide
Much from unpractised eyes; but lighter signs
Have been prophetic oft.
Con.               I tremble!-Raimond!
What may these things portend?
Raim.                      It was a day
Of festival, like this; the city sent
Up through her sunny firmament a voice
Joyous as now; when, scarcely heralded
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths
The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid scene
Became one chaos of all fearful things,
Till the brain whirl'd, partaking the sick motion
Of rocking palaces.
Con.           And then dist thou,
My noble Raimond! through the dreadful paths
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms,
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had given
One burial unto thousands, rush to save
Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to bless




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Thy generous love, that still the breath of Heaven
Wafts gladness to her soul!
Raim.                 Heaven!-Heaven is just
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one, still.
Trust none beside.-Oh! the omnipotent skies
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares,
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad,
Mask'd as a reveller. Constance! oh! by all
Our tried affection, all the vows which bind
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers,
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell
Doth. sound for vesper-prayer!
Con.                     And knowst thou no'Twill be the bridal hour?
Raim.               It will not, love!
That hour will bring no bridal!-Naught of this
To human ear; but speed thou hither-fly,
When evening brings that signal.-Dost thou heed?
This is no meeting by a lover sought
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves
And stars attest its vows, deem thou not so,
Therefore denying it!-I tell thee, Constance!
If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair
As falls on man, beholding all he loves
Perish before him while his strength can but
Strive with his agony-thou'lt meet me then?
Look on me, love!-I am not oft so movedThou'lt meet me?
Con.         Oh! what mean thy words?-If then
My steps are free,-I will. Be thou but calm.
Bairn. Be calm!-there is a cold and sullen calm,
And, were my wild fears made realities,
It might be mine; but in this dread suspense,This conflict of all terrible fantasies,
There is no calm.-Yet fear thou not, dear love!
I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell
Until that hour!
Con.        My Raimond, fare thee well.     [Exeuznt,
SCENE IV.-Room in the Citadel of Palermo.
ALBERTI, DE CouCI.
De Cou. Said'st thou this night?
Alb.                       This very night-and lo!
E'en now the sun declines.
De Cou.              What! are they arin'd?
Alb. All arm'd, and strong in vengeance and despair.
De Cou. Doubtful and strange the tale! Why was not this
reveal'd before?
Alb.              Mistrust me not, my lord.
That stern and jealous Procida hath kept




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                 37
O'er all my steps (as though he did suspect
The purposes which oft his eye hafth sought
To read in mine) a watch so vigilant,
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this
Alone I mingled with his bands, to learn'ITheir projects and their strength. Thou know'st my taith'I o Anjou's house full well.
De Cou.                How may we now
Avert the fathering storm!-The viceroy holds
His bridal Teast, and all is revelry.
-'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart
Which kept me from these nuptials.
Alb.                          Thou thyself
May'st yet escape, and, haply of thy bands
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance
Upon these rebels.'Tis too late to dream
Of saving Eribert. E'en should'st thou rush
Before him with the tidings, in his pride
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh
Thy tale to scorn.
De Cou.        He must not die unwarn'd,
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti,
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well,
And shalt not pass unguerdon'd should I live
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching night.
Alb. Noble De Couci trust me still. Anjou
Commands no heart more lktithfid than Alberti's.
[Exit ALBERi!i.
De Cou. The gyrovelling slave!-And yet he spoke too true!
For Eribert, in brild elated joy,
Will scorn the warning voice.-The day wanes fast,
And through the city, recklessly dispersed,
Unarm'd and unprepar'd, my soldiers revel,
E'e n on the brink of fate.-I must away.    [Exit DE Couct.
SCNE V.-A Banqueting Hall. Provencal Nobles assembled.
1st Noble. Joy be to -this fair meeting?-Who hath seen
The viceroy's bride?
2d IV'ble.       I saw her, as she pass'd
Tbe gzntrgs assembled in the city.'Tis si   ehahntleft for years, till now,
These proud Sicilians, that her wide domains
Should be the conqueror's guerdon.
3d Noble.'Twas their boast
With what fond faith she worshipp'd still the name
Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves
Brook this new triumph of their lords?
2d Noble.                         In sooth
It stings them to the quick. in thle full street's
They mix with our Provengals and assume
VOL. it-A_




38           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO
A guise of mirth, but it sits haidly on them.'Twere worth a thousand festivals, to see
With what a bitter and unnatural effort
They strive to smile!
1st Noble.       Is this Vittoria fair?
2d Noble. Of a most noble mien; but yet tier beauty
Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye,
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power,
From which thou'lt shrink as I did.
1st Noble.                   Hush! they come.
Enter ERIBERT, VTrrTORIA, CONSTANCE, and others.
Eri. Welcome, my noble friends!-There must not lower
One clouded brow tc-day in Sicily!
-Behold my bride!
Nobles.        Receive our homage, lady!
Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer
Prove worthy of such guests!
Eri.                   Look on her, friends!
And say, if that majestic brow is not
Meet for a diadem?
Vit.'Tis well, my lord!
When memory's pictures fade-'tis kindly done
To brighten their dimm'd hues!
1st Noble (apart.)        Mark'd you her glance!
2d Noble (apart.) What eloquent scorn was there?
Yet he, th' elate
Of heart, perceives it not.
Eri.               Now to the feast!
Constance, you look not joyous. I have said
That all should smile to-day.
Con.                   Forgive me, brother;
The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp
At times oppresses it.
Eri.            Why, how is this?
Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony
Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay,
Since'tis your wish. —in truth, I should have been
A village maid.
Eri.       But being as you are,
Not thus ignobly free, command your looks
(They may be taught obedience) to reflect
The aspect of the time.
Fit.              And know, fair maid!
That if in this unskill'd, you stand alone
Amidst our court of pleasure.
Eri.                   To the feast!
Now let the red wine foam!-There should be mirth
When conquerors revel!-Lords of this fair isle!
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge
The present and the future! fbr they both
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride?




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                39
Vit. Yes, Eribert!-thy prophecies of joy
Have taught e'en: ze to smile.
Eri.'Tis well. To-day
I have won a fair and almost royal bride;
To-morrow-let the bright sun spread his course,
To waft me happiness! —my proudest foes
Must die —and then my slumber shall be laid
On rose-leaves, with no envious fold, to mar
The luxury of its visions!-Fair Vittoria,
Your looks are troubled!
Vit.              It is strange, but oft,'Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul
Death comes, with some dull image! as you spoke
Of those whose blood is claim'd,  thought'for them
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long:
How blessed were the stroke which makes them thinp
O )f that invisible world, wherein, we trust,
i'here is at least no bondage!-But should we
From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys.ontend for mastery, and the very sense
Of life is rapture; should we pass, I say,
At once from such excitements to the void
knd silent gloom of that which doth await us-Were it not dreadful?
Eri.               Banish such dark thoughts
rhey ill beseem the hour.
Vit.               There is no hour
Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe,
3ut they beseem it well!-W-hy, what a slight,
mpalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which sevens
teing from death!-And who can tell how near
Its misty brink he stands?
1st Noble (aside.)    What mean her words?
2d Noble. There's some dark mystery here.
Eri.                       N o more of this!
Pour the bright juice which Etna's glowing vines
Yield to the conquerors! And let music's voice
Dispel these ominous dreams!-Wake, harp and song!
Swell out your triumph!
A ~Messenger enters bearing a letter.
Al'es.          Pardon, my good lord!
But this demandsEri.             What means thy breathless haste 
And that ill-boding mien? —Away! such looks
Befit not hours like these.
iles.              The Lord de Couci
Bade me bear this, and say,'tis fraught with tidings
Of life and death.
Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a time for aught
But revelry?-My lord, these dull intrusions
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!




40           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Eri. (to the messenger.) Hence! tell the Lord De Couci,we
will talk
Of life and death to-morrow.            [Exit messenger
Let there be
Around me none but joyous locks to-day,
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!
[A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of m.usic
disguised as shepherds, bacchanals. l~c.]
Eri. What forms are these?-What means this antic
triumph?
Vit.'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not
Hear their wild musc? Our Sicilian vales
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody,
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain
fMeet fbr the time, ye sons of Sicily!
(One of the Milasquers sings.)
The festal eve, o'er earth and sky,
In her sunset robe, looks bright,
And the purple hills of Sicily,
With their vineyards, laugh in light;
From the marble cities of her plains,
Glad voices mingling swell;
-Bat with yet more loud and lofty strains,
They shall hail the Vesper-bell!
Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze
Their cadence wafts afar,
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas,
As they gleam to the first pale star!
The shepherd greets them on his height,
The hermit in his cell;
-But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night,
In the sound of the Vesper-bell!    [The bell rings.
Eri. It is the hour!-Hark! hark!-my bride, our summons!
The altar is prepared and crown'd with flowers
That waitVit.           The victim!
[A tumult heard without.
PROCIDA and MONTALBA enter, with others, armed.
Pro.               Strike! the hour is come!
Vit. Welcome, avengers, welcome! Now, be strong!
[The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush, with
their swords drawn, upon the Provencals. ERIBERT
is wounded, and falls.
Pro. Now hath fate reach'd thee in thy mid career,
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies!
[The Provencals are driven off, and pursued by the
Sicilians.
Con. (supporting ERIBERT.) My brother! oh! my brother!
Eri.           Have I stood




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                 41
A leader in the battle-fields of kings,
To perish thls at last?-Ay, by these pangs,
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep,
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins,
This should be-death! In sooth, a dull exchange
For the gay bridal feast!                    [spare none!
Vfoices (without.) Remember Conradin! —spare none!Vrit. (throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments.) This
is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast,
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling
To earth forever! And it is such joy,
As if a captive from his dull, cold cell,
Might soar at once, on charter'd wing, to range
The realms of starr'd infinity! Away!
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain
Is come; and I may give my bursting heart
Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert!
Believe in retribution! What! proud man!
Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem Heaven slept?
" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers,
Ranging the world, to note e'en purposed crime
In burning characters, had laid aside
Their everlasting attributes for thee?"
O blind security.-He, in whose dread hand
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach'd
His pyramid-height of power; that so his fall
May, with more tearful oracles, make pale
Man's crown'd oppressors!
Con.                  Oh! reproach him not!
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink
Of that dim world where passion may not enter.
Leave him in peace.
Voices. (without.) Anjou, Anjou!-De Couci, to the rescue!
Eri. (half raising himself.) My brave Provencals! do ye
combat still'?
And I, your chief, am here!-Now, now I feel
That death, indeed, is bitter!
Vit.                   Fare thee well!
Thine eyes so oft, with their insulting smile,
Have look'd on man's last pangs, thou shouldst by this,
Be perfect how to (lie!                   [Exit VITTORIA.
RAIMOND enters
Raim.              Away, my Constance!
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands
Are scatter'd far and wide. A little while
And thou shalt be in safety. Know'st thou not
That low, sweet vale, where dwells the holy man,
Anselmo ] He whose hermitage is rearld'Mid some old temple's ruins — Round the spot
4*




,42          THE VESPERS OF PALERMO
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm,'Tis hallow'd as a sanctuary, wherein
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm
Have spent its fury. Haste!
Con.                   I will not fly!
While in his heart there is one throb of life,
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave
The brother of my youth to perish thus,
Without one kindly bpsom to sustain
His dying head.
Eri.       The clouds are darkening round.
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear
That summon me-to what?-But I have been
Used to command!-Away! I will not die
But on the field-                              He dies.
Con. (kneeling by him.) Oh Heaven! be merciful
As thou art just!-for he is now where nought
But mercy can avail him.-It is past!
GUIDO enters with his sword drawn.
Gui. (to RAIMOND.) I've sought thee long-Why art thou
lingering here?
Haste, follow me!-Suspicion with thy name
Joins that word-Traitor!
Raim.               Traitor!-Guido?
Gui.                                Yes!
Hast thou not heard, that, with his men-at-arms,
After vain conflict with a people's wrath,
De Couci hath escaped?-And there are those
Who murmur that from thee the warning came
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e'en yet,
In the red current of Provengalblood,
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword,
And follow me!
Raim.      And thou couldst doubt me, Guido!'Tis come to this!-Away! mistrust me still.
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine.
Thou know'st me not.
Gui.             Raimond di Procida!
If thou art he whom once I deem'd so nobleCall me thy friend no more!                [Exit Gumno.
Raim. (after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise!
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfill'd,
E'en in the face of death; but all is o'er,
And this is now no place where nature's tears
In quiet sanctity may freely flow.
-Hark the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar
Cf fast-advancing billows; and for thee
I shame not thus to tremble.-Speed! oh, speed!   [Exeunt




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                43
ACT IV.
SCENE I. —  street in Palermo
PROCIDA enters.
Pro. How strange and deep a stillness loads the air,
As with the power of midnight!-Ay, where death
Hath pass'd, there should be silence.-But this hush
Of nature's heart-this breathlessness of all things,
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky,
With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds
Brooding in sullen masses o'er my spirit
Weighs like an omen!-Wherefore should this be?
Is not our task achieved, the mighty work
Of our deliverance?-Yes; I should be joyous:
But this our feeble nature, with its quick
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down
Th' ascending soul.-And I have fearful bodings
That treachery lurks amongst us.-Raimond! aimond!
Oh! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb!
It cannot be!
MONTALBA, GUIDO, and other Sicilians enter.
Pro.     Welcome! we meet in joy'!
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming
The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare,
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil,
To weave us chains again?-Ye have done well.
2Ion. We have done well. There need no choral song,
No shouting multitudes, to blazon fbrth
Our stern exploits.-The silence of our fobes
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task
Is still but half achieved, since, with his bands,
De Couci hath escaped, and, doubtless, leads
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes
Wili gather all their strength. Determined hearts,
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required,
To make the mighty sacrifice complete.Where is thy son?
Pro.         1 know not. Once last night
He cross'd my path, and with one stroke beat down
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored
My own, which in that deadly strife had been
Wrench'd from my grasp; but when I would have press'd him
To my exulting bosom, he drew back,
And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile,
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour
1 have not seen hirn. Wherefore didst thou ask?
llfon. It matters not. We have deep things to speak ofKnow'st thou that we have traitors in our councils?
Pro. I know some voice in secret must have warn'd
De Couci, or his scatter'd bands had ne'er
So soon been rnarshall'd, and in close array




44           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Led nence as from the field.-Hast thou heard aught
That may develope this?
2lIon.              The guards we set
To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn,
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step,
Betray'd his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore
(Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to himThe fugitive Provengal. Read and judge!
Pro. Where is this messenger?
1on.                       Where should he be?They slew him in their wrath.
Pro.                   Unwisely done!
Give me the scrolls. (He reads.) Now, if there be suchb things
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay
The pang which gives release; if there be power
In execration, to call down the fires
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts
But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap'd
Upon the traitor's head!-Scorn make his name
Her mark for ever!
lIon.         In our passionate blindness,
We send fbrth curses, whose deep stings recoil
Oft on ourselves.
Pro.         Whate'er fate hath of ruin
Fall on his house!-What! to resign again
That freedom for whose sake our souls have now
Engrain'd themselves in blood!-Why, who is he
That hath devised this treachery?-To the scroll
Why fix'd he not his name, so stamping it
With an immortal infamy, whose brand
Might warn men from hin?-Who should be so vile?
Alberti?-In his eye is that which ever
Shrinks from encountering mine!-But no! his race
Is of our noblest-Oh! he could not shame
That high descent!-Urbino?-Conti?-No!
They are too deeply pledged.-There's one name more!
-I cannot utter it!-Now shall I read
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot
From man's high mien its native royalty,
And seal his noble forehead with the impress
Of its own vile imaginings! —Sealk your thoughts,
Montalba! Guido!-Who should this man be?
31on. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night
His sword to aid our foes, and turn'd its edge
Against his country's chiefs.-He that did this,
May well be deem'd for guiltier treason ripe.
Pro. And who is he?
JlIon.            Nay, ask thy son.
Pro.                                My son!
What should he know of such a recreant heart?
Speak, Guido! thou'rt his friend!




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                45
sui.                       I would not wear
The brand of such a name!
Pro.                  How? what means this?
A flash of light breaks in upon my soul!
Is it to blast me?-Yet the fearful doubt
Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before,
And been flung from them.-Silence!-Speak not yet!
I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst
With a strong heart.                         [A pause.
Now, what have I to hear?
Your tidings?
Gui.       Briefly,'twas your son did thus!
lie hath.disgraced your name.
Pro.                     My son did thus!
Are thy words oracles, that I should search
Their hidden meaning out?-What did my son?
I have forgot the tale.-Repeat it, quick!
GZui.'Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While we
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites
Of retribution; while we bathed the earth
In red libations, which will consecrate
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step
Through the long march of ages:'twas his task
To shield from danger a Provengal maid,
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung
Our hearts to madness.
fklon.            What! should she be spared
To keep that name from perishing on earth?
-I cross'd them in their path, and raised my sword
To smite her in her champion's arms.-We fought.
The boy disarm'd me!-And I live to tell
My shame, and wreak my vengeance!
Gui.                            Who but he
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt
These scrolls reveal?-Itath not the traitor still
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence,
To win us from our purpose?-All things seem
Leagued to unmask him.
Mon.                Know you not there came,
E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci,
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings
Of all our purposed deeds?-And have we not
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves
The sister of that tyrant?
Pro.                 There was one
Wlio mourn'd for being childless!-Let him now
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join
The revelry!
Mion. (apart.) You shall be childless too!
Pro. Was't you, Montalba!-Now rejoice, I say!
There is no name so near you, that its stains
Should call the fever'd and indignant blood




46           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
To your dark cheek!-But I will dash to earth
The weight that presses on my heart, and then
Beglad as thou art.
Sa1ion.         What means this, my lord?
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien?
Pro. Why, should not all be glad who have no son,
To tarnish their bright name?
Mon.                    I am not used
To bear with mockery.
Pro.               Friend! By yon high Heaven,
I mock thee not!-'Tis a proud fate, to live
Alone and unallied.-Why, what's alone?
A word whose sense is-free!-Ay, free from all
The venom'd stings implanted in the heart
By those it loves.-Oh! 1 could laugh to think
O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls,
When the word comes —" A son is born!"-A son!
-They should say thus-" He that shall knit your brow
To furrows, not of years; and bid your eye
Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame,
Is born, and so rejoice!"-then might we feast,
And know the caus6!-Were it not excellent?
lMion. This is all idle. There are deeds to do:
Arouse thee, Procida!
Pro.             Why, am I not
Calm as immortal Justice!-She can strike,
And yet be passionless-and thus will I.
I know thy meaning.-Deeds to do!-'tis well.
They shall be done ere thought on.-Go ye forth:
There is a youth who calls himself my son.
His name is-Raimond-in his eye is light
That shows like truth-but be not ye deceived!
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see
The strength which girds our nature. Will not this
Be glorious, brave Montalba?-Linger not,
Ye tardy messengers! for there are things
Which ask the speed of storms.
[Exeunt GUIDO and others
Is not this well?
Mon.'Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height(Aside.) And then be desolate like me!-my woes
Will at the thought grow light.
Pro.                      What now remains
To be prepared?-There should be solemn pomp
To grace a day like this.-Ay, breaking hearts
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs
From cold enquiring eyes; and it must be
Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not
Explore what lies beneath.               [Exit PROCIDm.
v1on.                 Now this is well!
-I hate this Procida; for he hath won




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                47
In all our councils that ascendency
And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should have been
Mine by a thousand claims.-Had he the strength
Of wrongs like mine?-No! for that name-his countryHe strikes-my vengeance hath a deeper fount:
But there's dark joy in this!-And fate hath barr'd
My soul from every other.             [Exit MONTALBA.
ScENEr II.-A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an
Ancient Temple.
CONSTANCE, ANSELMO.
Con.'Tis strange he comes not!-Is not this the still
And sultry hour of noon?-He should have been
Here by the daybreak.-Was there not a voice?
-" No!'tis the shrill Cicada, with glad life
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports
Amidst them in the sun."-Hark! yet again!
No! no! forgive me, father! that I bring
Earth's restless griefs and passions, to disturb
The stillness of thy holy solitude:
My heart is full of care.
Ans.               There is no place
So hallow'd, as to be unvisited
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes
Lonely and still, where he that made our hearts
Will speak to them in whispers? I have known
Affliction too, my daughter.
Con.                   Hark! his step!
I know it well-he comes-my Raimond, welcome!
VITTORIA enters, CONSTANCE shrinks back on perceiving her.
Oh, Heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale.
Vit. (not observing her.) There is a cloud of horror on my
soul; 
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait,
Even as an echo, following the sweet close
Of some divine and solemn harmony:
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me
Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart
Sink, like a storm rebuked.
Ans.                  What recent grief
Darkens thy spirit thus?
Vit.               I said not grief
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not
That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe
Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown,
Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now
Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice!'There is a cause, Anselmo!-We are free



48           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Free and avenged!-Yet on my soul there hangs
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom
Of midnight fantasies.-Ay, for this, too,
There is.a cause.
Ans.         How say'st thou, we are free?There may have raged, within Palermo's walls,
Some brief wild tumult, but too well I know
They call the stranger lord.
Vit.                 Who calls the dead
Conqueror or lord?-Hush! breathe it not aloud
The wild winds must not hear it!-Yet, again,
I tell thee we are free!
Ans.              Thine eye hath look'd
On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang
O'er its dark orb.-Speak! I adjure thee, say,
How hath this work been wrought?
Vit.                      Peace! ask me not!
Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood
Back on its fount?-We cannot wake them now!
The storm is in my soul, but they are all
At rest!-Ay, sweetly may the slaughter'd babe
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men,
Who'midst the slain have slumber'd oft before,
Making the shield their pillow, may repose
Well, now their toils are done.-ls't not enough?
Con. Merciful Heaven! have such things been? And ve%
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky!
-I am an outcast now.
Ans.               O thou, whose ways
Clouds mantle fearfully; of all the blind,
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath,
How much is man the fiercest!-Others know
Their limits-Yes! the earthquakes, and the storms,
And the volcanoes!-He alone o'erleaps
The bounds of retribution!-Couldst thou gaze,
Vittoria! with thy woman's heart and eye,
On such dread scenes unmoved?
Vit.                      Was it for me
To stay th' avenging sword?-No, though it pierced
My very soul! —Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks
Ring through the air around me!-Canst thou not
Bid them be hush'd?-Oh! look not on me thus!
Ans. Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks
Which are but sad!-Have all then perish'd? all?
Was there no mercy!
Vit.            Mercv! It hath been
A word forbidden as th' unhallow'd names
Of evil powers.-Yet one there was who dared
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid
The victims! but in vain.-Of him no more!
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death
Will be his meed.




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                49
Con. (coming forward.) Oh, Heaven! —his name, his name!
is it-it cannot be!
Vit. (starting.) Thou here, pale girl!
1 deem'd thee with the dead!-How hast thou'scaped
The snare!-Who saved thee, last of all thy race!
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now,
Raimond di Procida?
Con.            It is enough.
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink.
Must he too die?
Fit.        Is it e'en so?-Why then,
Live on-thou hast the arrow at thy heart!
"Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes,"
I mean not to betray thee. Thou may'st live!
Why should death bring thee his oblivious balms!
He visits but the happy.-Didst thou ask
if Raimond too must die?-It is as sure
As that his blood is on thy head, for thou
Didst win him to this treason.
Con.                   When did men
Call mercy treason?-Take my life, but save
My noble Raimond!
Vit.           Maiden! he must die.
E'en now the youth befbre his judges stands,
And they are men, who, to the voice of prayer
Are as the rock is to the murmur'd sigh
Of'summer waves! ay, though a father sit
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me.
What wouldst thou?
Con.            Mercy!-Oh! wert thou to plead
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved!
If thou hast ever lovedVit.              If I have loved?
It is that love forbids me to relent;
I am what it hath made me.-O'er my soul
Lightning hath pass'd, and sear'd it. Could I weep
I then might pity-but it will not be.
Con. Oh! thou wilt yet relent, for woman's heart
Was form'd to suffer and to melt.
Vit.                       Away!
Why should I pity thee?-Thou wilt but prove
What I have known before-and yet I live!
Nature is strong, and it may all be borneThe sick impatient yearning of the heart
For that which is not; and the weary sense
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been
Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne
All, save remorse.-But I will not bow down
My spirit to that dark power;-there was no guilt!
Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt?
Ans. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken though
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze,
VOL. II.-5




50          THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Keen lightning to a look.
Vit.               Leave me in peace!
Is't not enough that I should have a sense
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark,
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words,
Old man, should gall me, too?-Must all conspire
Against me?-Oh! thou beautiful spirit! wont
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love,
Where art thou vanish'd?-Was it not the thought
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task,
And wilt thou now forsake me?-I must seek
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance,
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths;
-Here I but meet despair!              [Exit VITORIL
Ans. (to CONSTANCE.) Despair not thou,
My daughter!-He that purifies the heart
With grief will lend it strength.
Con. (endeavoring to rouse herself.) Did she not say
That some one was to die?
Ans.                  I tell thee not.
Thy pangs are vain-for nature will have way.
Earth must have tears; yet in a heart like thine,
Faith may not yield its place.
Con.                   Have I not heard
Some fearful tale?-Who said that there should rest
Blood on my soul' —What blood 2-I never bore
Hatred, kind father, unto aught that breathes;
Raimond doth know it well.-Raimond!-High Heaven,
It bursts upon me now!-and he must die!
For my sake-e'en for mine!
Ans.                  Her words were strange,
And her proud mind seem'd half to frenzy wrought
-Perchance this may not be.
Con.                  It must not be.
Why do I linger here?              [She rises to depart,
Ans.             Where wouldst thou go?
Con. To give their stern and unrelenting hearts
A victim inhis stead.
Ans.             Stay! would'st thou rush
On certain death?
Con.          I may not falter now.
- Is not the life of woman all bound up
In her affections?-What hath she to do
In this bleak world alone?-It may be well
For man on his triumphal course to move,
Uncumber'd by soft bonds; but we were born
For love and grief.
Ans.         Thou fair and gentle thing,
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak
Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst thou
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Or face the King of Terrors?
Con.                   There is strength
Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck
But little, till the shaft of heaven have pierced
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?-Oh! now I feel
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn'd
To look on death for me!-My heart hath given
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith.As high in its devotion.              [Exit CONSTANCE.
Ans.     -         She is gone!
[s it to perish?-God of mercy! lend
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save
This pure and lofty creature! —I will follow,
But her young footstep and heroic heart
Will bear her to destruction faster far
Than I can track her path.               [Exit ANSELcMO.
SCENE III.-Hall of a Public Building.
PROCIDA, MONTALBA, GurDo, and others, seated as on a
Tribunal.
Pro. The morn tower'd darkly, but the sun hath now
With fierce and angry splendor, through the clouds
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold
This our high triumph.-Lead the prisoner in.
[RAIMOND is brought in, fettered and guarded.
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here!
-Is this man guilty?-Look on him, tIontalba!.llon. Be firm. Should justice falter at a look?
Pro. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes are filleted,
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyselfBut no! I will not breathe a traitor's nameSpeak! thou art arraign'd of treason.
Raim.                         I arraign
You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt,
In the bright face of Heaven; and your own hearts
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks
Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink,
With a perturb'd and haggard wildness, back
From the too-searching light. —Why, what hath wrought
This change on noble brows?-There is a voice
With a deep answer, rising from the blood
Your hands have coldly shed!-Ye are of those
From whom just men recoil with curdling veins,
All thrill'd by life's abhorrent consciousness,
And sensitive feeling of a nritrderer's presence.
-Away! come down from your tribunal-seat,
Put off your robes of' state, and let your mien
Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at,
More than the pestilence.-That I should live




52           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
To see my father shrink!
Pro.               Montalba, speak!
There's something chokes my voice-but fear me not
llIon. If we must plead to vindicate our acts,
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear,
Most eloquent youth! What answer capst thou maLke
To this our charge of treason 2 
Raim.                   I will plead
That cause before a mightier judgment-throne,
Where mercy is not guilt. But here 1 feel
Too buoyanfly the glory and the joy
Of' my free spirit's whiteness- for e'en now
The embodied hideousness of' crime doth seem
Befbre me glaring out.-Why, I saw thee,
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast,
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings.
-And thou thy sword-Oh, valiant chief!-is yet
Red from the noble stroke, which pierced at once
A mother and the babe, whose little life
Was from her bosom drawn!-Immortal deeds
For bards to hymn!
Gui. (aside.)    I look upon his mien,
And waver.-Can it be?-My boyish heart
Deem'd him so noble once!-Away, weak thoughts!
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine,
From his proud glance?
Pro.              Oh, thou dissembler! thou,
So skill'd to clothe with virtue's generous flush
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy,'rhat, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce
Believe thee guilty!-look on me, and say
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes,
And forge new fetters for the indignant land T
Whose was this treachery?            [Shows him papers
Who hath promised here
(Belike to appease the manes of the dead)
At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates
And welcome in the foe?-Who hath done this,
But thou-a tyrant's friend W
Baim.                 Who hath done this?
Father!-if I may call thee by that nameLook, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles
Were masks that hid their daggers.-There, perchance,
May lurk what loves ilot light too strong. For me
I know but this-there needs no deep research
To prove the truth-that murderers may be traitors
Even to each other.
Pro. (to MONTALBA.) His unaltering cheek
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue,
And his eye quails not!-Is this innocence?
flon. No!'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of crime.




THE VESPERS OF PALEll \IU.            53
-Thou bear'st a gallant mien!-But where is she
Whom thou hast barter'd fame and life to save,
The fair Provenqal maid'-What! know'st thou not
That this alone were guilt, to death allied?
Was't not our law that he who spared a foe
(And is she not of that detested race?)
Should thencefbrth be amongst us as a foe?
-Where hast thou borne her. —speak!
Raimt.           That Heaven, whose eye
Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance,
Is with her: she is saft.
Pro.               And by that word
Thy doom is seal'd.-Oh God! that I had died;te:ore this bitter hour, in the full strength
Atild glurry of my heart!
GONSTANCE enters, and rushes to RArtMOND.
CRon.                Oh! art thou found?
— But yet, to find thee thus!-Chains, chains for thee
My brave, my noble love!-Off with these bonds;
Let him be free as air: for I am come
To be your victim now.
Raimn.             Death has no pang
More keen than this.-Oh! wherefore art thou here?
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee
Saved, and at peace.
Con.            At peace!-And thou hast thought
Thus poorly of my love!-But wornan's breast
Hath strength to suffer too.-Thy father sits
On this tribunal Raimond, which is he?
Raim. My father! who hath lull'd thy gentle heart
With that false hope? —Beloved! gaze aroundSee if thine eye can trace a father's soul
In the dark looks bent on us.
[CONSTANCE, after earnestly examining the countenanres of
the Judges, falls at the feet of PROCIDA.
Thou art he!
Nay, turn thou not away! for I beheld
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist
Pass o'er thy troubled eye; and then I knew
Thou wert his father!-Spare him i take?ny life!
In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his,
But yet mine all.-Oh! he hath still to run
A long bright race of glory.
Raim.                 Constance, peace!
I look upon thee, and my failing heart
Is as a broken reed.
Con. (still addressing PROCIDA.) Oh, yet relent!
If'twas his crime to rescue me, behold
I come to be the atonement! Let him live
To crown thine age with honor.-In thy heart
There's a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield 
5*
_ _._..7..    _.7.. _._.7._...




54           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
-Thou art his father!
Pro. (after a pause.) Maiden, thou'rt deceived!
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature
Ere the full thunder bursts.-A judge is not
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son?
-My son!-Ay, thus his mother proudly smiledBut she was noble!-Traitors stand alone,
Loosed from all ties.-Why should I trifle thus 1
-Bear her away!
Raim. (starting forward.) And whither.
Mon.                 Unto death.
Why should she live, when all her race have perish'd 
Con. (sinking into the arms of RAIMOND.) Raimond, farewell!-Oh! when thy star hath risen
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved,
I died for thee!
Raim.      High Heaven! thou see'st these things,
And yet endurest them!-Shalt thou die for me,
Purest and loveliest being?-but our fate
May not divide us long.-Her cheek is coldHer deep blue eyes are closed-Should this be death
-If thus, there yet were mercy!-Father, father!
Is thy heart human?
Pro.           Bear her hence, I say!
Why must my soul be torn!
ANSELMO enters, holding a Crucifix.
Ans.                   Now, by this sign
Of Heaven's prevailing love, ye shall not harm
One ringlet of her head.-How! is there not
Enough of blood upon your burthen'd souls?
Will not the visions of your midnight couch
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap
Crime upon crime?-Be ye content: your dreams,
Your counsels, and your banquetings, will vet
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep,
E'en though this maid be spared!-Constance, look up!
Thou shalt not die.
Raim.          Oh! death e'en now hath veil'd
The light of her soft beauty.-Wake, my love!
Wake at my voice!
Pro.           Anselmo, lead her hence,
And let her live, but never meet my sight.
-Begone! my heart will burst.
Raimrn.                  One last embrace.
-Again life's rose is opening on her cheek;
Yet must we part.-So love is crush'd on earth!
But there are brighter worlds!-Farewell, farewell!
[He gives her to the care of ANSELMO.
Con. (slowly recovering.) There was a voice which call'd
me.-Am I not
A spirit free'd from earth?-Have I not pass'd
The bitterness of death?




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                55
Ans.               Oh, haste away!
Con. Yes! Raimond calls me.-He too is released
From his cold bondage. We are free at last,
And all is well.-Away!       [She is led out by ANsELro
Raim               The pang is o'er,
And I have but to die.
M1on.             Now, Procida,
Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid
All thy deep soul's commanding energies;
For thou-a chief among us-must pronounce
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee.
Pro. Ha! ha!-Men's hearts should be of softer mould
Than in the elder time.-Fathers could doom
Their children then witth an unfaltering voice,
And we must tremble thus!-Is it not said
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now
So full of days?
ilion.      Rouse up thy mighty heart.
Pro. Ay, thou say'st right. There are souls which tower
As landmarks to mankind.-Well, what's the task 1
-There is a man to be condemn'd, you say?
Is he then guilty?
All.         Thus we deem of him
With one accord.
Pro.         And hath he naught to plead?
Raim. Naught but a seul unstain'd.
Pro.                           Why, that is little
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them,
And conscience may be sear'd.-But, for this sentence!
-Was't not the penalty imposed on man,
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die?
-It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice
Unto eternal justice; and we but
Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark souls
To th' elements from among us. Be it so!
Such be his doom!-I have said. Ay, now my heart
is girt with adamant, whose cold weiaht doth press
its gasping down.-Offl' let me breathe in freedom!
-Mountains are on my breast!            [He sinks back
Mlion.                   Guards, bear the prisoner
Back to his dungeon.?aim.            Father! oh, look up;
Thou art my father still!
Gui. (leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the neck oj
RAIMoND.)       Oh! Raimond, Raimond!
If it should be that I have wrong'd thee, say
Thou dost forgive me.
Raim.            Friend of my young days,
So may all-pitying Heaven!          [RAIVMOND is led out.
Pro.                  Whose voice was that?
Where is he?-gone? Now I may breathe once more
In the free air of heaven. Let us away.    [Exeunt omnee.




56           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
ACT V.
SCENE I.-A prison dimly lighted.
RAIMOND sleeping. ~ PROCIDA enters.
Pro. (gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he then sleep?-Th'
overshadowing night hath wrapt
Earth, at her stated hour; the stars have set
Their burning watch; and all things hold their course
Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep
Sat on mlne eyelids since-but this avails not!
And thus he slumbers! —" Why, this mien doth seem
As if' its soul were but one lofty thought
Of an immortal destiny!"-his brow
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens
Are imaged silently.-Wake, Raimond, wake!
Thy rest is deep.
Maim. (starting up.) My father! Wherefore here?
I am prepared to die, yet would 1 not
Fall by thy hand.
Pro.'Twas not for this I came.
Raim. Then wherefore — and upon thy lofty brow
Why bums the troubled flush?
Pro.                    Perchance'tis shame.
Yes, it may well be shame!-For I have striven
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpower'd.
-Howe'er it be,'tis not for thee to gaze,
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains,
Arise and follow me; but let'thy step
Fall without sound on earth: 1 have prepared
The means for thy escape.
Raim.               What! thou! the austere,
The inflexible Procida? hast thou done this,
Deeming me guilty still!
Pro.               Upbraid me not!
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds
By Roman fathers done,-but I am weak.
Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste,
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be
To realms beyond the deep; so let us part
In silence, and for ever.
Raim.              Let him fly
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men!
-I can sleep calmly here.
Pro.                 Art thou in love
With death and infamy, that so thy choice
Is made, lost boy! when freedom courts thy grasp!
Rairm. Father! to set th' irrevocable seal
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me,
There needs but flight.-What should I bear from this,




THE VESPERS OF PA LERMO.               t
My native land T —a blighted name, to rise
And part me, with its dark remembrances,
For ever from the sunshine!-O'er my soul
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny
Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here
On earth, my hopes are closed.
Pro.                     Thy hopes are closed
And what were they to mine? —Thou wilt not fly!
Why, let all traitors flack to thee, and learn
How proudly guilt can talk!-Let fathers rear
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild-birds
Foster their young; when these can mount alone,
Dissolving nature s bonds, why should it not
Be so with us.
Raim.      Oh, father!-Now I feel
What high prerogatives belong to death.
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence,
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues,
And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever
Live shelter to our faults."-When I am gone,
The mists of passion which have dirnm'd my name
Will melt like day dreams; and my memory then
Will be-not what it should have been-for I
Must pass without my fame-but yet unstain'd
As a clear morning dewdrop. O! the grave
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's,
And they should be my own!
Pro.                   Now, by just Heaven
I will not thus be tortured!-Were my heart
But of' thy guilt or innocence assured,
I could be calm again. " But, in this wild
Suspense-this conflict and vicissitude
Of opposite feelings and convictions-What!
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend
All spirits to my purpose: have I raised
With a severe and passionless energy,.From the dread mingling of their elements,
Storms which have rocked the earth!-And shall I now
Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn
And plaything, of the winds?"-Look on me, boy!
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep
Its heart's dark secret close.-Oh, pitying Heaven!
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle,
And tell me which is truth.
Baim.                 I will not plead.
I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest
My innocence. No, father, in thy heart
I know my birthright shall be soon restored;
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed
The great absolver.
Pro.           Oh! my son, my son!




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
We will not part in wrath!-The sternest hearts,
Within their proud and guarded fastnessess,
Hide something still, round which their tendrils clmg
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me!
The all which taught me that my soul was cast
In nature's mould.-And 1 must now hold on
My desolate course alone!-Why, be it thus!
He that doth guide a nation's star should dwell
High o'er the clouds, in regal solitude,
Su ficient to himself.
Raim.           Yet, on the summit,
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee.
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath,
Yet might have soar'd as high!
Pro.                     No, fear thou not!
Thou'lt be remember'd long. The canker-worm
O' th' heart is ne'er forgotten.
Raim.                   " 0! not thus-,
I would not thus be thought of."
Pro.                      Let me deem
Again that thou art base!-for thy bright looks,
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth,
Then would not haunt me as the avenging powers
Follow'd the parricide. Farewell, farewell!
I have no tears.-O! thus thy mother look'd,
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile,
All radiant with deep meaning, from her deathbed
She gave thee to my arms.
Raim.                Now Death has lost
His sting, since thou heliev'st me innocent.
Pro. (wildly.) Thou innocent!-Am I thy murderer, their I
Away! I tell thee thou hast made my name
A scorn to men!-No! 1 will not forgive thee;
A traitor!-What! the blood of Procida
Filling a traitor's veins?-Let the earth drink it;
Thou would'st receive our foes!-but thsy shall meet
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold
As death can make it!-Go, prepare thy soul!
azmim. Father! yet hear me!
Pro.                     No! thou'rt skill'd to make
E'en shame look fair.-Why should I linger thus 7
[Going to leave the prison, he turns back for a moment
If there be aught-if aught-for which thou need'st
Forgiveness-not of me, but that dread power
From whom no heart is veil'd-delay thou not
Thy prayer.-Time hurries on.
faim.                    I am prepared.
Pro.'Tis well.                        [Exit PROcIDA.
Rairn. Men talk of torture!-Can they wreak
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame,
Half the mind bears and lives?-My spirit feels




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                55
Bewilder'd; on its powers this twilight gloom
Hangs like a weight of earth.-It should be morn;
Why, then, perchance, a beam of Heaven's bright sun
Hath pierced, ere -now, the grating of my dungeon,
Telling of hope and mercy!      [Exit into an inner cell
SCENE II.-A Street of Palermo.
_Many Citizens assembled.
1st Cit. The morning breaks; his time is almost come:
Will he be led this way?
2d Cit.             Ay, so'tis said,
To die before that gate through which he purposed
The foe should enter in.
3d Cit.'Twas a vile plot!
And yet I would my hands were pure as his
From the deep stain of blood. Did'st hear the sounds
I' the air last night?
2d Cit. Since the great work of slaughter,
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours
Which should be silent?
3d Cit.            Oh! the fearful mingling,
The terrible mimicry of human voices,
In every sound which to the heart doth speak
Of woe and death.
2d Cit.       Ay, there was woman's shrill
And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail
Of dying infants; and the half-suppress'd
Deep groan of man in his last agonies.
And now and then there swell'd upon thg, beze
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far
Than all the rest.
1st Cit.     Of our own fate, perchance,
These awful midnight wailings may be deem'd
An ominous prophecy.-Should France regain
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have
Stern reckoners to account with.-Hark!
[Sound of trumpets heard at a distance,
2d Cit.'Twas but
A rushing of the breeze.
3d Cit.            E'en now,'tis said,
The hostile bands approach.
[The sound is heard gradually-drawing nearer
2d Cit.                Again! that sound
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swellsThey come, they come!
PRocIDA enters.
Pro.               The foe is at your gates;
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset:
Why are you loitering here?
Cit.                    My lord, we camePro. Think ye I know not wherefore?-'twas to see




J0           THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
A fellow-being die!-Ay,'tis a sight.Man loves to look on, and the tenderest hearts
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene.
For this ye came.-What! is our nature fierce,
Or is there that in mortal agony,
From which the soul, exulting in its strength,
Doth learn immortal lessons? —Hence, and arm!
Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen
Enough of death; for this must be a day
Of battle!-'Tis the hour which troubled souls
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings
Which bear them up!-Arm, arm!'tis for your homes,
And all that lends them loveliness-Away!.      [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-Prison of RAIMOND.
RAIMIOND, ANSELMO.
Raimn. And Constance then is safe!-Heaven bless thee,
father!
Good angels bear such comfort.
Ans.                       I have found
A safe asylum for thine honor'd love,
Where she may dwell until serener days,
With Saint Rosalia's gentlest daughters; those
Whose hallow'd office is to tend the bed
Of pain and death, and sooth the parting soul
With their soft hymns: and therefore are they call'd
"Sisters of Mercy."
Raim.           Oh! that name, my Constance,
Befits thee well! E'en in our happiest days,
There was a depth of tender pensiveness,
Far in thine eyes' dark azure, speaking ever
Of pity and mild grief.-Is she at peace?
Ans. Alas! what should I say? 
Raim.                        Why did I ask?
Knowing the deep and full devotedness
Of her young heart's affections?-Oh! the thought
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams,
Which should have been so tranquil!-And her soul
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love,
Even unto death will sicken.
Ans.                   All that faith
Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes;
And still, whate'er betide, the light of Heaven
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit master'd and prepared
For nature's fearful and mysterious change?
Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die!-And yet thte cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Ctown'd with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO                 61
Is-glory!-Oh! my soul, from boyhood's morn
fIath nursed such mighty dreams!-It was my hope
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds,
Into the far hereafter; there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep iomb.
Murmuring-Awake!-Arise!-But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seem'd enough of shame,
To sleep forgotten in the dust-but now
01 sod!-the undying record of my grave
Will be-Here sleeps a traitor!-One, whose crime,
Was-to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer's dagger!
Ans.                        Oh, my son,
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou would'st not change
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams wilf hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain'd soul
Doth conjure from the dead!
Raim.                  Thou'rt right. I would not.
Yet'tis a weary task to school the heart,
Ere years or griefs have tanmed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude,
Which is but learn'd from suffering.-Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!
Ans. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard
-But no-the rush, the trampling, and the stir
Of this great city arming in her haste,
Pierce not these dungeon-depths.-The foe hath reach'd
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all
Her warrior men, are marshall'd, and gone forth
In that high hope which makes realities,
To the red field. Thy father leads them on.
Raimn. (starting up.) They are gone forth! my father leads
them on!
All-all Palermo' youth!-No! one is left,
Shut out from glory's race!-They are gone forth!
-Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad,
It burns upon the air!-The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle's roaring billows!-On my sight
The vision bursts-it maddens!'tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Cf rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun!-The very steed
Which his majestic rider glorying shares
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane
As a triumphant banner!-Such things are
Even now-and I am here!
Ans                    Alas, be calm!
To the same grave ye press,-thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.
VOL ry. —-.




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
Raim.                Ay! Thou canst feel
The calm thou would'st impart, for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne.-Yet call it not the same;
Their graves who fall in this day's fight, will be
As'altars to their country, visited
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths,
And chanting hymns in honor of the dead:
Will mine be such 
VITTORIA rushes in, wildly, as if pursued.
Vit.               Anselmo! art thou found!
Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice,
Whereby they deem Heaven speaks, thy lifted cross,
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives,
Or shame them back to die.
Ans.                   The fugitives!
What words are these?-the sons of Sicily
Fly not before the foe?
Vit.              That I should say
It is too true!
Ans.      And thou-thou bleedest, lady!
Vit. Peace! heed not me, when Sicily is lost!
I stood upon the walls, and watch'd our bands,
As, with their ancient royal banner spread,
Onward they march'd. The combat was begun,
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men
Had seal'd their freedom with their blood-when, lo!
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals
To join th' invader's host.
Raim                 His country's curse
Rest on the slave for ever!
Vit.                   Then distrust
E'en of their noble leaders, and dismay,
That swift contagion, on Palermo's bands
Came like a deadly blight. They fled!-Oh shame!
E'en now they fly!-Ay, through the city gates
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams,
Pursued their wing'd steps!
Raim.                  Thou hast not named
Their chief-Di Procida —He doth not fly?
Vit. No! but like a kingly lion in the toils,
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives;
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,
With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.
maim. And 1 am here! Shall there be power, Oh God!
In the roused energies of fierce despair,
To burst my heart-and not to rend my chains?
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt
To set the strong man free!




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                03
Vrit. (after gazing at him earnestly.) Why,'twere a deed
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time,
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida!
Thou art no traitor!-from thy kindled brow
Looks out thy lofty soul!-arise! go forth!
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste;
Unbindhim! Let my spirit still prevail,
Ere I depart-for the strong hand of death
Is on me now.            [She sinks back against a pillar.
Ans.       Oh Heaven! the life-blood streams
Fast.fom thy heart-thy troubled eyes grow dim.
Who hath done this?
Vit.            Before the gates I stood,
And in the name of him, the loved and lost,
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe,
Fraught with my summons, to his viewless home,
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me.
Ans.                             Yet, oh yet,
It may not be too late. Help, help!
Vit.                          Away!
Bright is the hour which brings me liberty!
Attendants Enter.
Haste, be those fetters riven!-Unbar the gates,
And set the captive free!
(The Attendants seem to hesitate.) Know ye not her
Who should have worn your country's diadem?
Att. Oh! lady, we obey.
[They take off RAIMOND'S chains. He springs up exultingly.
Raim.                 Is this no dream?
Mount, eagle! thou art free!-Shall I then die,
Not'midst the mockery of insulting crowds,
But on the field of banners, where the brave
Are striving for an immortality?It is e'en so!-Now for bright arms of proof,
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet
MY father may be saved!
Vit.                Away, be strong!
And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm,
Be-Conradin.                             [He rushes out,
Oh! for one hour of life,
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shout
Of victory! It will not be!-A mightier power
Doth summon me away.
Ans.               To purer worlds
Raise thy last thoughts in hope.
Vit.                     Yes I! he is there,
All glorious in his beauty!-Conradin!
Death parted us-and death shall reunite!




64           THE VESPERS OF PALERAMI
He will not stay-it is all darkness now!
Night gathers o'er my spirit.                 [She dies.
Ans.                   She is gone!
it is an awful hour which stills the heart
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, Heaven!
[He kneels beside her.
SCENE IV.-Before the gates of Palermo.
Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates
Voices. (without.) Montjoy! Montjoy! St. Dennis for Anjou!
Provengals on!
Sicilians.   Fly, fly, or all is lost!
[RAMIOND appears in the gateway, armed, and carrying a
banner.
Raim. Back, back, I say! ye men of Sicily!
All is not lost! Oh! shame! A few brave hearts
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts
Against the rush of thousands, and sustain'd,
And made the shock recoii.-Ay, man. free man,
Still to be call'd so, hath achieved such deeds
As heaven and earth have marvell'd at; and souls,
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come,
Shall burn to hear; transmitting brightly thus
Freedom from race to race -Back! or prepare
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very shrines,
To bleed and die in vain!-Turn!-follow me!
Conradin, Conradln! -for Sicily
His spirit fights!-Remember Conradin!
[They begin to rally round him.
Ay, this is well!-Now, follow me, and charge!
[The Provenlcals rush in, but are repulsed by the Sicilian,,
-Exeunt.
SCENE V.-Part of the field of Battle.
MONTALBA enters, wounded, and supported by RAIMON;,
whose face is concealed by his helmet.
Raim. Here rest thee, warrior.
Mon.                        Rest! ay, death is rest,
And such will soon be mine.-But, thanks to thee,
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian!
These lips are all unused to soothing words,
Or I should bless the valor which hath won,
For my last hour, the proud free solitude
Wherewith my soul would gird itself.-Thy name?
Raim.'Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba.
Gaze-read it thus!       [He lifts the visor of his helmet.
31on. Raimond di Procida!
_Raim. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate:
But fire the well!-Heaven's peace be with thy soul I
I must away.-One glorious effort more,




TIIE VESPERS OF PALERMO.              65
And this proud field is won!    [       Exit RaMroND.
Mon.                   Am I thus humbled 1
How my heart sinks within me! But'tis death
And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued
Mly towering nature thus t Yet is he welcome!
That youth —'twas in his pride he rescued me!
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved
His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall ifail
To melt me into womanish feebleness.
Th 3re I still baffle him-the grave shall seal
My lips for ever-mortal shall not hear
Montalba say-"forgive! "                     [lie dies.
SCENE VI.-Another part of the Field.
PROCIDA, GUIDo, and other Sicilians.
Pro. The day i>, ours; but he, the brave unknown,
Who turn'd the tide of battle —-he whose path
Was victory-who hath seen him?
ALBERTI is brought in, wounded and fettewdt
Alb.                         Procida!
Pro. Be silent, traitor! Bear him from my sight
Unto your deepest dungeons.
Alb.                   In the grave
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word
Ere my voice fail-thy sonPro.                 Speak, speak!
Alb.                              Thy son
Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot
Was mine alone.            F[-e is led away.
Pro.         Attest it, earth and heaven.
My son is guiltless!-Hear it, Sicily!
The blood of Procida is noble still!My son! —He lives, he lives!-His voice shall speak
Forgiveness to his sire!-His name shall cast
Its brightness o'er my soul!
Gui.                   0 day of joy!
The brother of my heart is worthy still
The lofty name he bears.
ANSELMO enters.
Pro.               Anselmo, welcome!
In a glad hour we meet; for know, my son
Is guiltless.
Ans. And victorious! By his arm
All hath been rescued.
Pro.             How!-the unknownAns.                                    Was tno 
Thy noble Raimond!-by Vittoria's hand
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour
When all was flight and terror.
Pro.                     Now my cup
Of joy too brightly mantles!-Let me prem
6*
j~ ~        ~ _____________________________




66          THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
My warrior to a father's heart-and die;
For life hath naught beyond. Why comes he not?
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy!
Ans. Temper this proud delight.
Pro.                        What means that look 
Ha hath not fallen?
Ans.           He lives.
Pro.                  Away, away!
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour
Atone for all his wrongs!                    [Exeunt.
SCENE VII.-Garden of a Convent.
RAIMoND is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants.
Baim. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die
In the bright face of nature!-Lift my helm,
That I may look on Heaven.
1st Att. (to 2d Attendant.) Lay him to rest
On this green sunny bank, and I will call
Some hoW sister to his aid; but thou
Return unto the field, for high-born men
There need the peasant's aid.    [Exit 2d Attendant.
(To Raim.)            Here gentle hands
Shall tend thee, warrior; for in these retreats
They dwell whose vows devote them to the care
Of all that suffer. May'st thou live to bless them!
[Exit 1st Attendant
Rairn. Thus have I wish'd to die!-'Twas a proud strife!
My father bless'd th' unknown who rescued him,
Bless'd him, alas, because unknown!) and Guido,
Beside me bravely struggling, call'd aloud,
"Noble Sicilian, on!" Oh! had they deem'd'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn'd
Mine aid, though'twas deliverance; and their looks
Had fallen like blights upon me.-There is one,
Whose eye ne'er turn'd on mine, but its blue light
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist
Raised by deep tenderness!-Oh, might the soul
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish!.-Is't not her voice?
CONSTANCE enters, speaking to a Nun, who turns into another
path.
Con.            Oh! happy they, kind sister,
Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall
With brave men side by side, when the roused heart
Beats proudly to the last!-There are high souls
Whose hope was such a death, and'tis denied!
[She approaches RarMONDm
Young warrior, is there aught- Thou here, my Raimond!
Thou here-and thus!-Oh! is this joy or woe?
Raim. Joy, be it joy, my own, ny blessed love,
F'en on the grave's dim verge!-yes! it is joy!




TIHE VESPERS OF PALERMO.               67
My Constance! victors have been crown'd, ere now,
WV ith the green shinning laurel, when their brows
Wore death's own impress-and it may be thus
E'en yet, with me! —rhey freed me, when the foe
Had half prevail'd, and I have proudly earn'd,
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die
Within thine arms.
Con.           Oh! speak not thus-to die!
These wounds may yet be closeci.
[She attempts to bind his wounds.
Look on me, love!
Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien,'Tis full of hope! and front thll kindled eye
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray
Seems born to be immortal!
Raim,'Tis e'en so!
The parting soul doth gather all her fires
Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams,
And burn ng aspirations, to illume
The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path
Which lies before her; and encircled thus,
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares
Are vain and yet 1 bless them.
Con.                     Say not vain;
The dying look not thus. We shall not part!
Raim.  have seen death ere now, and known him wear
Full many a changeful aspect.
Con.                    Oh! but none
Radiant as thine, my warrior!-Thou wilt live!
Look round thee!-all is sunshine-is not this
A smiling world?
Raim.        Ay, gentlest love, a world
Of joyous beauty and magnificence,
Almost too fair to leave!-Yet must we tame
Our ardent hearts to this!-Oh, weep thou not!
There is no home for liberty, or love,
Beneath these festal skies!-Be not deceived;
My way lies far beyond!-I shall be soon
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust,
Forgets not how to love!
Con.               And must this be?
Heaven, thou art merciful!-Oh! bid our souls
Depart together!
Raim.        Constance! there is strength
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved
Nobly, for me: —Arouse it once again!
Thy grief unmans me —and I fain would meet
That which approaches, as a brave man yields
With proud submission to a mightier foe.
It is upon me now!




68            THE VESPERS OF PALER1MO
Con.            I will be calm.
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond,
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs,
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is
A world, (ay, let us seek it I) where no blight
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there
I shall be with thee soon!
PROCIDA and ANSELMO  enter. PROCMDA, on seeing RAItONDm
starts back.
Ans.                 Lift uip thy head,
Brave youth, exultingly! for lo! thine hour
Of glory comes! —Olh! doth it come too late?
E'en now the false Alberti hath confess'd
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom'd
To be th' atonement.
Raim.'Tis enough!  Rejoice
Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name
O'er which thou may'st weep proudly!       [He sinks back.
To thy breast
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart
LHath touch'd my veins.
Con. And must thou leave me, Raimlond?
Alas! thine eye grows dim —its wandering glance
Is full of dreams.
Baim.        Haste, haste, anid tell my ftather
I was no traitor!
Pro. (rush ing forward.) To that father's heart
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return!
Speak to me, Raimond! —Thou wert ever kind,
And brave, aid gentle! Say that all the past
Shall be forgiven!  That word from none but thee
My lips e'er ask'd. —Speak to me once, my boy,
My pride, my hope! —And is it with thee thus?
Look on me yet! —Oh! must this woe be borne?
Baim. Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet
For a crown'd conqueror! —Hark! the trumpet's voice!
[A  sound of triumphant music is heard gradually
approaching.
Is't not a thrilling call? —What drowsy spell
Benumbs me thus? —Hence! I am free again!
Now swell your festal strains —the field is wvon!
Sing me to glorious dreams.                      [He dics.
Ans.                     The strife is past.
There fled a noble spirit!
Con.                  Hush! he sleeps —
Disturb him not!
A ns.          Alas! tnis is no sleep
From which the eye doth radiantly unclose!
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er!
[The  music continues approaching.  GUIDO enters
with Citizens and Soldiers.
Gui. The shrines are deck'd. t:i f-stive torches blaze —
ii-      _________________ --  ~ -    -— ~ - - - -'- " - --   -. -'- - -- - -. —.   -




THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.                      69
[ Where is our brave deliverer?-We are come
To crown Palermo's victor!
Ans.                     Ye came too late.
The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of' spirits.               [The music ceases.
Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust
I look on-Raimond?-'tis but sleep-a smile
On his pale check sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!
Con. (starting.)      Art thou his father?
I know thee now.-Hence! with thy dark stern eye,
And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now!
o Away! he will not answer but to me,
For none like me hath loved him! He is mine!
Ye shall not rend him from me.
Pro.                        Oh! he knew
T:iy love, poor maid!-Shrink from me now no more!
Hi knew thy heart-but who shall tell him now
*i     The depth, the intenseness, and the agony
Of my suppress'd affection?-I have learn'd
All his high worth in time to deck his grave!
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe
To iorce an answer from the viewless world
Of the departed?-Raimond!-Speak! forgive!
Raimond! my victor, my deliverer, hear!
-Why, what a world is this!-Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late: and glory crowns
Th' unconscious dead! An hour comes to break
The mightiest hearts!-My son! my son! is this
A day of triumph!-Ay, for thee alone!
[.lie throws himself upon the body of RaIEIOND. Curtain falls.
ANNOTATION.
ON
" THE VESPERS OF PALERtMO."
"The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatic productions of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life
and action. The samle high strain of moral propriety marks this
piece as all others of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for
glory, for liberty, and for virtue; and on his courage, his forbearance,
the integrity of his love, maining the firmness of his patriotism appear
doubtful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that
soine of its best parts have already found their way into an excellent
selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of
morality to those who are nost susceptible of the interest of tragedy.
"It may not be so generally remlelubered that the samne historical
event was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same
j Ij 




7C                SONGS OF THE CID.
time that the English one was written, and by a poet now of very
great popularity in France. We hesitate not to give the preference
to Mrs. Hemans, for invention and interest, accurate delineation of
character, and adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are
written in a style of finished elegance."-PRo FEssoR NorRTON in the
JVorth American Review, 1827.
SONGS OF THE CID.
The following ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but
are founded upon some of the " wild and wonderful" traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of
the Cid.
THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.
WITH sixty knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains aiar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.'
To march o'er field, and to watch in tent,
Fromn his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting sieoe and the battle's van,
-For the noble Cid was a banish'd man!
Through his olive woods the morn-breeze play'd,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.
With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turned his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers;
-Oh! the exile's heart hath weary hours!
The pennons were spread, and the band array'd,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd
It was but a moment-the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.
There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.2
Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said-" My foemen their w'ish have wonNow the will of God be in all things done!"
But the trumpet blew with its note of cheer,
And the winds of' the morning swept off the tear,
And the fields of his glory lay distant fir,
-He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!




HIS DEATHBED.                   n
THE CID'S DEATHBED.
IT was an hour of grief and fear
Within Valencia's walls,
When the blue Spring-heaven lay still and clear
Above her marble halls.
There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,
And steps of hurrying feet,
Where the Zambra's3 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 deep,
With sounds and signs of war,
For 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 but steadfast mien,4
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 lance 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-strain
From your walls ring far and shrill
And fear ye not, ibr the saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.
"And gird my form with mail-Trray,
And set me on my steed,




SONGS OF THE CID
So go ye forth on your funeral-way,
And God shall give you speed.
"Go with the dead in front of war,
All arm'd with sword and helim,5
And march by the camp of King Bucar,
For the good Castilian realm.
"And let me slumber in the soil
Which gave my fathers birth;
I have closed Iny day of battle-toil,
And my course is done on earth."
-Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave!6
Through the lattice, a wind sweeps by,
And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave,
Send fbrth a hollow sigh.
Now wave ye banners of many a fight!
As the firesh wind o'er you sweeps
The wind and the banners fall hush'd as night,
The Campeador-he sleeps!
Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn.
And swell out the trumpet's blast,
Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail,
For the noble Cid hath pass'd!
THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION
THE Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's towers,
And lances gleam'd tup through her citron-bowvers
And the tents of' the des:art 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 the death-wind sweeps
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps,
There were bows from s Inds where the ostrich runs,
For the shrill horn of Afric had call'd her sons
To the battles ofl the West.
The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard,
Like the roar of w:ters, the air had stmrr'd
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave,
And the camp lay hush'd as a wizard's cave;
But the Christians woke that night.
They rear'd the CiH on his barbed steed,
Like a warrior mail'd for the hour of need,
And they fix'd the sword in the cold right hand,
Which had fougbht so well for his father's land,
And the shield from his neck hung bright.
There was arming heard in Valencia's halls,
There was vigil klept on the rampart walls;




THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSJON.               7r       |
Stars had not faded nor clouds turn'd red,
When the knights had girded the noble dead,
And the burial train moved out.
With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-nmarch of the host begun;
With a silenit step went the cuirass'd bands,
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands,
And they gave no battle-shout.
When the first went forth, it was midnight deep,
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep,
When the last throurgh the cit's gates had gone.
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone,
With a sun-burst frotn the sea.
There were knights five hundred went arm'd before,
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore:6
To its last fair field, with the break of morn,
Was the glorious bonner tn silence borne,
On the glad wind streaming free.
And the Campeador came stately then,
Like the leader circled with steel-clad men!
The heltnet was down, o'er the face of the dead,
And his steed went proud, by a warrior led,
For he knew that the Cid was there.
tie was there, the Cid, with his own good sword,
And Ximena fdllowing her noble lord;
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow,
But their rose not a sound of war or woe,
Not a whisper on the air.
The tIalls in Valenicia were still and lone,
The churches were empty, the nmasses done?
There was not a voice throughl the wide street far.
Nor a foot-fall heard in the Aleazar,
-So tl.e burial train moved out.
VWith a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-march of the host begun!
With a silen't step went the cuirass'd bands,
Like a lion's trea:d on the burning sands;
— And they gave no battle-shout.
But the deep hills peal'd, with a cry ere long,
WVhen the Christians burst on the Pavyli-  throng!.ArTith a saidden flash of the laInce andc spear,
And a charge of the wvar-steed in full career.
It xw:s Alvar Fafiez caile!7'I       He that was wrapt with no funer:,l shrond,
HIad pass'd b: fore, like a threatening cloud!
And the storn: ru- h'd down on the tented plain,
And the Archor-Queen,8'with her bands lay slain,
F'or the Cid upheld his lfhme.
VoL. IT.-7
ii- ---   --           --            Ti__ T         --       -          - ii
ii,j....       -....................




74                SONGS OF THE CID.
Then a tenor fell on the King Bucar,
And the Lybian kings who had join'd his war;
And their hearts grew heavy and died away,
And their hands could not yield an assagay,
For the dreadful things they saw!
For it seem'd where Minaya his onset made,
There were seventy thousand knights array'd,
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep,
And they carne like the fbam of a roaring deep;
-'Twas a sight of fear and awe!
And the crested form of a warrior tall,
With a sword of fire, went before them all;
With a sword of fire, and a banner pale,
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?
Where his banner stream'd with its ghostly light,
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying flight,
For it seem'd not the sword of'man!
The field and the river grew darkly red,
As the kings and leaders of Afiic 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-slain,
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain;
— So the Cid to his grave pass'd on!
THE CID'S RISING.'TWAS the deep mid-watch of the silent night,
And Leon in slumber lay,
When a sound went forth in rushing might,
Like an army on its way!9
In the stillness of the hour,
When the dreams of sleep have power,
And men forget the day.
Throug(h the dark and lonely streets it went.'ril[ the slumberers woke in dread  -
The sound of a passing armament,
With the charger's stony tread.
There was heard no trumpet's peal,
But the heavy tramp of steel,
As a host's to coinbat led.




NOTES.                          75
Through the dark and lonely streets it pass'd,
And the hollow pavenlent rang,
And the towers, as with a sweeping blast,
Rock'd to the stormy clang!
But the march of the viewless train
Went on to a royal fane,
Where a priest his night-hymn sang.
There was knocking that shook the marble floor,
And a voice at the gate which said"That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador,
Was there in his arms array'd;
And that with him, from the tomb,
Had the Count Gonzalez come
With a host, uprisen to aid!
"And they came for the buried king that lay
At rest in that ancient fane
For he must be arm'd on the battle-day,
With them, to deliver Spain?"
-Then the Ymarch went sounding on,
And the AMoors, by noontide sun,
Were dust on Tolosa's plain.
NOTES.
Note 1, page 70, line 4
Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, about two
leagues from Burgos.
Note 2, page 70, line 24.
Tornaba la Cabeza, e estabalos catando:
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin cafiados,
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielies e sin mantos:
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados.
Sospirb mio Cid.         Poem of the Cid.
Note 3, page 71, line 7.
The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the
Cid, many of the Moorish falsilies chose to remain there, and reside
under his go ernment.
Note 4, page 71, line 20.
The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the romances.
Note 5, page 72, line 4.
Banderas antiguas, tristes
De victories un tienlpo amnadas,
Tremolando estan al viento
Y ltoran aunque no hablan, &c.




76     ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.
Herder's translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach Spanischen
Romlanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous
fidelity.
Note 6, page 72, line 11, and page 73, line 15.
"And while they stood there they saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming
up with three hundred knights; for he had not been in the battle,
and they knew his green pennon."-SOUTHEY'S Chronicle of the Cid.
Note 7, page 73, line 43.
Alvar Fafiez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished warriors.
Note 8, page 73, line 47.
The Archer Queen.
A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors, accompallied King Btucar from Atrica. Her arrows were so unerring, that
she obtained the nasme of the Star of Archers.
Una MAora muy gallarda,
Gran mnaestra en el tirar,
Con Saetas del Aijava,
De los arcos de Tl'urqul;a
Estrella era nolnbrada,
Por la destreza que avia
En el herir de la X&ra.
Note 9, page 74, line 34.
See SOUTHEY'S Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352.
ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.
WHENCE art thou, flower? from holy ground,
Where freedoml's foot hath been!
Yet bugle-blast or trumpet sound
Ne'er shook that solenin scene.
Flower of a noble field' thy birth
Was not where spears have cross'd,
And shivemr'd helms have strewn the earth,'2lidst banners won and lost.
But where the sunny hues and showers
Unto thly c(up were given,
There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven.
And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpline deli,
Free as the wind, the torrent's foam,
The shaft of William'Tell.
And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Haltow'd tile p istoral sod,
And s uls,grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peacc of' God.




ON A LEAF FROM TIlE TOMB OF VIRGIL.-FTO    77
Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,
And lose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain land.
Then welcome Gratli's free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
AND was ttly home, pale wither'd thing,
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 thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers, o'er Posilippo's brow,
May cluster in their purple bloom
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's tomb.
Thy place is void; oh! none o01 earth,
T'his crowded earth, may s) renmaln,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.
Another leaf; ere now, hath sprung
On the green stein which once was thine
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?
THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.
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 bloody shield!
Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
Speak not of victory!-in the name
There is too much of woe!
7*




|  78               A FRAGMENT.
Hush'd be the empty voice of FameCall me back his 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 erelong-1 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 strearn'd at midnight from the mountain-hold.
And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour'd 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
Is of the silent house, th' 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 shield.
A FRAGMENT.
REST on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o'er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning waveWe call you back no more!
Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
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.!.ii 




ENGLAND'S DEAD                    79
But we on changeful days are cast,
When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory past,
We cannot mourn ye now.
ENGLAND'S DEAD.
SON of the ocean isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not fbam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the 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 huricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone;There slumber England's dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.
But let the floods lush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?There slumber England's dead!
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs 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.




80           THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
On the frozen deep's repose'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close
And the northern night-clouds lower.
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,Even there sleep England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,
Tile mnen of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, fiee the white sail spread
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not Encgland's dead.
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MIEETING OF WELSH BAEDS,
HIELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.
[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently oe
d(!ined to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous sitaation,
vwhilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the er
pression 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 (Maen Gorsedd, or the
stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon
this stone was the cereumuony which announced the opening of a
Gorsedd, or mreeting. The bards always stood in their uni-colored robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle offederation.-See OWEN's Translation of the I[croic Ele
gics of Llywarch tlcn.]
WHERTE met our bards of old?-the glorious throng,'Ihey of the mountain and the battle song?
Tlhey met-oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild nature girt herself with power:
Ti:ey met-where streams fl:sh'd bright from rocky caves,
They met-where woods made mloan o'er warriors' graves,
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And,'midst th' eternal,:lifls, whose strength defied'
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill,
Bore siient record of the mighty still;
* Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn




THIE MEETING OF THE BARDS.                 81
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech* frown'd,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.
There throng'd th' inspired of yore!-on plain or height,
Ins the 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 freedomn'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 these numbers high?'Twas from the battle fields of days gone by,
And friom the tonmbs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mIountain's breast;
And firom the watch-towers on the heights of'snow,
Sever'd by cloud and storm from all below;
And the turf-mounds,t 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 melnory of heroic men,
On all her hills awtakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,'Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old;
Not where great nature's majesty and might
First broke, all glorious, on our infant sight 
Not near the tombs, where sleep our fiee and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,t the oceain wave,
In these late days ure meet —dark Mona's shore,
Eryri'sll clifis resound with harps no more!
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting fromn its cavern'd urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest bowers)
Alike, in rushing strength, or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
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!
* Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a
stone of cove nan t.
t The ancient British chiefs fiequently harangued their followers
Treom sminll artificial momunds of turf —See Pennant.
I Llyn, a lake or pool.
tI Eryri, Snowdalon.




82              THE VOICE OF SPRING.
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less,
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height,
In the slan's face, beneath the eye of light!
THE VOICE OF SPRING.*
I COME, 1 come  ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
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 veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains;But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have look'd o'er 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 call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves ol 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 fobunts 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, 0 ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
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!
* Originally published in the.tnew Monthly Magazine.................__-;-         __ —~ —" —




RECtRtDS OF wVOMIb.                83
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dcancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye!-you are changed since ye met me last!
There is something bright fihom your features pass'd'
There is that come over your brow and eye,
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
-Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yetOh! what have you look'd on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed!-and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanishi'd year!
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze wvith a play of light,
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No fhaint 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 rung through the sapphire sky
And had not a sound of mortalityv!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?Ye have look'd on death since ve met me last!
I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye lave given the lovely to earth's embraceShe hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from n anongst 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 ftalls no blight,
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
[ tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depar to a brighter shore,
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more;
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
Alld the flowers are not Death's-fare ye well, farewell I




54                   RECORDS OF WOMAN.
RECORDS OF WOMAN.
ARABELLA STUART.
[" THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was
descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of lenry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This atfinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who avere
anxious to prevent her tmarrying, shullt her out fr(om the enjoyment
of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so
fervently desired.  By a secret but early (liscovered union with
William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchatmp, she alatrmed the c:,binet of James, and the wvedded lovers were immediately placedl in
senarate confinement. From this they found means to concert a
romantic plan of escape; and having won over a femiale attendtant,
by whose assistance she was disguised in imale attire, Arabella.
though fatint from  recent sickness and suifering, stole out in tie
night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat ald servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of (lay a
French vessel engaged to receive her wavs discovered and gained.
As Seymour, howvever, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that
the vessel shomlmd lie at anchor fi)r him; but this wish was overruledl by her comnpanions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted
sail, "swhich," says D'israeli, "occasione(l so fatal a ternlin'tion
to this romantic adventure. Seynmour. itndeed, had ecaped from
the'Tower; he reached the wharf, amid fotund his confideutitl,nall
waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passedl; tile
waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distalnce lie
descried a vessel. IHiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship
charged wvith his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found lanother ship from Newcastle, which for a large sumn altered its curse and
landed hit in Flanders." Arabella, mneanatimie, vhilst inplhring ier
attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat
of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the
king's service, and broght btack to a captivity, tinder the suffering
of which her nniad and constitution gradually sank. "Xhatc passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for
authentic history, but enouaglh is knowvn-that her totind grew isipaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the dutration of her
imprisonmtent wvas slhort, that it was only termsinatedl by lter death,
Some effusions, often begun-and never ended, wvritten and eraseld,
incoherent andi rationtal, yet remain ationgg her papers."-D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.
The following poemt, maeantt as some record of her fate, and the
imagined fluctuations of iher thoughts and feelings, is supposed to
commnence during the time of her first mmprisonment, whilst her
mind was yet buoyedi up by the cansciousness of Seymour's affec
tion, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]




ARABELLA STEWART.                      85
"And is not love in vain,
Torture enough without a living tomb?"-Byron.
" Fermossi al fin il cor che balzb tanto."-Pindemonte.
I.
rwAs but a dream!-I saw the stag leap free,
Under the boughs where early birds were singing,
[ stoo)d o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree,
And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing
Far through a royal forest: then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of' light, fi-om grassy lawn
To secret covert; and tlhe smoothl ti f shook
And lillies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with holrn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich mnasque swept fobrth. I s aw the dance
Of their whitle plumes, that bore a silvery -Glance
Into the deep wood's heart; and aill pass'd by
Save one-I met the smile of one clear eye,
F'lashing out joy to mine.  Yes, thou wert there.
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clusteringr hair
Rack from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methouocht, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted,
Ever 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
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath
Dirm woven leaves, and'midst the floating breath
Of hidden tbrest-flowers.
IT.'Tis past!f1 wake,
A captive, and alone, and fr friom'thee,
My love and friend! Yet fosteringa, 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 prevailSending 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 chill'd and blighted by the storm,
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by cummuniou, sweet.
VOL. II.



88               RECORDS OF WOMAN.
IIt.
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 up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful!l If thou wert gone
To the grave's bosonl, with thy radiant browIf thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone
Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now
Seems floating through my soul, where music taken
For ever from this world-oh! thus forsaken,
Could I bepr 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.
IV.
And Io! the joy that cometh with the morning,
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven-1 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'erburden'd 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 sufferingo won'? So rich a close
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.
v.
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,
Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too soon.
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower dowin less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream
Of' summner-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!
My heart strikes with it. —Yet again-'tis time!




ARABELLA STUART.                    6
A step!-a voice!-or but a rising breeze?
Hark!-haste!-I come to meet thee on the seas.
VI.
Now never more, oh! never, in the worth
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth
Trust fondly-never more!-the hope is crush'd
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return
To lay.ny youth, as in a burial urn,
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost!
No tempest met our barks-no billow toss'd:
Yet were they sever'd, even as we must be,
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free
From their close-coiling fate! In vain-in vain,
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 o ocean; then mine eye
Strain'd out, one moment earlier to descry
The fbrm it ached for, and the bark's career
Seem'd 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 wai: rs to the light,
And thee, my Seymour, thee! 
I will not sink!
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee I
And this shall be my strength-tne joy to think
That thou may'st 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.
vii.
VII.
My friend! my friend! where art thou? Day by day
Gliding, like some dark mournful streamn, 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!-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.




88              RECORDS OF WOMAN.
VIII.
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 tll( sheen
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath been,
Through the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue
Into your glowinog hearts the bee to you
Hath murmur'd, and the rill. —My soul grows faint
Your haunts by dell and stream-the green, the tree,
The full of all sweet sound-the shut fiom me!
IX.
There went a swift bird singing past my cellO 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!-I had silent visions of deep bliss,
Leaving their thrones far distant, and fobr this
I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crush'd!-Oih!-Heaven is farEarth pitiless!
Dost thou forget me, Seymour! I am proved
So long, so sternly! Seymour, my beloved!
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 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. —Oh, gentle, gentle fiiend!
How shall I bear this anguish to the end?
Aid!-cormes 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
1From the wrung heart, of power, through agony,
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy!-hear me'! None
That bleed and weep beneath the siniling sun
Have heavier cause!-yet hear! —my soul grows darkWho hears the last shriek from the sinking bark
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone,
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human hearts?-th' o'ermastering wave!
Who shall tell how it rush'd-and none to save.
Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,




ARABELLA STUART.                     89
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou'rt at the chase, thl,)'rt at the festive boara,
Thou'rt whe.re the red wine free and high is pour'd,
Thou'rt where the dancers meet'-a magic glass
I set within my soul, and pr oud shapes pass,
Flushingr it o'er withii pomp from b )wer and hall 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of allT/ine!-What dowt thou amidst the bright and fair
Whispering litight words, and mocking my despair?
It is not well of thee! —my love was inore
Than fiery song may breath, deep thought explore;
And there thou sm Lent, while my heart is dying,
Witt. all its blighted hopes around it lying 
Even th )u, on whon they hung their last green leafYet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief!
Death!-what? is death a lock'd and treasured thinrg,
Guarded by swords of fire?2 a hidden spring,
A tabled fruit, that 1 should thus endure,
As if the world within me hell no cure?
Wherefore not spread free wings —Heaven, Heaven control
These thoughts-they rush-I look into my soul
As down J gulf and tremble at the array
Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray,
So shall their dark host pass.
The storm is still'd.
Father in Heaven! thou, only thou, canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd,
For huian line too fearfutiy profound.
T'herefore, forgive, my Father! if' thy child,
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild
And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be,
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to theeBy the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd,
The stricken love which hath perchance adored
A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive
With thy strong arm n) more! Forgive, forgive!
Take me to peace'
And peace at last is nigh.
A sign is on my brow, a token sent
The o'erwearied dust froln 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 ch:asten'd, I depart,
Bowing 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!-oh! tender still, and true!
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw




90           I~RECORDS OF WOMAN.
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 gather'd into my dark fate
Too much: too fone, for my sake, desolate
Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back,
From dying hands, thy fieedom, and retrack
(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!
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: thou hear'st 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!
THE BRIDE OF THE GPREEK ISLE.*
"Fear!-I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death I
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom I
I will not live degraded,"      Sardanapalus.
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   the Grecian seas;
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown'd,
The bride of the morn, with her train around.
Jewels flash d out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews'midst the roses there;
e Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the
Curiosities of Literature, and forming a part of a picture in the
"Painted Biography" there described.




ITHE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.              91
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone;
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleam'd 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,
[,ay floating in mists which the troubled stream
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.
She look'd on the vine at her father's dcor,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own,
As it greenly waved by the threshold stone;
She turn'd-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 early years!
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 smnileHer soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less
For the gush of nature's tenderness!
She lifted her graceful head at lastTihe choking swell of her heart was past;
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.3
TIlE BRIDE'S FAREWEI,.
W nY do I weep?-to leave the vinTIt
Whose clusters o'er me bend
The myrtle-yet, oh! call it mnine
The flowers I loved to tend(.
A thousand thoughts of all thi.g s dear,
Like shadows o'er me sweep,
I leave my sunny childhood hern.e,
Oh, therefore let me wecp!
I leave thee, sister? we have play'l 
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,




91U              RECORDS OF' WOMAN.
Have been as we may be no moreKind sister, let me weep!
I leave thee father! Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,
With the gather'd 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 smiledI leave thee! let me weep!
Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast,
Pouring out joy and wo;
I have found that holy place of' rest
Still changeless-yet I go!
Lips, that have lull'd ine with your strain,
Eyes that have watch'd myv sleep!
Will earth give love like youI'S again!
Sweet mother! let me weep!
Arnd like a slight young tree, that throws                      i
T''he weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human hleart, 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.
NIother! 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 sung;
Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes' glean,
like a swan'midst the reeds of a shadowy stream.
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread
Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed;
They have light leaves around them, blue skies above,
An arch for the triumph of youth and love!
IT.
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 fiom 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 glow'd,                       i
Making a gleam round the lone abode;
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river;
7  l




TILE BRIDE, OF THE GREEK ISLE,              93
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd,
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound;
And brightly beibre it a tiuntain's play
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay,
To a cypress which rIose in that flashing rain,
Like one tall shaft of' some fallen fane.
And thither Ianthis had brought his bride
Alnd the guests were met by that fountain-side 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's lace,
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 i)oard is spread.Bring roses! a chaplet for every head!
ihle wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd
O:1 the young and fair front the world embower'd;
The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade,
The winds amid scented boughs were laid;
And there came by fits, dtrough some wavy tree,
A. sound and a gleam of the mnoaning 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 teet' —
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword!
The groves are fill'd 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 woocs with the shriek of the maidens rang;
Under the golden-fruited boughs
There were flashing poniards and dark'ning brows —
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled,
And the dying soon on a greensward bed.
-Euadora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!
She saw but Ianthis 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 young 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-tIhey left him there;
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein,
And on the wet violets a pile of slain,
And a husAl of fear through the sulnmer groveSo closed the triumph of youth and lover




RECORDS OF WVOMAN.
ILt
Gloomy lay the shore that night,
When the moon with sleeping light,
Bathed each purple Sciote hiil —
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 AEgean flood,
With a fix'd and straining eyeOh! was the spoilers' vessel nigh?
Yes! there, becalm'd in silent sleep,
Dark and alone on a breathless deep,
On a sea of molten silver, dark
Brooding it fiown'd that evil bark!
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 woo'd the gale.
Hush'd was all else:-Had ocean's breast
Rock'd 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!'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!
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame
The might and wrath of the rushing flame!
It hath twin'd the mast like a glittering snake,
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake;
It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls
Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls;
It hath taken the flag's high place in the air,
And redden' ] the stars with its wavy glare;
And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee,
To a burning mount'midst the moonlight sea.
The swimmers are plunging, frnom 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!




TIlE SWITZER'S WIFE.                     95
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway'd 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 fraughtOh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes!'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 bloo was the Greek's, and hath made her free!
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 drew near,
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain
To the form they must never infbld again.
-One moment more, and her hands are clasp'dFallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'dHer sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd,
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!
THE SWITZER'S WIFE.
[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of
Griitli, had been alarmed by the envy 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 entrelties of his wife, a woman who seems to
have been of a heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with
his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally
delivered.]
"Nor look nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman's quietness of thought;
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and mig-ht."
M. J. J.
Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen druckt,
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten."
Wi'holm'rel.
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,
Toucl'd with the crimson of the dying hour,




9t               RECORDS OF WOMlAN
Which Eit ifs low roof by the torrent's foam,
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower,
But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose,
Then first look'd mournful in its green repose.
For WVerner 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
Th' accustoin'd joy in ilt which evening brings,
Gatherllng a household with her quiet wings.
His wife stood hush'd before him-sad, yet mild
In her beseeching mien;-he mark'd it not..
The silve ry laughter of' his bright-hair'd child
Rang from the greenswlrd round the shelter'd spot,
But se-m'd unheard; until at last the boy
Raised from his heap'd up flowers a glance of joy,
And met his father's face; but then a change
I       P Pss'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee,
And a quick sense of somrlthing dimly strange
Brought him fron pliy to stand beside the knee
So often climb'd, and lift his loviing eyes
That shone throughl clouds of sorrowful surprise.
Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
But tenderly hIis babe's fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a ple ading look
Through tears lhalf:quivcrings, 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 bh's fiir brow,
Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend'ro his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care."
He look'd up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mourniully: not yet the band
Was loosen'd fi'om his soul; its inmost place
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'erlnastering hand.
"Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high
The white Alps glitter'd through the solemln sky:
" We muvt speak low amidst our ancient hills
And their friee torrents; for the days are come
When tyranny lies couch'd by firest-rills,
Alld meets the shephe.rd in his mountain-home.
Go, pour the wine of our own grapcs in fearKeep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.
i      " The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night,,t 








!Berlin!




THE SWITZER'S WIFE.                 97
Under my household tree. if not serene,
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and theeHow 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 lean'd 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 pass'd.
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.
And she, that ever through her home had moved
With the meek thoughtfitlness 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 gather'd might
As it found language:-" Are we thus oppress'd I
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 darken'd with its feart for me.
Trust me to Heaven, my husband! this, thy son,
The babe whom I have born 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 call bear all, but seeing thee subduedTake 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!"
Ie sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his 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.
"My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!
Now shall thy name be armor to my heart:
VoI.  -— 9




!its              RECORDS  OF WOMAN.
And this our lani, 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-curtain'd eyes to sleep,
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.
PROPERZIA ROSSI.:Properzia 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, represents her show
ing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight,
the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference.]
Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunitiog thirst for happiness 7
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting -lace, a home for all
Itsburden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, though Fame goes with me; I must leave
Ttre earth unknLown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to will such tears
As would have made life precious.
I.
ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its brigh ftlfilment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, though its race
Might have been loftier far.  Yet one more dleam!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph beThou, loved so vainly? I would leave 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 lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near
Anti dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life awayWhile thou-Awake! not yet within me die!
Under the burden and the agony
Of thi. vain tende?'ne<s —my spirit, wake!




PROPERZ[A ROSSI.                   U
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.
II.
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 pressA sudden joy lights up my lonelinessI shall not perish all!
The bright work grows
Beneath my hand, unfolding; as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by lihie,
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 shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touch'd 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 pass'd away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eyeSpeak to him, lorn one  deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief I 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 li strong as death!
III.
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 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;




t00              RECORDS Of WO(.)MAN.
An eye to be my star; a voice to bring
Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe cf spring:
These are denied me-dreamt of still in vainTherefore my brief aspirings from the chain,
Are ever but as some wild fitful song,
Rising triumphartlv, to die erelong
In dirge-like echoes.
Iv.
Yet the world will see
Little of this, my parting work, in theeThou shalt have fame!-Oh, mockery! give the reed
From storms a shelter —ive the dro6ping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwineGive the parch'd 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
Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of soner 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
Thine 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,"
Sear'd on the heart-I go.'Twill soon be past,
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, Oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth-who know'st 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!
But that were happiness, and unto me
Earth'st gift is fame. Yet I was iorm'd to be
So richly bless'd! 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 alongTo listen silently: with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden daysThis had been joy enough; and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drhlliino life and power
iI         __________               ______      ____




GERTRUDE; OIR, F1DELITY T'ILL DEATH              101
IIow had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame
A glory fbr 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 hush'd-awhile to live,
And one day haply ill thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of m: —I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profoundI leave it, on my country's air to dwellSay proudly yet —"'Twas hers who loved me well!"
GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH.
IThe Baron Von der Wart, accused-though it is believed unjustlyas an accomplice in the assassination 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 ad
dressed to a female friend, and which was published some year,
ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart; oi
Fidelity unto Death.]
"Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;
But no.irtag, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose
This fit'l andt 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 thllee.". Joanna lailli.
HERt hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised
The breeze threw back her hair,
Up to the fearful wheel she gazedAll that she loved was there.
The night was round her clear and cold.
The holy heaven above,
Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.
"And bid me not depart," she cried,
" My Rudolph say not so!
This is no time to quit thy sidePeace! peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught fobr me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?
The world! what means it — mine is hereI will not leave thee now.
"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss;
Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
9*




10~2             RECORDS OF WOMAN.
And thou, mine honor'd love and true,
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, love of mortal agony,
Thou, only thou should'st speak.
The wind rose high-but with it rose
Her voice, thathe might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.
She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still'd his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
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 deathAnd his worn spirit pass'd.
While even as o'er a martyr's grave
She knelt on that sad spot,
And weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!
IMELDA.
"Sometimes
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda!"4
Italy, a Ponem
"Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma."
Tasse.
WE have the myrtle's breath, around us here.
Amidst the fallen pillars; this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of' old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,




IMELDA.                      103
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain walks,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivy'd altar!-that sweet murmur tells
The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death;
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain,
Lay deep, and heavy drops-but not of rain -
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale shining water-lily's head.
Sad is that legend's truth.-A fair girl met
One 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. Thev 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 reck'd 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,
Seem'd 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 caughtWas it the clash of swords?-a swift dark thought
Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd,
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 still'd 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 look'd starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies — 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Follow'd'her fbrm beneath the clear lamp's blaze,
And marvell'd 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,
ai




O04             REC()ORS OF WOMAN.
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance,
Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
Comes not unmaskl'd. Howe'er this were, the time
Sped as it spe.eds 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 look'd silvery in there wane,
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again
There stole a footstep, fleet, and lighlt, and lone,
Through the dim cedar shade-the step of one
That star-.ed as 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;
Bodinas 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;
We hear them yet, they live along its flowHer voice is music lost! The fountain-side
She gain'd —the wave flash'd 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 lull'd 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 falter'd:-" On thy breast
Is the stain-yes,'tis blood!-and that cold cheekThat moveless lip!-thou dost not slumber?-speak
Speak, Azzo, my beloved-no sound-no breathWhat hath come thus between our spirits?-Death!
Death?-1 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 sustain'd 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 dinim'd eye caught a gleam-'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the streamHer brother's sword!-she knew it; and she knew'Twas with a venom'd 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 press'd
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.'IThe mniorn came singing
Through the green forests of the Apenines,
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging,




EDITH.                       10b
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,
Deck'd 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 oppress'd
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head,
And on the youth's hush'd bosom sunk to rest.
So slept they well!-the poison's work was done,
Love with true heart had striven-but Death had won.
EDITH.
A TALE OF THE wOODS.*
" D  Teilige! rtife dein Kind zurick!
Icn habe genossen das irdische Gliick,
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet,"
Wallenstein.
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 undismay'd: while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken'd with the night,
Alone she sate: though many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever'd from her need and fiom 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 fbrest oaks:-a fearful scene
For her whose home of other davs had been
* Founded on incidents related in an American work, Skietchea of
Connecticut.




106              RECORDS OF WOMAN.'Midst the fair halls of England! But the love
Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear,
And by its might upborne all else above,
She shrank not-mar-k'd not that the dead weie 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 fbrth, and vainly bound
With her torn robes and hair the streaming woundYet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how long
Affection woes 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 bow'd she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer
Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd 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 look'd through gathering haze
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,
Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze
When voice was not: that fond, sad meaning pass'd:
She knew the fullness of her woe at last!
One shriek the forest heard-and 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 play'd;
Bright-color'd birds with splendor cross'd the shade,
Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke
From reed, and spray, and leaf-the living strings
Of earth's./Eolian lyre, whose music woke
Into young life and joy all happy things.
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance.
The widow'd Edith: fearfully her glance
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change
Flash'd 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



EDITH.                       107
Where was she?'Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter's fire; an aged chief,
Whose home look'd sad-for therein played no childHad 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 touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,
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 grey head,
And leaning on his bow.
And life return'd,
Life, but with all its memories of the dead,
To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd
Her ask of meek endurance, well she wore'Ihehiasten'd grief' that humbly can adore,'NIidst blinding tears. But unto that old pair,
Even as a breath of spring's awakening air,
Her presencec 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 look'd in holy sweetness from her place,
And they again seem'd parents. Oh! the joy,
The rich deep blessedness —though earth's alloy,
Fear, that still bodes, be there-of pouring forth
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 surihine, freed. And gentle cares
Th' 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 pray'd,
Even o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid
Onte 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 warn'd her hence.
And now, by many a word
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd,
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dimBy the persuasion of her fervent eve,




108             RECORDS OF WOMAN
All eloquent with childlike pietyBy the still beauty of her life, she strove
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love
Pour'd out on her so freely. Nor in vain
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain
The soul in gentle bonds; by slow degrees
Light follow'd 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 fbsterers led,
Until their prayers were one. When morning spread
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress bough,
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one.Now might she pass in hope, her work was done!
And she was passing from the woods awayThe broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades; ther c ye was brigh
Even yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,
tA 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 mnany 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 sluch glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs? 
So thought the dying one.'Twvas early day,
And sounds and odors, with the breezes' play
Whispering of spring-time, through the ca bin door,
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
"My father!"-to the grey-hair'd chief she spoke"Know'st thou that I depart?"-" I know, 1 know,"
He answer'd mournfully, " that thou must go
To thy beloved, my daughter!"-" Sorrow not
For me, kind mother!" with imeek smiles once more
She murmur'd in low tonics; " oie happy lot




EDITHI.                     109
Awaits us, friends. upon the better shore;
or we have pray'd 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 learn'd-the Saviour's prayer
FWhich 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
Dropp'd 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 roll'd.
"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side,
And the hunter's hearth away;
From the tinle of flowers, for the summer's price
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 miss thy voice, my bird.
Under our whispering pine;
Music shall'midst the leaves be heard,
But not a socag 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 shalt 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,
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt
Our hearts shall thirst in vain.
VotI. II-10
i i~~~~~~~~~~~_




110              RECORDS OF WOMAN.
"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 sideGo to the better land!"
The song had ceased-the listeners caught no breath,
That lovely sleep had melted into death.
THE INDIAN CITY.*'What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it."         Childe Harold
I.
ROYAL 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 pillar'd vaults of the banian stood,
Like torch-lit aisles'midst the solemn wood,
And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold
As a tree'midst the genii gardens old,
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire,
And the stems of the cocoa's 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 cup, and shed
Its glory forth on their crystal bed.
Many a graceful Hindoo maid,
With the water vase from the palmy shade,
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 nmolten glass of the wave was stirr'd ~
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air,
Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer.
There wander'd a noble Mosleim 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;
Fronm a tale in Forbes's Oriental JMdmoir8.




THE INDIAN CITY.                 111
He tum'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume;
He track'd the brink of' the shining lake,
By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake,
Twill 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,
Seem'd made for the swimmer's joyous leap,
For the stag athirst from the noontide 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;
Dashing the spray drops, cold and white,
O'er the glossy leaves in its young delight,
And bowing his locks to the waters clearAlas! he dreamt not that fate was near.
His mother look'd from her tent the while,
O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile:
She, on her way unto Mecca's fane,
Had stay'd 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 forest, the wave's bright fall,
The red gold of sunset-she loved them all.
It.
The moon rose clear in the splendor given
To the deep blue night of an Indian heaven;
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came backOh! 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!-vet as one by a conflict worn,
With hlis graceful ha;ir all soil'd and torn,
tI         And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye,
And a gash on his bosomn-he came.to die.
He look'd for the face to his young heart sweet,
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet.
"Speak to me!-whence doth the swift blood run I
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son?"
The mist of death on his brow lay pale,
i j         But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale,




112              RECORDS OF WOMAN,
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 groundThis was fbr sullying the pure waves, free
Unto them alone-twas their God's decree.
A change came o'er his wandering lookThe mother shriek'd not then nor shook:
Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood,
Rending her mantle to stanch its flood;
But it rush'd 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 vainThat which fades firom us, while yet we hold,
Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould,
Was fleeting before her, afar and fast;
One moment-the soul from the face had pass'd!
Are there no words for that common woe?Ask of the thousands, its depths that know,
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest,
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breastHe had stood, when she sorrow'd, beside her knee,
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee;
He had kiss'd 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 dat
Now in his blood on the earth he lay!
Zllurder'd!-Alas! and we love so well
In a world where anguish like this can dwell!
She bow'd down mutely o'er her deadThey that stood round her watch'd in dread;
They watch'd-sile knew not they were byHer soul sat veil'd in its agony.
On the silent lip she press'd no kiss,
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this:
She shed no tear as her face bent low,
O'cr the shining hair of the lifeless brow;
She look'd but into the half-shut eye
With a gaze that found there no reply,
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight,
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 fron' her fiace the veil,
And shook the hair fronm her frehead pale,
And'midst her wondering handmaids stood,
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood



THE INDIAN CITY.                   113
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky
A brow in its regal passion high.
With a close and rigid grasp she press'd
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 turn'd,
The strength of hier step was the heart that burn'd
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled,
As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child.
III.
Hark! a wild sound of the desert's horn
Through the woods round the Indian city borne,
A peal of' the cymbal-and tanmbour afar
War!'tis the gathering of Moslemn war!
The Bramin look'd froin the leagruer'd towersHe saw the wild archer amidst his bowers 
And the lake that flash'd through he plantain shade
As the light of the lances along it play'd 
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 frorn the rest apartThat was the place of a -woulndtd heart.
Oh! deep is a wounded heart, arnd strong
A voice that cries against mighty wrong;
And full of death as a hot wind's blight,
I)oth the ire of a crush'd allection light.
Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd,
And hter tale had rung like a trumpet's blast,
There had been words from tier pale lips pour'd,
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword.
The Tartar had sprung frotn his steed to hear,
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear,
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall,
And a vow wsas recorded that doom'd its fall.
Back with the dust of her son she came,
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame;
She came in the might of a queenly foe,
Banner, and javelin, and beaded bow;
But a deeper power on her forehead sateThere sotlght the warrior his star of fate:
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign,
ll!~C




114              RECORDS OF WOMAN.
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 till
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die!
Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown!
Slowly the strength of the walls gave wayShe wither'd faster from day to day.
All the proud sounds of that banner'd 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,
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown.
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle song,
Strange'midst the din of a warrior throngA song of the time when her boy's young cheek
Had glow'd 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 dreamn, 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 pass'd,
That stay'd 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 vanquish'd the Tartar steed
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed:
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes,
And the streams glow'd 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,




THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.              115
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprungThis was the work of one deep heart wrung!
THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RIHONE.
"There is but one place in the world
Thither, where he lies buried!
There, there is all that still remains of himThat single spot is the whole earth to me."
CoLERIDGE's  Wallenstein.
"Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but thie desert."  Childe Harold.
THERE went a warnor'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 pass'd; 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 folko s'ing 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 lowFair even v/hen found, amidst the bloody slain,
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom
[Fell the'v;e;r, for the massy boughs had grown
Intc, thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Statelr they trod the hollow ringing aisle,
A st.ange deep echo shudder'd through the pile,
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent
Round the De Couci's antique monument,
When dust to dust was given:-and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine:
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, erelong, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, array'd
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid
In slumber on his shield. Then all was done
All still around the dead  His name was heard




l11f            RECORDS OF WOMAIN.
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd
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 press'd
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
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingfed with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side;
Alas! to think of this!-the heart's void place
Fill'd up so soon!-so like a summer cloud,
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace!He lay forgotten in his early shroud.
Forgotten?-not of all!-the sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhiie,
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shades 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 dyinr,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heartieap
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 fiesh 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 bri[lance 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,
Arid 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 nature, brought, firom 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 renew'd,
And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even through mid-winter, filld 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!
One spring morn rose,
And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laidOh! not as'midst the vineyards, to repose
From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid:




INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG.                 117
Who could reveal her story! That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow
And the curved lip there linger'd yet such grace
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eyeFor death was on its lids-fell mournfillly.
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care,
Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;
Yet there her shrine had been! She grasped a wreathThe tomb's last garland!-This waslove in death.
INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATtI SONG.
(An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of
her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed
it down the Mississippi towards the cataract. Her voice was heard
from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered
by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the Source of St. Peter's River.]
"Non, je ne puis vivre avec un caeur bris6. Ii faut que je retrouve
la joie, et que je m'unisse, aux esprits libres de l'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 Prairie.
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 press'd 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-or song of' death.
"Roll swiftly to the spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free!
Father of ancient waters,5 roll! and bear our lives with thee!
The weary bird that storms have toss'd would seek the sunshine's calm.                                    [balm.
And the deer that lath the arrow's hurt flies to the woods of
"Roll on! my warrior's eye hath look'd upon another's face,
And mine hath faded from  his soul, as fades a moonbeam'%*
trace.




118              RECORDS OF WOMAN.
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 hush'd 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 deck'd his couch
of yore?He will not!-roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore!
"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
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day. [away
"And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman's
weary lot,                                        [not;
Smile — to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love away,
Thy mother bears thee fair, young Fawn! from sorrow  and
decay.
"She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard
to weep,                                        [sleep;
And where th'unkind one hath no power again to trouble
And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a
dream-                                       [stream?"
One moment, and that realm  is ours-On, on, dark rolling
JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS.
L" Jeanne d'Are avait eu la joie de voir i Chalons quelques atnis
de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l'attendait a Rheims.
au sien de son triolrhe: Jacques d'Arc son p6re, y se trouva,
aussit6t que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrees, et comme
les deux frlres de notre heroine l'avaient accompagn6s, elle se vit,
pour un instant au millieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un p re
vertueux."-Vie de Jeanne d'.frc.]
Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame l
A draught that mantles hifh,
And seems to lift this earthborn 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 roll'd




JOAN OF ARC -IN RIEIMS.              119
Forth from her throng'd cathedral; while around,
A multitude, whose billows made no sound,
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, though elate
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate.
And what was done within?-within, the light
Through the rich gloom of pictur'd windows flowing,
Tinged with the soft awfulness a stately sight,
The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing
In martial vassalage!-While.'midst that ring,
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn
Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim,
As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone
And unapproach'd, 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 reveal'd, 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, enthron'd above,
TJae pictur'd Virgin, with her smile of love,
Seem'd bending o'er her votaress. That slight form!
Was that the leader through the battle storm 2
Had the soft light in that adoring eye
Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd high?'Twas so, even so!-and thou, the shepherd's child,
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild!
Never before, and never since that hour,
Hath woman mantled with 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,
Ransom'd 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 proud rich stream of warlike melodies,
Gush'd through the portals of' the antique fane,
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's soundOh! 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!




120             RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Is there indeed such power!-far deeper dwells
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells
Whence happiness flows forth! The shouts that fill'd
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd
One moment; and in that brief pause, the toie,
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown,
Sank on the bright maid's heart. —" Joanne!"-Who spoke
Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew
Under one roof?-" Joanne!"-that murmur broke
With sounds of weeping forth!-She turn'd-she knew
Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there.
In the calm beauty of his silver hair,
The stately shepherd; and the youth whose joy
From his dark eye flash'd proudly; and the boy,'The youngest born, that ever loved her best:"Father! -and ye, my brothers!"-On the breast
Of that grey sire she sank-and swiftly back,
Even in an instant, to their native track
Her free thoughts flow'd. —She saw the pomp no more
The plumes, the banners; —to her cabin-door,
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade,6
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd,
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose,
Her spirit turn'd. 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,
And, with her bright locks buw'd to sweep the ground
Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and saidBless 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 priceThe trusting heart's repose, the paradise
Of home, with all its loves —doth fate allow
The crown of glory unto woman's brow.




PAULIN E.                     1'1
PAULINE.
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 vanish'd light
That strength is needed.
"Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno
Della vita mortal il fiore e'l verde."-Tasso.
ALONG the starlit Seine went music swelling,
Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth 
Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling
For cares or 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 loviiest far amidst the revewl's pride
Was one-the lady from the Danube side.7
Patline, the meekly bright! though now no more
Her clear eye flash'd 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.
Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair,
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky
Sate on her brow beneath its gracefulhair,
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.
Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast?
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh?
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest'Midst the light laughter of festivity:
Whence come those tones!-Alas! enough we know
To mingle fear with all thriumphal 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!-the minstrels pause-and hark! a sound,
A strange quick rustling which their notes had drown'd!
And lo! a light upon the dancers breakingNot such their clear and silvery lamps had shed!
From the gay dream of revelry awaking.
One tnoment holds them still in breathlese dread 
VO.. T.- 11




l2LC            RECORDS Of WOMAN.
The wild fierce lustre grows-then bursts a cryFire! 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 mask 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 alongfill 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."
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while,
The gentle girl in fear's cold grasp alone,
Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death,
With flowers all shrinhking 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 combinedMighty is anguish, with affection twined!
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!
Was one brief 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 wreathes were bound,
Now lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around!
And bore the ruins no recording trace
Of all that woman's heart had dared and done 7
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,
Tl'o deep lone chastened thoughts of grief and love.




JUANA
Oh! we have need of patient faith below,
To clear away the mysteries of such woe!
JUANA.
(Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of het
husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her
with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a
magnificent dress; and being possessed with the idea that it would
revive, watched it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the
moment of returning life.]
It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love,
This wild and passionate idlolatry,
What doth it in the shadow of the grave I
Gather it back within thy lontely heart,
So must it ever endtl: too much we give
Unto the the things that perish.
THE night wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace
room,                                            [gloom,
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous
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 watch'd by the cold slumberer's
side,
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;
Only her full impassion'd eyes, as o'er that clay she bent,
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.
And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, lile shadows of a
cloud,
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke aloud;
She. spoke to him that could not hear, and cried," T' hou yet
wilt wake,                                         [sake.
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one' for thy
"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 wrapp'd the ifuneral shroud thy gallant form
around,
But I forbade —and there thou art,a monarch rob;ed and crown'd!
"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 thy lips, and stillness round thee long,
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd and strong.




124             RECORDS OF WOMAN.
"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!
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! and hear'st how
I have kept
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and weptHow 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,
WVhich brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pineOh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of
thine!
"Thou'It 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 leap'd, 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 pour'd forth day by day,
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul fournl
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 bhre away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the
windBut a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind,
THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.
A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Wolman!-a power to suffer and to loveTherefore thou so canst pity.
WILDLY and mournfully the Indian druln
On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.               125
"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-hair'd youth of England stood,
tike a king's son: though from his cheek had flown
The mantling crimson of the island blood,
And his press'd lips look'd marble. Fiercely bright,
And high around him blazed the fires of night,
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow
Lighting the victim's face: but who could tell
()f 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 mioht see the band
()f his young sisters wand'ring'land in hand,
Where the laburnums droop'd; or haply binding
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding;
Or, as day closed upon their gentle Inirth,
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!-Perchance the prayer
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair;
Thne blessing from her voice, the very tone
Of her " Good-night" might breathe from boyhood gone!He started and look'd 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
Look'd through the branches as through dungeon bars,
Shedding no hope.-He knew, he felt his doomOh! what a tale to shadow with its cloom
That happy hall in England!-Idle Fear!
Would the winds tell it l?-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 rear'd-the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see!-And fetter'd there
tie stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand.
He thought upon his God. —Iushll! hark! a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnnitvA step hath pierced the ring!-Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?A girl-a young slight girl-a fitwn-like child
Of green savannas and tihe leafy wild,
11'




126              RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Springing unmark'd 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 mourn'd a playmate brother dead.
She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And by4'ts passion's deepening fervor sway'd,
Even to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye,
And clear-toned voice, that said, " He thall not die!"
"He shall not die!"-the gloomy forest thrill'd
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were still'd,
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell.
They gazed-their dark souls bow'd before the maid,
She ofthe dancing step in wood and glade!
And, as her cheek flush'd through its olive hlue,
As her black tresses to the night wind flew,
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young mienSomething 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;
From his pale lips they took the cup of death;
They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress-tree;
"Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!"
COSTANZA.
Art thou then desolate?
Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me!
I am thiae own. Have trusted hearts proved false?
Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me?
Whv didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all
T would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear,
For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice had power
To shake me with a thrill of happiness
By one kind tone?-to fill mine eyes with tears
Of yearning love?-Andl thou-oh! thou didst throw
That crush'd affection back upon my heart;
Yet come to me!-it died not.
SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell,
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow,




CONSTANZA.
While o'er her.ong hair's flowing jet it threw
Bright waves of' gold-the autumn forest's hueSeem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread
By painting's touch around some holy head,
Virgin's or iairest 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! Oh! he that could reveal
What life had taught that chasten'd 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 dreams —
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 deem'd the pale fair fobrm that held on earth.
Communion but with grief.
Ere long, a cell,
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone
Gleam'd 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 crash'd before the flying.
And all was changed within the still retreat,
Costanza's home: there enter'd hurrying feet,
Dark looks of shame and sorrow; mail-dad men,
Stern fugitives from that wild battle glen,




RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Searing the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore
A wounded warrior in: the rocky floor
Gave back deep 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 breathlessly again. They pass'd-but he,
The stateliest of a host-alas! to see
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep,
Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep,
Thus changed!-a fearful thing! His golden crest
Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breastSome 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-steep'd in bloody showers
So heavily upon the palid clay
Of the damp cheek they hung!-the eyes' dark rayWhere was it? —and the lips'-they gasp'd apart.
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art,
Still proudly beautiful! but that white hueWas it not death's?-that stillness-that cold dew
On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke
Fromn its deep trance erelong, 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 n )t. Day by daySuch hours are woman's birthright-she, unknown,
Kept wtch beside him, fearless and alone:
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving
His brow with tears that inourn'd the strong man's raving.
He felt them not, nor inark'd the light veil'd 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 glow
Ebb'd from his hollow cheek.
At last faint gleams
Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams,
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,
And gazing round him fi-or his leafy bed,
He murmur'd forth, " Where am I? What soft strain
Pass'd, 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 oneWhere 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!




.MADELINE.                        129
Away! the earth hath lost her.  Was she born
To brook abandonlner.t, to strive with scorn.
My first, my holiest love!-her broken heart
Lies low, and I-unpardon'd I depart."
But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil
From  her dark locks and features brightly pale,
And stood befire hin with a smile —oh! ne'er
Did aught that smiled so muclh of sadness wearAnd said, " Cesario! look onl me; I live
To say my heart hath bled, and call forgive.
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust,
As should be Heaven's alone —and Heaven is just!
I bless thee-be at peace! 
Put o',r his fiamne
Too fast the strong tide rush'id-the sudden shame,
The joy, th' amaze! lIe bow'd his head-it fell
On the wrong'd bosom which had loved so well;
And love, still perfect, gave hintl refelae thereHis last faint breath just waved her floating hair.
MADELINE.
A DOMESTIC TALE.
"Who should It be?1-Where sholldst thou look for kindness I
When we are sick where canl we turn for succor:
When we are wretched where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and sturly on us,
Where can we go to Imecet a wvtrmler eve
With such sure confidence as to a motler?    Joanna Baillie
MY child, my child, thou leavest me!-I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest rrine ear
With its first utteraunc:: I shall mniss the sournd
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thv soft-breathing hymn at tvwilight's close,
And the''Good-night' at parting fi)r repose.
Under the vine leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a rnournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glancr,
Shalt watch thine own, thy pieasant linmd of F}'rance,
Fading to air.  Yet. ble-sings with tfhee Co!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exiie's woe
From thy young heart le ftr! And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot
God shail be with t1e.  Now, firewell! farewell!
Thou that hast heen what words rmiay never tell




130              RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to ralse
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye
That still sought mine: these moments are gone byThou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell
The peace of God! One, one more gaze-farewell!"
This was a mother's parting with her child,
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled,
And woo'd her with a voice of love away
From childhood's home; yet there, with fond delay,
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird through trellis'd rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush'-I o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day,
As in one picture[raced, before her lay,
But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a ealm'd heart, young Madeline, erelong,
Pour'd 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 soundina ocean solitudes were pass'd,
And the brig]t land w:.:s reachl'd-the youthful world
That glows along the west: the sails were furl'd
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Look'd 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 efltee,
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears!
That nomne was darken'd soon: the summer breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas —
Death unto one, and anguish-how forlorn!
To her that, widow'd in her marriage morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide,
Foy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim,
As from the sun shut out on every side,
By the close veil of misery! Oh! 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 sufler and be still,
And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! She had not learn'd
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd
In weariness from life: then came th' unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,




THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.                 1
And household steps, until at last she lay
On her lone couch o' 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
Outwatche3 patiently the taper's light,
Something that faints not through the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not wearinessLove, true, and perfect love! Whence came that power
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower? 
Whence — who can ask l-the wild delirium pass'd,
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
Tile brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old!-and had she 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 sprung up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem'd this fair world, though faded! still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock'd 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 fiom this fatal shore,
Peace shall be ours beneath our'vines once more."
THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.
[, This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenberg, near Berlin. It was
not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a
fair white Doric temple. 1 might and should have deemed it a
mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow
declare it a habitation 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 recumlbent, 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 bosonl; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the
repose of life. Here the ICing brings her children annually, to offer
garlands at her grave.  These hang in withered mournfulness
above this living image of their departed mother." —-,Strere's J.otes
and Reflections durin a Reambtle in Germany.]




.32              TRECORDS OF W~OMIAN., I.; sweet pride upon that iusult keen
She smilel; thean ciroopilg rmute and brokeuhearted,
To tile cold comfort of the grave departed."  Mi2lrm
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 feel'st the presence of the dead.
And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptured woman's form,
Lovely, 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 emblen —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! hallow'd longr be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!
She saw their birthright's warrior-crowni
Of olden glory spoil'd,
The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield's bright blazon soil'd:
She met the tenmpest, meekly braved,
Then turn'd o'erwearied to the grave.
She slumber'd: but it came-it came,
Her land's redeeiming hour,
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 wrung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep 
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic dec..-;
I': _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _




Tit9: M I  7, It,` PILLAR.                     133
Her grief, a bitter vial pf) ler'ld
To sanctif' — tli' avengrer's sword.
And the crown''). eaglce spread aa in                1
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chainSo was tlhe triumpinh won
but woe for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's!-She was gone!
THEIE ME MA.ORIAL PILLAR.
[fCn the road-side, between Pei;rith and Appleby, staidts a small pillar, with this inscriptionl: —' l'This pill;r wsvas 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-Dowvager of Cumllerland, on  the 2d,April,
1616."-See notes to the Pleasures of Mlemsorsy.]
5last tho.i throtl' El,W's wild.-uwoo( valies, pursued
Eachn moullai n  scelle!lagniliiicenlllIv Ilue,
Nor wlea attelltiol's  iit't;.l  eye re:,-red
Th'lat smod e'st atote, )by pious Plembrcke  rear'd,
wich stSlli rectol's, lbe-ol tlhc peiCl!'s power,
The sileit sorrows of a partiml  hour'"' —oges:
MOTHER and child! whose blending tears
Have sancltified the place,
Where, to the love of unany years,
Was given cne last emhbrace
Oh! ye llave shrinedl  a slpeil of power,
Deep in your record of tilat hour!
A spell to waken solemln thought,
A still, srnall uLnder tone,
That calls back days of chiiklh'iod, fiaught
With many a treasure goun;
And smites, perchance, tihe hidden source,
Though long ultrou'led-l) remorse.
For who, that gazes on thie stone
Which nm a rks yiour parting spot,
Who but a mother's love lhahll kInown,
The one love changing not                                            i
Alas! and h:,ply leari'd its worth
First with tle sound of " Earth to earth."
But thou, hig lh-hearted daughter! thou,
O'er whose bright, hon- r'(d head,
Blessings and tears of holhiet flowv,
E'entlere were fblndlly siledThou from  the passionl of thy grief,
In its full burst, coild-t draw  -,lief
For, oh! though pait'iftl e tn' excess,
Thri'e I1li.:s!It' I ise;v, ie l  it svwells,
seL..




134               RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Ill nature's fount no bitterness
Of nature's mingling dwells
And thou Iadst not, by wrongr or pride,
Poison'd the free and healthful tide
But didst thou meet the face no more
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all-was all in this world o'er,
With ties thus close and true?
It was!-On earth no other eye
Could 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 gladd'ning, like the breath of'spring.
Yet while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,
While on thy name,'midst wood and hill,
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 perish'd thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour?
Not so! —  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 pastSurely your hearts have met at last.
THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.*
"Ne me plaignez pas —si vous saviez
Combien de peines ce toilbeau m'a epargnees!"
I stood beside thy lowly grave,
Spring odors breathed around,
* "Extrinsic 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 many in the
churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by.'ihe ruins
of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church,
reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it." —Tales by
the O'Hara Family.




THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.
And music, in the river wave,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun,
In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seem'd 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 light of song was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low
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 springAnd thou wert pass'd away.
But then, e'en then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
T i' immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odors and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see'st thou then, where no dim feea
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st-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 amongHow often didst thou weep?




,:,           2LEtRCi i;:  0)i'F WOMAN.-NOTrES.
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thov..ghts and higll 2
Now  peace the wolnan's heart hath found,
Andjoy the poet's eye.
NOTES.
Note 1, page 86, lines 6 and 7.
When darkness, from the vainly-doting- sight,
Covers its beautiful!;' Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sutfficetl
me you are mine.  Rachel wept and woould not be comforted, because
her children were no more.  And that indeed, is the remllediless sirrow, and none else!"-Fromn a letter of Arabella Stuart's to lier husband.-See Curiosities of Literature.
Note 2, page 89, lines 16 and 17.
Death! —what is death, a lock'd arnd treasured thin,r
Guarded by swords of fire?
"And if you rememriber of old, Idare die.-Consider what the world
would conceive it' I should be violently enforced to do it."-I- ag~ments of her Letters.
Note 3, page 91, lines 33 and 34..tnd her lovely thourghts from their cells found way
In tLhe sudden flow of a plainttive lay.
A Greek bride, on leaving her father's house, takes lease of her?-iends andl relatives frequently in extemporaneous verse. —Sce Iluriil's Chants Poputlaires de la Garrce ioderne
Note 4, page 102, motto.
Ind loved! when theCy shouldl hate —like thee, ImeLla!
The tate of Ilmellda is related in Sismnondi's ilistoire des Republh
ques Italieslnes, vol. iii. 1s. 413.
Note 5, page 117, line 17.
Father of anzcient waters, roll!
"Father of waters," the Indiani namise for the  lississippi.
Note 6, page 120, line 21.,4nd to the Fairy's fountain in7 the glade.
A  beautiful fountain near Dollreini, believedl to be haunted by
fairies, and a fatvorite resort of Jean:e d'Are in her childhood.
Note 7, page 121, lines 11 and 12.
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride
ffas one-tl(he lady froNr the D)anube side.
The Prinlcess Pallline Schwrttrtze;bherg r The story of her fate is
bIeautifuilly rela tedl is /.'.v'/L:,, l.., ii1.. 33.




MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.-ETC.                   137
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
"Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?" —Jlarmion.
THE stately Homes of England,
How beautitul they stand!
Amidst their t,1il ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shaue and stunny gleamn,
And the swan gliles past them  with the sound
Of sone rejoicing stream.
The merry Homecs of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsom-e looks ol h )usehold love
Meet in thie ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips mt)ve tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of' England!
How softly onl their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes finlc Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet suweet the church-bell's chime
Floats throurgh their wvo:is at morn;
All other soundi, in tlhat still time,
Of' breeze and leaf are born.
The Cottage Ifotues o Engflaind!
By thousanids otn lier plam:,
Thny are smllinir  o'er tilne ilvery brooks,
And round the hi niiet lfanes.
Through glowing, rlmhards forth they peep,
E ch frjln its nook of leaves,
And fearless there th.f lowly sleep,
As tile bird be. neath ti-ieir eaves.
The free, fair Homf (s of E:Enland!
L ng, longc, in hut and hail,
Mftay hearts ol native )proof be rear'd
To  rued each hallow;t'd wall!
And gre m11 ibr ever be t!;e groves,
And br-ight the flowery sod,
Where first thle cl-iid's glad spirit loves
Its coullntry and its (;ucl i
12'
-.i: 




THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.
"I have dreamt thou awert
A captive in thy hopelessness; afar
Fromn the sweet home of thy young infancy.
Whose image unto thee is as a (iream
Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air.". E. L.
THE champions had come from their fields of war
Over the crests of the billows farThey had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had fbam'd to their flashing oars.
They sat at their feast round the Norse kingr's board;
By the glare of the torch-light the inead was pour'd 
The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high,
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.
The Scalds that chanted in Runic rhyme
Their songs of the sword and the olden time;
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,
Had breathed fiomn the walls where the bright spears hung,
But the swell was gone from the quivering string,
They had summon'd a softer voice to sing,
And a captive girl, at the warriors' call,
Stood forth in tihe midst of that frowning hall.
Lonely she stood; in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies;
And the drooping fringe of their lashes low,
Half-veil'd a depth of unfathom'd woe.
Stately she stood-though her fragile frame
Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward flanie,
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.
And a deep flush pass'd, 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 crown'd for her bridal day
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreignr streams.
They bade her sinlg of her distant landShe 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 swell'd into deeper power erelong,
As the breeze that swept o'er her soul grew strong.




THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.                139
"They bid me sing of thee mine own, my sunny land, of thee!
Am 1 not parted from thy shores by the mournful sounding sea?
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;                                 [forth?
How should thy lyre give here is wealth of buried sweetness
Its tones 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!
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
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my Sicily!  [by,
"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
dome;
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! 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 richifess 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-                                     [away!
Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven
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!
"I may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no!
Is not love stronger than the grave'! I fiel 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 passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my chain-I come
To dwell a viewless thing, yet bh:st-in thy sweet air, my
home!"
And hlt pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyreThere came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire



140               MISCEL]LAN EOUS PIECES.
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.
For her head sank back on the rugged wallA silence fell o'er the warriors' hall;
She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone'
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!
IVAN THE CZAR.
t"Ivan le Terrible, etant deja dlevenil vieulx, assit6ait Novogorod
Les Boyards, le voyant affisibli, lui de6mand6rent s'il ne vouilait pas
donner le comnilanlderenat de l'assattt is son fils. Sa fuireur filt si
grande A cette prolpsition, quie rien ne pfit l'appaiser; son fils se
prosterna;t   ses piedsl il le reploussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deisx jours apr6s le iilhcunreux en irourut. Le p6re,
alors alu desetspoir, devint indiflerent ih It guerre cornose an pouvoir,
et ne survecut, qule peu (le Inois A son fils."-Diz-.ldniLes d'Exil,
par 1MADA.ME DE ST''EL.]
"Gieb diesin T,)dten Inir heraus. Ich riuss
11[     wieler habenll!'rostlose alimacht,
Die nicht eilral in Grabilr iiren airm
Vel'la!l-eretN  eilc;!i k;ie   UJbel li r nAlit Mclcliclelt!Jell lsicht velbeasern kann!"
Schkile.
HE sat in silence on the (round,
The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the wvar:
Ele had c":st his jewell'd sabre,'That many a field had wvon,
To the earth beside his youthful deadIHis fair and first-born son.
WXith a robe of crmille for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
*Where the lig ht a stormy sunset shed,
Through the rich tent made way;
And a sad and soleimn beauty
On the pallid fiace came down,
Which the lord of nation.s mutely watch'd,
In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones, at last of woe and fear
Fromrs  his full bosa:ni brokeA mournful thinu, it xwxas to heaI
HIow fhen the proud mlan spoke.
The voice that thr(ugh the ctmlbat
Had shouted far anid high,
Cane for;th in strange, dull, hollow tones.
Burden'd wvith agoy.;"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip rio breath;




IVAN THE CZAR.                      141
I call thee, and thou dost not speakThey tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have doneFor the honor of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son!
~Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine asonct, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen
Save pride and tameless joy 2
Swiftest thou wert to battle,
And bravest there of allHow could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?
I will not bear that still cold lookRise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storml wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, fol-n thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once nlore thy kinidling eyes!
[lath my word lost its power on earth
I say to thee, arise!
Didst thou not know I loved thee well'
T'hou didst not! and art gone,
In bitternless of' soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, yonng fiery spirit!
If' but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart
That secmr'd to thee so stern.
"Thou wert the first, the first, fair child
That in mine arms I press'd:
Thou wert tile bright one, that hast smiled
Like summnrr on my breast!
1 rear'd thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee-dead!
"Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to-urwve,
And bury my red sword and spear,
Chief~! in my filst-born's grave!
And leave me!-1 have conquer'd,
I have slain-my work is done!
Whom have I slain i?-ye answer notThou too art mute, rmiy son!"
And thus }his wild lanlelt was Puur'd
Through the (lark resoulding night,
K~  a_ -- — ~~~-~Lmww`w..-. ~; I~~-L"C-~~_1 — 1-~




2  MISCELL ANEI; P'i; -  PIV E:E.
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sigh'd;
From the searching stars of heaven he shrankHumbly the conqueror died.
CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.*
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 onl earth; oh! therefbre, child of song!'Tis well thou shouldst depart.
A SOUrND 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 mournfullnless.-There sat a bard
By a blue stream of' Erin, Mhere it swept
Flashing through rock and wood; the sunset's light
WVas on its wavy, silver-glearnig hLail,
And the wind's whisper in the mounttain-ash,
Whose clusters droop'd above.  iis l-lheadl was bow'd
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch
Had drawn but broken strains: and Imany stood,
Waiting around in silent earnestness,
Th' unchainingi of his soul, the gush of' songMany and graceful forms!-yet one alone
Seem'd present to his dream; and she, indeed,
With her pale, virgin brow, tand changeful cheek,
And the clear starligh-t of her serious eyes,
Lovely amidst the fowing of' dark locks
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful,
* Founded on the following circuinstance related in the Percy
Aqnecdotes of imagination.
" It is soimewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in
his gayest iiood, never could compose a pllanxty for a Miss Brett, in
the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where
he always lmet with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mrental endowments. One day, after an Unsuccessfiul attempt to comlpose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his
harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and aiddressing 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 geniuls 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, ernphatically,'she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died Lwithin the period linidted by the unotulsciously propthetic bard.'




CAROLANS PIROPLIECY.                 143
E'en painfully! —-a creature to behold
With trembling'nmijdst our joy, lest aught unseen
Should waft the vision irom us, leaving earth
Too dim without its bri?.htness!-Did such fear
O'ershadow in that hoit the gifted one,
By his own rushing strem rn?-Once more he gazed,
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once morel
From the deep chords hid wandering, hand brouaht. out
A few short festive noTtes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief,
As if'some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermaster'd him: but yielding then
To the strong propl-et-impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he pour'd
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sangVoice of the grave!
I hear thy thrillill  call:
It comes in the dash of the fi, llin-g wave,
In the sear-leal's trembling fall!
In the shiNver of the tree,
I hear thee, O thou vuice!
And I would thy warning were but for me,
That my spirit might rejoice.
But thou art s: nt
For the sad e.rth's young and fair,
For the graceful heads that have not bent
To the wintry hand of care!
They hear the wiind'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.
Ihere's a young brow smiling near.
With a bridal white rose wreathUInto me it smiles fromn a flowery bier,
Touch'd solemnly by death!
Fair art thou, Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark blue summer sky!
And thy voice clomes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the ditn woods tuneful roundBut soon it niust be still!
Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie



144             5MI:SCI:EL,LANEX)'LUS PIECES.
Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow
That my hand for heoe hath tTiedl,
But into dirg(e miotes v.ildc! oan   o
Its ringirg tones  ihase  died.
Younr art thou,  1 orna'
Yet on thy  rentle hei(],
rLike heavy dew on the liiy's leatves,
A soirit hath been silel!
And the giance is tlhine,vhicll sees
Throucnh nature's a-: fcl bhart —
But bright tliings co v. ith tle surnmer breeie,
And thou too must d,'oa:t!
Yet shall I weei-9?
I know that ir thlv br-eatc
There swells a fiunt ot song too deep,
Too poweriul tor thy rest!
Anid the bitterness I know,
And the clill of this world's breathGo, all undinini'd, in thy glorv o 
Young and crowi'd bride ofl (ti;,th r
Take hence to heaven
Thy holy thtougrils anid trig.,
And soaring( h(pes, that were n;l)t given
For the touch of lnortal bligrht!
Mieht we fcillow in thy track,
This parting should not I e 
But the spring shall give us violets back,
And evclry flover but thee!
There was a burst of te!rs around the bird:
All wept but one,.and she serentely stood,
With hier clelar brow a     rnd dark religious eye
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it mlight be th:.t her cheei,
Was p;.le-r thb-n bef;":.-So  tlorna heard
The ninstrel's prophecy.
And sprin(g return'd,
Bringing the earth her lovely tmIinas again,
All, save the loveliest far! A voicec, a si;nii,
A young sweet spirit gone.




"'AHE LADY OF THE CASTL'E.                    145
TEIE LADY OF TIHE CASTLE.
FROM TIE' PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED POEM.
If there be but one spot upon thy name,
One eye thou fe:tr'st to ileet, one hulinan voice
WVtiose tones thou silrink'st froin-A-Voilaun! veil thy face,
And bowv thy head-and (die'
THOU see'st her pictured with her shining hair,
(Falned were tl-ose tresses in Prov:ncdai song,)
Half braided, half o'er check and bosom f~ir
Let lo.)se, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest.  A child's li.rlht hand is roving'Midst the rich curls, and, oh'! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are iifted to thie t:lce
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady's eye, met}din s, h atlh less
Of'dcleep, andcstiil, and penlsive tendelrness,
Than might beseem a rotler's; —on her brow
Sumetlbing too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscii;us glow,
As fiom the thougrht of' sovereiii beautty born.
These may be dreaii-s-but how sliall womllan tell
Of woman's shamne, and not with tears?-She fell I
That mother left that child!-wcnlt hurrying by
Its cradle-haply not without a si:h,
Haply one moment o'er its rest,e:elne
She hunr —but no! it could not thius have been,
For she rweot on!-fo'sook her hloie, her hearth,
All pure affection, all swee t hostlehold tnirth,
To live 1 ranudy and disiihA-.or'd tling,
Sharing in guilt the splendors of a k!llt.
H.er lord, in very weariness of' life,
Girt on his sword for scetnes of'ditnant str if'
He reclk'd no more of glory: — rri f' and- shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and hi s n.:.tIe
Died silently.  A shadow  o'er this haills
Crept year by year; the tiinstrel pa.!s'd their walls 
The  n-ardr's horn lhunr  niutle:-lmean time the child
OC; whose first floweri-lng   ti!outhts no pi:rent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-learteid, grew;
Into sati yoaihi; fhi' well, too well, she knew
Hier tllotie s tale I  Its ineitory mlnlde the sky
Seit'ln all too ioyvous for lej sl11litking eye;
Cheick'C  on1    hel lip tlJe f!(ow,i sonrt, whiich fain
Woald thire haveil i-ged;  flish'd elr ch-eck to pain
If I;:t i,) sud.Ljen  t'itllc(~ altl grave a tone
Of sorrowv, a:; f r to(,inetlimig lov ely  ti)ne,
E'en to tiie spilln's gl-ad vld i e.: t r own was low
A.'1('  litillative.-t-e    3    Illcle lies suchl depths of woe
i~~~~~1




146            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
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 darkl cloud o'ermantling its fresh daysAnd thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fairNot with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with lono 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 form'd 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 call'd 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 proffcr'd hand of aid
Turn'd 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 gushing 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 press'd
The grcund they trod; then burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-" Oh, undefiled!
I am thy mother-spurn me not, my child!"
i Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd 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.
ifi   What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd 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 early pride, though bound with pearls no more



THE MOURNER FOR TIIE BAR-MECIDES.                 147
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,
And swept the dust witn coils of wavy gold.
Her child bent o'er her- -call'd her-'twas too lateDead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bardHow didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde!
THE MOURNER FOR TIlE BARMECIDES.
O good old man! how Nwell in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.".qs You Like It.'FALLEN was the House of Giafar; and its name,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A vound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tigris' wave.  Stern flaroun's wrath,
Sweeping the nmighty with their fame away,
Had so pass'd sentence: but rrman's chainless heart
Hides that within its depths which never yet
Th' oppressor's thought could reach.'Twas desolalte
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun,
Spread out in ruin lay.  The' songs had ceased
T'he lights, the perfulnes, anld the genii tales
Had ceased; tile guests were goone.  Yet still one voice
Was there-the fountain's; throulgh  those eastern courts,
Over the broken marble arind the grass,
Its low clear music slheddilfg mournfully.
And still another voice! —an aged mman,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneatlh
His silvery hair, came (lay by day, and sate
On a white column's fragmrent; and drew fobrth,
From the forsaken walls and dim  arcades,
A tone that shook themn  with ils aswverirnl thrill'To his deep accents.  Many a glorious tal(c
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom.
Like waters in the vwaste;  and callirng up,
By song or high. recital of' their deeds,
Bright solemin shadowvs of its vnnisnh'd race
To people their own hl;l1s: with these alsone,
In all this rich arnd breatlling world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse.  ile had been
Rear'd in this lordlly d'.  mo'itil,  Nlln  wa.s now'lhe ivy of' its ruils, urlno w- i:cll
His fading life seer'd l(ounI(.  Day rolln'd on day
And fiorl that scene Iet.. I,l el ti wss'was fled;................................-       ~  ~  ----  ----  --- - -- -- ----- e  i~




148               MISCEELLANEOUS PIECES.
For crowds arouna  the grey-hair'd chronicler
Mllet as tnen meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear witl deep fieliilg sliives - till, as a breeze
Wanders through forest branches, and is met
By one quick sound aid siiver oi the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lam-ent,
As through their stricken souls it p:ss'd awoeke
One echoing murmlur.-Btt tills Illifrt not be
Undler a dspo)t's rule. and, suli mo l'd thence,
T'.he dreamelnr stoon l Iefore tile Caliph's throne:
Sentenced to deatl hIe sto(d, arllid e(y pale.
And with his Wlite lips r:g lily colpress'd;
Till, in submlissive tonles, lie ask'd to, speak
Ollce more, ere thrust fr, li earth's ftiir sunshine forth.
W as it to sue for grace?-Iiis burning   heart
Sprang, with a suddeni lightning, to his eye,
And he was chanlged'-atlid thts, ill rapid words,
T'h' o'ennastering thou'ghts, more strung tllhaTn deatih, found way
"And shall I not rejoice to go, when   the noble and the brave,
With the gio. y on tl-heir brow~.s, are cgone before n-e to the grave?
What is there lcft to look on rlow, what ilirhitness in the land?
I hold in scorn the Iaded w, rld, that wants tiheir princely banid 
"  y chiefs! my cihiefs! the old mOIan comes that ill your halls
was nursed —                                       firstThat follow'd you to mrany a fight, where flash'd your sablres
That bdre your childrenr in his arenas, your nane-le upon his
heart:
Oh! must the music of that naure with him fiom earth depart!
"It shall not be! a thou: —and tongues, tliouh htunian voice
were still,
With that high sound the living air tiUinlr,)hantly shi- ll fill;
The wind's iiee IligEt shiall bear it (rn as warndering seeds are
so wnI,                                             tjone.
And thie starry lmildnight whisper it, with a deep tind thrliliing
" Yor it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves
expires,'its fires
And it is not as a household lamlp, that a breath shrould qiuench
It is written on our battle-fields with thle writing of' the sword,
It hath left upon our desert salnds a light in blessings pour'd.
"Tile founts, tlre manliy gushing feunts, which to t1ie wild ye
gave,
Of you, roy chiefs, shall,ing aloud, as they polur a joyous wave. 
Anld the groves, wivtii iwhose deep loveiy gloorin ye hung the
pilgrimi's way,
Shall sendi from all tilr sighinr leaves your prarises on the day.
"'The very walls your bounty rear'd for thie stranger's homeless head,
Shall find a Irurmur to record youtr tale, my glorious dead'




'rIlE SPANISH  CIIAPEt.             149
Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute ana
cittern rung,
And the serpent in your palaces lie coil'd amidst its young.
" It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendor seesI leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and to the breeze!
I go, since earth her flower hath lost, tojoin the bright and fair,
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chief, are there!"
But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
O'er Haroun's eyes had gather'd, and a thoughtOh! many a sudden and remorseful thoughtOf his youth's once loved friends, the martyr'd race,
O'erflow'd his softening heart.-" Live! live!" he cried,
" Thou faithful unto death! live on, and still
Speak of thy lords-they were a princely band!"
THE SPANISH  CHAPEl,.*
"Weep not for those whom the veil 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 what was born for the skies"
XooM
1 MADE a mountain brook my guide
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander'd on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of 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 bosom'd 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
Check'd 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,
* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recollectisras o;
tl Peninsula.
13'




1X50           MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
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 stream,
A lowly chapel rose.
A pathway to that still retreat
Through many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight —how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound,
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 eye
And silken lashes press'd,
Did the warm living slumber lie
With such a weight of rest!
Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheek's pure marble dyed-'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow
Through roses heap'd beside.
I stoop'd-the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lip's breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still- -
The lovely child was dead!
"Alas!" I cried, " fair faded thing!
Thou hast rung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a woe, to cling,
Round yearning hearts for years!"
But then a voice came sweet and low
I turn'd 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 shadow'd 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 may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to Heaven!"




THE KAISER'S FEAST.                   15)
THE KAISER'S FEAST.
Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave
Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the twelfth century
that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he died in neglect
and poverty. " After his decease, his mnother Matilda privately in
vited his children to return to Gernmany; 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 be
fore him in the garb of siuppliants, irtploring pity and forgiveness.
To this appeal the victor softened." —,Iiss  etnpger's.esroir, oJ
the Quee of Bohemia.
TaE Kaiser feasted ill his hallThe red wine mantled high;
Banners were trembling on the wall,
To the peals of minstrelsy:
And many a gleam and sparkle caute
From the armor hung around,
As it caught the glance of the torch's flame,
Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown'd.
Why fell there silence on the chord
Beneath the harper's hand?
And suddenly from that rich board,
Why rose the w-ssail band?
The strings were hush'd-the knights made wav
For the queenly mother's tread,
As up the hall, in dalrk array,
Two fair-hair'd boys she led.
She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face
Fllsh'd the proud warrior blood:
And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried,
"Wherefore this mourning vest?
And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest?"
"Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features ofthy line
In each fair little one!
Though griefawhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit liesThy brother's children see!
"And where is he, thy brother, where I
He in thy home that grew,
And smiling with his sunny hair,
Ever to greet thee flew?




~52           IMISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
How would his arms thy neck ent  n me,
His fobnd lips press thy brow!
My son! oh, call these Qrphans thine!Thou hast no brother now!
"What! from their gentle eyes doth nought
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 rear'd together there,
Through the old woods like fawns ye flewWhere is thy brother-where?
" Well didst thou love him then and he
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 came
Between the good and brave!
Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offer'd to the grave.
" And let them, let them there be pour'd!
Though all unfelt belowThine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.
Oh! death is mighty to make peace 
Now bid his work be (done!
So many an inward strife shall ceaseTake, take these babes, my son!"
His eye was dimm'd-the strong man shook
With feelings long suppress'd;
Up in his arms the boys he took,
And strain'd them to his breast.
And a shout from all in the royal hal
Burst forth to hail the sight 
And eyes were wet'midst the brave that imet
At the Kaiser's feast that night.
TASSO AND HIS SISTER
"Devant vous est Sorrente; lh d6meuroit la sceur de Tasse, quand
il vint en prlerin denmander i cette ol)scure amie, un asyle contre
l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egar6
sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son g6nie."-Corinne.
SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd,
The citron's breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide
Burn'd in the Italian sky.




TASSO AND HIS SISTER.                  153
Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full of sweet loughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.
But still and thoughtfill, at her knee,
Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song and dancing glee
flu h'd as by words of power.
With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed
Up to their mother's face,
With brows through parted ringlets raised
They stood in silent tgrace.
While she —vet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread —                              i
The glorious numbers read  i
The proud undying lay, which pour'd
Its light on evil years 
His of the giftted pen and sword,*
The triumph-and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia's flight,
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night
By many a gondolier;
~Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfirey's deeds, of Tanlred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.                               1
Youngf checks around that bright page glow'd,               i
Young holy hearts were stirr'd                           {
And the meek tears of' woman flow'd
Fast o'er each burning word.
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet, each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.
The mother turn'd —a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud yet mournful eye.
But drops which would not stay for pr'de,
From that dark eye gush'd free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
"Forgotten! e'en by thee!
"Am I so changed?-and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play'd;* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying
that Tasso, with his sword anti pen, was superior to all men.
I[




154            MISCELLAN EIOUS PIECES.
This brow hath been all bathed in dew,
From wreaths which thou hast made;
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain;
M7 soul is dim with clouds of careTell me those words again!
"Life hath been heavy on my head,
I come a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart,'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here."
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frameShe fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother's name.
Her brother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?He was the bard of gifts divine
T'o sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the sword and pen!
ULLA, OR THE ADJURATION.
"Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee
Speak to me! I have wander'd o'er the earth.
And never found thy likeness. Speak to nle!
This onco-once more!"              Jllanfred.
"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!
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;
Come to me from the ocean's dead!-thou'rt surely of them-.,
come!"'Twas Ulla's voice-alone she stood
In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o'er a glassy food;
Fromn a dark rock's beetling height.




ULLA, OR THE ADJURATION.              15S
"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 hush'd around thee.
What wind shall point the way
To the chambers where thou'rt lying?
Come to me thence and say
Thou thought'st on me in dying?
1 will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheet —
Come to me from the ocean dead!-thou'rt surely of themspeak!"
She listen'd-'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 mutter'd words compel
The tempest to obey.
But I adjure not thee
By magic sign or songMy 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 vo" s we pledged- 
arise
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 struggling death
(Of hope that loathed to part,
By the fierce and withering breath
Of despair on youth's high heartBy the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings
Nought 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!
Was it her yearning spirit's dream,
Or did a pale form rise,
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam,
With bright, still, mournful eyes!
"Have the depths heard?-they have!
My voice prevails —thou'rt there,




156            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
Dim from thy watery graveO 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, end grew still again.
TO WORDSWORTH.
THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices;-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladd'ning presence fills
The solitude with sound; fbr in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain fiom their heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breas;, 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,
WVhen night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words;
While, in pleased murmurs, womuin'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'eu as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie:
Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.




A MONARCH'S DEATHBED.                   i5
A MONARCH'S DEATHBED.
The Emperor Albert of tIapsburg, who was assassinated by his
nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by
the wayside, and only supported in his last moments bya female
peasant, who happened to be passing.]
A MONARCH on his deathbed layDid censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,
Through his profJund chamber's gloom'!
He ltly upon a greensward bed,
Beneath a darkening skyA lone tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen as warriors fall,
WAhere 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,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,
Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh?
Anti priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the glazing eye?
A peasant girl that royal head
Upon her bosom laid,
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,
The fice of death survey'd.
Alone she sat: —filom hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gush'd the fount of noble boodTretason its worst had done.
VN ith her long hair she vainly press'd
The wounds, to staunch their tideUnknown, on that meek humble breast,
Imperial Albert died!
TO THIE MEMORY OF HEBER.
"Umile in tltlta gloriat."-Petrarch.
IF it be sad to speak of trev sures gone,
Of sainted genius call'd too soon away,
Of light fioim this world taken, while it shone
VOL. n. —l14




15F            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
Yet kindling onward to the perfect dayHow shall our grief, if mournful these things be,
Flow forth, O, thou of many gifts! for thee?
Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard 7
And that deep soul of' gentleness and power,
Have we not fSlt its breath in every word,
Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower?
Yes, in our hearts thy tervent thoughts have burn'dOf heaven they were, and thither have return'd.
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 allow'd!
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,
Not to decay, but unto death hast bow'd;
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 endow'd,
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;
Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!
Thine, Heber, thine; whose memory from the dead,
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led!
ST. ASAPH1, Sept. 1826.
THE ADOPTED CHILD.
"WHY wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof'd cabin, with lowly wallMine is a fair and a pillar'd hall,
Where many an image of marble gleamns,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams."
"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the beq o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they knowLady, kind lady! O, 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,
_  _  _ _  _      - -    -        _   _  __           _     _   _    II




INVOCATION.                      159
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er ill thy mountains heard."
"Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe -half slumbering on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music lowLady, kind lady! O, let me go."
"'Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye."
"Is my rnother gone fiomr her home away?But I know that my brothers are there at playI 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 flowLady, kind lady! O, let me go."
"Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,'I'hey sport no more on the mountain's brow;
They have left the fern 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! O, let me go."
INVOCATION.
"I call'd on dreams and visions, to disclose
That which is veil'd fromn waking thought; conjured
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost
To appear and answer."
* Wordsworth.
ANSVER 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 answer'd me-" We roll
In liaht and power on high;
But, orfthe never-dying soul,
Ask that which cannlot die."




13          511U'1'ME I1. A' I i.; }'U S t''l i;S.
Oh! many-toned and chainless w ind!
Thou art a wanderer free;
Tell rue if thou its ilace cantst find,
Far over mount and spa I
Anti the wind murmur'd in reply"The blue deep I have cross'd,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thiou hast lost."
Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the settlng sun,
Answer! have ye a hotme for those
Whose earthly race is run?
The bright clouds answer'd-" We depart,
We vanish from  the shy;
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,
For that which cannot die."
Speak then, thou voice of' God within,
Thou of the deep, low tone!
Answer me, through lilc's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown?
And the voice ans. er'd-" Be thou still!
Enough to know is g-iven;
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil,
Thine is to trust in Heaven."
KORNER AND HIS SISTER.
Charles Theodore Korner, the celebratedl young German poet and
soldier, was kMille(l in a slkirnislih ith a detachment of French
troops, on the'20th,ft August, 1813:, ta: hoTUrs after the composition of his popular piece, The Sword Sonrr. lie was l)uried at the
villa(e of Wobbeliat in  lecklenllurg, ndtler a beautiful oak, in a
recess of which he hadl frequentis (leposite(l verses composed by
himo while callmtpaigning in its vicinity. Thle Imionument erected to
his mermory is of cast iron; and the upper part is wrought into a
lyre and sword, a favorite emllblem of Korner's. froml which one of
his works had been enititled. Near the grave of the poet is that
of his only sister, who died of grief foir his loss, having only stirvived himi 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:'Vergis die treuen Todlten nicht."
Forget not the faithlifll (lead.
-See Richardson's Translation of Korncr's Life and wforks, and
Downes' Letters from Jlec/le.Lrl-sf.]
GEEEN wave the oak folever o'er thy rest,
Thou that beneath its cr.)wni'ng ftliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of' thy country'.s ble:st,
Thy place of rmemory is an altar keepsst.;




KORNER AND HIS SISTER.                 11
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd,
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 hush'd presence of the glorious dead..oldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God.
f he oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite,
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee,
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they veil'd their drooping banners o'er:hee;
And the deep guns with rolling pear gave token,
That Lyre and Sword were broken.
Thou hast a hero's tomb:-a lowlier bed
Is hers, the gentle girl, beside thee lyingThe gentle girl, tat bow'd her fair young head
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the braveShe pinied to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others; —but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot,
She loved thee i —lovely in your lives ye were,
And ini your early deaths divided not.
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy:-What hath she?
Her own bless'd place by thee!
It was thy spirit, brother, which had made
The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye,
Since first in chillhood'm-iidst the vines ye play'd,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two-and'when that spirit pass'd,
Woe to the one, the last!
Woe, yet not long!-She linger'd but to trace
Thine image froin the image in iler breastOnce, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she wvent to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'erIt answer'd 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!
Softly she perish'd:-be the Flower deplored
Here with the Lyre and Sword!
tiave 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 f unlt of tears.
14*




MISCELLA'.EOUS PIECES.
Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!*
THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER.t
A SONG for the death-day of the braveA song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride.+
He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die.
He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his father-land.
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 trulmplet lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after (lays,
Like a watchfire's light.
And a grief in his father's soul to rest'Midst all high thought;
* The following lines, recently addressed to the author of the
above, by the venerable father of Korner, who, with the mother,
still survives the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower," here commemorated,
may not be uninteresting to the German reader.
Wohllaut tont aus der Ferne von freundlichen Liiften getragen,
Schmeichelt nmit lindernder Kraft sich in tier Tratuernden Ohr,
Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft,
Die zum Tempel die brust nur fUr das Wiirdige weihn.
Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling
Hingezogen gefiihlt, wird ihm ein glazender Lohn.
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutschen icht fremd ist
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.
Theodor Korner's Fater.
t On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, addressed to Mr
Richardson. the translator of his works, in which he speaks of " The
Death-day of his son."
i   See The Sword Song, cotmposed on the morning of his death.




AN IIOUR OF ROMANCE.                   163
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.
And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautif'ul-beautiful and bright,
In life and death!
A song for the death-day of the braveA song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride!
AN HOUR OF ROMIANCE.
" I Corlle
ro this swveet pltce fo)r quiet. Every tree
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,
And thyrny nloundl that flings unt() tile winds
Its morning incense, is lmy friend."   Barry Cornwall.
THERE were thick leaves above me and around,'And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimnes%, and a iitful sound
As of soft showers ott writer;-darlk and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf; so still
T'hey seem'd but pict!tred glo- ims; a hidden rill
Made music, such aS haUltu lis hil a dream,
Under the teril tufts; ant a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by lhe glowworm shed,
Came pouringr throucgh the Nwoven beech-boughs down,
And steep'd the niagic pare whlerein I read
Of royal chivalry and old relnown,
A tale of Palestine.*-M-ea nwll e the bee
Swept past Ine with a tone of'sum-nler hours,
A drowsy bugle, wxvfting thouglhts of'flowers,
Blue skies, and ariber sulnshine: brigIhtly free,
On filrmy wings, thie purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing likle 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 tlat high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chain'd soul:-'twas not the leaves I heard;A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd,
Through its proud floating folds:-'twas not the brook
Singing in secret through its glassy glen;A wild shrill trumpet of' the Saracen
Peal'd from tho desert's lonely heart, and shook
The'l'alismlnll-'rale- of the Crusaders
~j   _~~_~~_ ~__~____~_~_   _~ ____~77



164             MISCELLANEO, S PIECES.
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
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swell'd 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 echo'd to the mirth of kings.The bright mfnsk faded. Unto life's worn track,
What call'd me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!-and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast;
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone,
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone.
A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.
" lis very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more." Cowper
THE hollow dash of waves!-the ceaseless roar!Silence, ye billows!-vex my soul no more.
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!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
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 bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the (loud of its:lusiern ll vines,
And the summer breath of ti-.:: X:iy te iovcrs,




THE EFFIGIES.                   166
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance through the dark'nmg shades
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,
Speak! have ye known, have ye telt them all?
The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my &ream'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 stillI hear them!-around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell —
They come with a breath from.he fresh spring-time,
And waken imy 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 mountains I see the sweep
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that 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 playI hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way 
Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more.
THE EFFIGIES.
"Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn las Lied
Allein die Thranen, die inendlichen
Der iiberbliebnen. der verlass'nen Frau,
Zahlt keine Nachwelt."-Gocthe.
WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the staind window shed;
i /~ ~ ~   ~ ~~ —-----                           ---




f166             nrttiMISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
The records of thy name and race
Have faded fr'omi 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 ight; 
A wvar-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arnn that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance
Chief! were not these things thile?
A lofty place were leaders sate
Around the council board;  -
In fe.stive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour'd
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, lharp, and bard;
Surely these things were all thine own- 
So hadst thou thy reward.
Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm'd knight is laid,
With mteek hands filded o'er a breast
In mnatron robes array'd 
What was thy tale?-O gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his vict!,rious fate,
What bard hathi sunog of ithee?
He woo'd a brieht and burning star
Thinue was tile void, the giortin,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast receding plunle 
The heart-sick listenin  wlile his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze 
The pangr-btt when did i';lre take heed
Of griefs obscure ts tlie-:. 
Thy silent and,secl.udled hor!l
TIhrough Ilnay  a lo,.elv (it V
While btenidin~f o',:r!il Iroiler'td flowers,
With spirits f ih   a-;t 
Thy weepig11r in i( i't i'a yrelrs for hitn I
Who ifboiht onl yirian-  plains,'lly vatclliilgs  ill tire to-rch grew dlimThese fill no rjinstrel strains.
A still, sad life was tlBine!-long years
With tasks ungrl'e hlon'd flua,ghtDPep, quiet lov'-l::'llbnissive tears,
Vigils of an:' o:,s tiought;




LANDING OF TliLE PILGRIM FATHERS.            167
Prayer at the cross in fervor pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim givenOh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven.
THE LANDING OF TIIE PILGRIM  FATHIERS IN NE"W
ENGLAND.
"Look now abroad-another race has fill'd
Those populous borders —ride the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile reanlms are till'd;
The land is full of harvests and green meads."-Bryant.
THE breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches toss'd;
And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
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.nld in fear;They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea:
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthen of' the free!
The ocean eagle soar'd
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'dThis was their welcome home!
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 high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the miile 




168            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
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 there they foundFreedom to worship God.
THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.
" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Asidle for ever;-it may be a soundA tone of music-summner's breath, or springA flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound —
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bonnd.'
CiAilde Harold
THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's tbr 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 vanish'd things,
That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why;
[ones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;
A rippling wave-the dasiling of an oarA flower scent floating past our parents' door;
A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plantive 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 ip 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 fearThese are night's mysteries —who shall make them clear?
And the strange inborn sense of cominrg ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which nought can drown or still,'Midst feasts and meloJies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, th-lt shadow fall.
Why shakes the spirit thus?-'tis mystery all 




TEIE DEPARTED.                    169
Darkly we move  we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes i it may be, that nearel than we think
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!
fIumbly-f-br knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal
Th' immortal being with our dust entwined,So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, fol that high nature's sake.
THE DEPARTED.
"Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings
The powerfiul 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
To the spirit's distant shore?Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array
Are thither gone beibre.
The warrior kings, whose banner
Flew far as eagles fly,
They are gone where swords avail them not,
From the feast of victory.
And the seers who sat of yore
By orient palm or wave,
They have pass'd with all their starry loreCan ye still fear the grave?
We fear! we fear!-the sunshine
Is joyous to behold,
And we reck not of the buried kings,
Nor the awful seers of old.
Ye shrink!-the bards whose lays
Have made your deep hearts burnThey have left the sun, and the voice of praise,
For the land whence none return.
And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die,
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.
Would ye not join that throng
Of the earth's d p:arted flowers,
VOL. II. —  5
-. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ____                      _____ —-------- --- -  ---------------— ~ —--




170            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
And the masters of the mighty song
In their far and fadeless bowers?
Those songs are high and holy,
But they vanquish not our fear:
Not from our path those flowers are goie —
We fain would linger here!
Linger then yet awhile,
As the last leaves on the bough!Ye have loved the light of many a smile
That is taken from you now.
There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks, that now are still
There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill
Soft eyes are seen no more,
That made Sprin-tirne  in your heart;
Kindred and friends are gonel beforeAnd ye still fear to part?
We fear not now, we fear not!
Though the way through darkness bends;
Our souls are strong to follow them,
Our own familiar friends!
THE PALM TREE.*
IT waved not through an eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;
It was not fann'd by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas;
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.
But fair the exiled palm-tree grew'Midst foliage of no kindred hue
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient Imould,
And Europe's violets, fitintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.
Strange look'd it there!-the willdw stream'd
Where silvery waters near it gleaml'd,
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.
* This incident is, I think, recolrdedl by Ie,ilie, ill his litel t
Les Jardins.




THE CHtILD'S LAST SLEEP.              171
There came an eve of festal hoursRich music fill'd that garden's bowers:
Lamps, that fi-om flowering branches hung:
()X sparks of dew soft color flung,
And bright forms glanced-a fairy showUnder the blossoms to and fro.
But one, a lone one, midst the throng,
Seem'd reckless of all dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow and long black hairA stranger, like the palm-tree, there.
And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:
He pass'd 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 hirn.its rustling spoke,
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper'd 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 oarThe conch-note heard along the shore;
All through his wakening bosom sweptHe clasp'd his country's tree and wept!
Oh, scorn him not!-the strength whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,
Th' unconquerable power which fills
The freeman battling on his hlillsThese have one fountain deep and clearThe same whence gusll'd that childlike tear!
THE CHIILD'S LAST SLEEP.
SUGGESTED BY A MIONUMENTr OF CIIANTREY'S.
Tnou sleepest-but when wilt thou wakle, fair child?
When the ftwn awakes in the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mlulats with the breeze of morn I
When the first rich breuth of the rose is born?Lovely thou sleepest, yet s, liltthiolillies
Too deep and still on tliy soft-scai'(l eyes;




172            MISCELLANEOUS PIECE,
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to seeWhen 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 wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, had press'd
Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall color all blossoms, fair child! but thee.
Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!-that thou should'st 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?
TILE SUNBEAM.
THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hallAjoy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and seaSunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee 7
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles;
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles:
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades,
And the quiveringleaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below
I lok'd on the mountains-a vapor lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou breakest forth, and the mist becamle
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I look'd on the peasant's lowly cotSomething of sadness had wrapt the spot 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a gutest 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.
* A buttcrfly. as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monu
Hient.
-7  7-:



BREATHINGS OF SPRING.                 173
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 turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou steepest in love on its grassy breast.
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!
BREATHINGS OF SPRING.
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 copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade,
And happy murtmurs 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 Intlody, 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 hast set that glory free,
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And penciling the wood anemone;
Silent they seem-yet each to thoughtful eye;lows with mute poesy.
But what awakest thou in the heart, 0 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 in the heart?
15*




174            MISCEILANEOUS PIECES.
Too much, oh! there too much!-we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee,
What fobnd, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see!
flow are we haunted, in the wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feetSpring!'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 7
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dinms thine air,
Breathed by our loved ones there!
THE ILLUMINATED CITY.'1 tE hills all glow'd with a festive light,
For the royal city rejoiced by night:
There were lamps huna forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streamingr free 
Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire;
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dom- on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.
I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on throngs —
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled sollgs;
There was music forth from each palace borneA 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 fellGrief in the homes they have 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 nlot the face of a weeper thereToo strong, perchance, was the bri;.Iht lamp's glare!



THE SPELLS OF HOME.                  175
I heard not a wail'midst the joyous crowdThe music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;
Through torches and streamers its flood swept byHow could I listen for moan or sigh?
Turn then away from life's pageants, tuln,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever toc bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.
But lift the proud mantle which hides fronm thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true
Nor fear to survey what its folds conce4 —
Sc niust thy spirit be taught to feel!
THE SPELLS OF HOME.
"There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in houre of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief."
Bernard Barton.
BY the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First look'd 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 lull'd 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 call'd 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 t~hrown.
And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.




176            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
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 awayWhen the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's homeThink 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!
ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.
"Roma, Roma, Roma!
Non e piti come era prima."
RoME, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou sat'st a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men
Bow'd at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seenRome, 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!
Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
Vith color'd 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,




THE DISTANT SIHIP.                ",hile night, o'er tomb and shrine,
Rests darkly clear.
Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung,
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 charm'd fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.
Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud faines above
Thy mirghty dead.
Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien:Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
THE DISTANT SHIP.
HE see-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 notThy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark distant spot
Of all the main and sky.
Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep,
A solemnn 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 link'd to earth!
Is not yon speck a bark which bears
The loved of many a hearth?
Oh! do n: )t [lope, and Grieft and Fear,
Crowd her fail world even now,




i  MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear
Follow her venturous prow'!
Bright are the floating clouds above
The 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 wayFor human hearts are there.
THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing.
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 palms that wave through the Indian sky
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
"We have swept o'er cities in song renown'dSilent they lie with the deserts round!.
We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regain'd its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome,"
And what have ye found in the nloniarch'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 spiltNaught 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 parted from that sweet spot?
" A change we have found there-and many a change
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 hush'd where the children plav'd
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"
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 auide, and shall iwe despair?




GRAVES OF A  IHOUSEHOLD.-INMOZAR'rT'S REQUIE1. 179
Ye over desert and deep have pass'dSo may we reach our bright home at last!
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
TuEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee.;Their graves are sever'd 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 sightWhere are those dreamers now?
One'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laidThe Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath oneHe 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 duest,
Above the noble slain:
He wrapt his colors -round his breast
On a blood-rcd field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded'midst Italian flowers —
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the samle green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee 
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearthi —
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, 0 earth!
MOZART'S REQUIEM.
A short time before the death of lMozart, a stranhger, of remarkable
appearance, antl dressed ill d(eel)n!loaritag, celled at his house,
and requested hiim to prep:tre a recqieml, in his ibest style, for the
funeral of a distinauishetd person. The sensitive imagination of
the composer intmlediately seized upon tile circumstance as an
777 -7 -7-7 —--                    -I —--




*  18           MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he la
bored to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression.
He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece
of music, which was performed at his interment.]
" These birds of Paradise but long to flee
Back to their native mansion."  Prophecy of Dania
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 call'd me to prepare,
And my heart answer'd secretly-my own!
One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain,
Mighty the troubled spirit to inthrall!
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, ringi-lg with sweet sound!
Must leave its festal skies,
With all their melodies,
That ever in my breast glad echoes found!
Yet have I known it long:
Too restless and too strong
Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame;
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;
1 strive with yearnings vain
The spirit to detain
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!
Therefore disturbing dreams
Trouble the secret streams
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast,
Something fcr more divine
Than may on earth be mine,
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me( rest.




TIlE IMAGE IN LAVA.                 181
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
Bum 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.
THE IMAGE IN LAVA*
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 moulder'd,
Empires fi'om eai th have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!
And childhood's fiagile image,
Thus f.'arlilly enshrined,
Survives the proud memorials rear'd
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 pangsYet better than to part!
Haply of that fond bosom
On ashes here impress'd,
Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.
Perchance all vainly lavish'd
Its other love had been,
And where it trusted, nought remrain'd
But thorns on which to lean.
* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the
bosom, found at the uncovering of Ilerculaneum.
Vol.. IT -- 16




182            RMISCELLANEOU S PIECES.
j'Far better, then, to perish,
Thy form within its clasp,
Than live and lose thee, precious one!
From that impassion'd grasp.
Oh! I could pass all relies
Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude tnonument
Cast in afIlction's mould.
Love, human love! what art thou?
Thy print upon the dust
Outlives the cities of renown
Wherein the mighty trust i
Immortal, oh! immortal
Thou art, who e earthly glow
Hath given these asioes holinessIt must, it euwt  be so!
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
O LOVELY voices of the sky
That hymn'd thie Saviour's birth!
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth'"
To us yet speakl the strains
Wherewith, in days gone by,
Ye bless'd the Syrian swains,
O voices of the sky!
0 clear and shining light, whose beams
That hour Heaven's rlory shed
Around tile palls, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherds' head;
Be near, through lift and death
As in that holiest night
Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith,
0 clear and shinring light!
0 star whicih led to lim whose love
Brought donwn ntn's ransom free
Where art thou?-'Midst the hosts above
May we still gaze on thee?
In heaven thou art not set,
Thy rays earth might n,,t dimSend them to guide us yet,
0 star which led to him!




A FATHER READING  T'HE BIBLE                  I05
A FATHER READING TrllE BIBLE.*
TWAS early day, and sunlight stream'd
Soft through a quiet room,
That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd,
Still, but with nought of gloom.
For there, serene in happy age,
Whose hope is fi'orn above,
A father communed with the pagle
Of Heaven's recorded love.
Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his grey holy hair,
And touch'd the page with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there!
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier farA 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 martvr's u)rayer, wherein the glow
Of quenchles fiitlh surviveg ~
While every feature said-" Iknow
That my R'elec'ver lives'"
And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their -very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity
Of thought:: o'ersweepinog death.
* This little poem, which, as its Author herself explressedt in a let.er to Mrs. Joanna Baillie, was to her "a thing set apart," as being
the last of her production s ever read to her beloved mother, was
written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her
wish " that Mars. lemans w-ou!d embody in poetry a picture that so
warmed a daughter's heart:"
"Upon going into our (dear father's sitting-room this morning, my
Sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and being
tonwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the fur
ther end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming oni his venerable silver
hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which
he perused the blessed book. Our fancy ledt us to believe that some
immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open
brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply.
After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we iwhispered to each other,' Oh! if Mrs. Hemans could only see sour father
at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene, for even as
we gaze upon it the bright gleam is vanishing.''"
"December 9, 1826."




184            MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
Silent-yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt!
TIlE MEETING OF TIlE BROTHlERS *
— " is early days
Were with him in his heart."- -Vordswortl
THE voices of two forest boys,
In years when hearts entwine,
- Had hll'd with childhood's merry noise
A valley of the Rhine:
To rock and stream that sound was known,
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 hath been:
Ay! their bright youth a glory threw,
O'er the wild place wherein they grew.
But this, as day-spring's flush was brief
As early bloom or dew;
Alas!'tis but the wither'd leaf
That wears the enduring hue:
Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore,
Might girdle in their world no more.
For now on manhood's verge they stood,
6i |And heard life's thrilling call,
As if'a silver clarion woo'd
To some high festival;
And parted as young brothers part,
With love in each unsullied heart.
They parted-soon the paths divide
VWherein our steps were one,
Like river branches, far and wide,
Dissevering as they run;
And making strangers in their course,
Of waves that had the same bright source.
Met they no more?-once more they met,
Those kindred hearts and true'Twas on a field of' death, where yet
The battle thunders flew,
Thouh the fierce day was well nigh past,
And t'le red sunset smiled its last.
* For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see L'IHermit
en Italia.




THE LAST' WISht.                  18,
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 pour'd forth on each other's neck
Sach tears as warriors need not check.
The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread
All melted with those tears,
The faces of the holy dead
Rose as in vanish'd years;
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest,
Lifted its voice in each full breast!
Ohll! was it then a 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 wellHeart unto heart those brothers fell!
Happy, yes, happy thus to go!
Bearing fiorn earth away
Affictions, gifted ne'er to kow
A shadow, a decay.
A passing touch of change or chill,
A breath of aught whose breath can kill.
And they, between whose sever'd souls,
Once in close union tied,
A gulf' is set, a current rolls
For ever to divide;
Well may they envy such a lot,
Whose hearts yearn on-but mingle not
THE LAST WISII.
Well may I weep to leave this world-thee-all these beautifu
woods, and plains, and hills."-Lights and Shadoiws.
Go to the forest shade,
Seek thou tthe well known glade,
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,
Like dark eyes fill'd 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 sum glows.
16*




186             MIISCEILAINEUUS PIECES.
Fain would I stav with theeAlas! this may not be;
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours 
Go where the fountain's breast
Catches, in glassy rest,
The dim green light that pours through laurel bowemr
I know how softly bright,
Steep'd in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now;
Go to the put-e stream's edge,
And from its whisp'ritng sedge
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd I row!
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 snow~s,
Its faint leaves o'er the emtnerald turf around.
Well know'st thou that fair treeA murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above;
Bring me one pearly flower
Of all its clustering showerFor on that spot we first reveal'd our love.
Gather one woodbine bough,
Then, firom the lattice low
Of the bower'd cottarre which I bade the mark,
When lvy the hlanlet list,
Through d(iil w,;od lanes we passld,
While dews ware grane::  to the glowwv;rmlol',s.sI-;jrk
Haste! to my pillow bear
Those fragrant things and fair;
My!hand no more tmay bind then up at eveYet shall their odor soft
One bright dream round me waft
Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!
And, oh! if thou would'st ask
Wherefore thy steps I task,
The grove, the stream the hamlet vale to trace-'Tis that some thought of me,
When I atn 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!
Rove where we two have roved,
Forgetting her that in her Spring-time died!




FAIRY FAVORS.                     1
F'AIRY FAVORS.
- Give me but
Something whereunto I may bind mry heart.
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp
Affection's tendrils round.WormLD'sT thou wear the gift of immortal bloom?
Would'st thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb?
Drink of this cup! it is richly firauglht
With balm fiom the gardens of genii brought;
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee bly;
When the young all scattered like rose lerives lie
And would not the youth of my soul he rone,
If the loved had left rme, one }by one?
Take back the cup that may stver bless,
The gift that would make t11!irothelress~
How should I live, with no ki lb:led eye
To reflect mine immortality 
Would'st thou have empire, by sign or spell,
Over the mighty in air that dwell l
Would'st thou call the spirits of shore and steep
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep?
Wave but this rod, and a viewlkss band,
S!aves to thy will, shall around thee stand.
And would not fear, at trty coming then,
Hush every voice iII the hotmes of men'
WVu!d not bright eyes in my presence quail?
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale?
No giit be mine that aside would turn
The human love for whose founts I yearn!
Would'st thou then read through the hearts of those
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose?
Wear this rich gem! it is charm'd to showWhen a chance comes over affeiction's glow,
Look on its flushing or fading hue,
And learn if' the trusted be false or true 
Keep, keep the gem, that I still may truL,t
Though my heart's wealth be but pour'd on. dust!
Let not a doubt in my soul h-ve place,
To dimn the light of a loved one's face;
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smileThat glory would pass could I lo I)k on glile!
Say, then, what boon of my power shall be
Favor'd of spirits! pour'd forth on thee?
Thou scornest the treasures of wave und minie
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divinle,
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest —
Answer me! how may I grace it best?




s88                  ANNOTATIONS ON
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 ot our lives be one'
ANNOTATIONS
ON
"RECo uDS OF WOMAN," &c.
WE feel certain that every admirer of the genius of Mrs. Itcmans
will be obliged to us for here reprinting, almlost at length, the adrrl
rable Critique on her writings which appeared in the XCIXth Num
her of the Edinburgh Review. The acum!en, the clear sightedness,
the taste, and elegance of Lord Jeffriey, are evident throughout.
"Women, we fear, cannot do every thing; nor even every thing
they attempt. But what they can do, they do, for the most part, excellently-and much illore frequently with an absolute and perfect
success, than the aspirants of our rougher and more ambitious sex.
They cannot, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen
passions of men-nor their coarser vices-nor even scenes of actual
business or contention-and the mixed motives, and strong and faulty
characters, by which affairs of mnomient are usually conducted on the
great theatre of the world. For much of this they are disqualified
by the delicacy of their training and habits, and the still more disa
bling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feelings; and
front much they are excluded by their actual inexperience of the
realities they might wish to describe-by their substantial and incurable ignorance of business —of the way in which serious affairs
are actually managed-and the true nature of the agents and imipulses that give movement and direction to the stronger currents of
ordinary life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral or political investigations, where many complex and indeterminate elements are to be taken into account, and a variety of opposite probabilities to be weighed before coming to a conclusion.  T'hey are
generally too impatient to get at the ultilnate results, to gi, well
through with such discussions; and either stop short at somie iiiperiect view of the truth, or turn aside to repose in the shadow of somne
Ilatusible error. This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely
from their being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and
natural business is the practical regulation of private life, in all its
bearings, affections, and concerns; and the questions with vwhich,
they have to deal in that most important department, though often
of the utmost difficulty and nicety, involve, for the mnost part, but few
elements; and may generally be  Letter described as delicate than
intricate-requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and firle
perception than a patient or laborious examination. For the satime
reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on subjects tihe best
suited to their genitli; their natural training rendering them equally
averse to long doubt and long labor.




RECORDS OF WOMAN, &c.                       189
"For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough knowledge either of
man's strength or his weakness, we apprehend them  to be, in
all respects, as well qualified as their brethren of the stronger sex;
while, in their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule-their power
of detecting artifice, hypocisy, and affectation-the force and promnptitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted attachmnent, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require, they are,
beyond all doubt, our superiors.'Their business being, as we have said, with actual or social life,
and the colors it receives from the conduct and dispositions of indivi(luals, they unconsciously acquire, at a very early age, the finest
perception of character anti manners, and are almost as soon instinctively schooled in the deep and dangerous learning of feeling and
eimotion: while the very minuteness with which they mItake and
mneditate on these interesting observations, and the finer shades and
variations of sentiment which are thus treasulred and recorded, trains
their whole faculities to a nicety and precision of operation, which
often discloses itself to advantage in their application to studies of
a very different character. When women, accordingly, have turned
their minds-as they have done buit too seldom-to the exposition
or arrangement of any branch of knowledge, they have commonly
exhibited, we think, a more beautifitl accuracy, and a niore L.Aifornm
and complete justness of thinking, than their less discriminating
brethren. There is a finish and completeness about every thing they
iput out of their hands, which indicates not only an inherent taste
for elegance and neatness, but a habit of nice observation, and sin
gular exactness of judgmlent.
" It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage wo
men to write for publication, that it is more difficult than it should
be to prove these truths by examples. Yet there are enough, within
the reach of a very careless and superficial glance over the open field
of literature, to enable us to explain, at least, and illustrate, if not
entirely to verify, our assertions. No man, we will venture to say,
could have written the letters of Madamte tde Sevigne, or the novels
of Miss Austin, or the hymns and early lessons of Mrs. Barbauld, or
the conversations of Mrs. Marcet. These performances, too, are not
only essentially and intensely femritnine, bult they are, in our judgMnent, decidedly imore perfect than any masculine productions with
which they can be brought into comparison. They accomplish tmore
completely all the ends at which they aim, and are worked ollt with a
gracefulness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of failure, and entirely satisfies the expectations they mllay have raised.
We might easily have added to these instances. There are nany
parts of Aliss Edgeworth's earlier stories, and of Miss Mitl;rd's
sketches and descriptions, and not a little of Mrs. Opie's, that exhibit the saute fine and penetrating spirit of observation, the sattme
softness and delicacy of hand, and unerring truth of delineation, to
which we have alluded as characterising the pure specimens of fe
male art.'he satme distinguishing traits of a wonman's spirit are
visible through the grief and the piety of lad-y RItssell. and the
gaiety, the spite, and the sentturesomlteness of Lady Alary Wortley.
We have not as yet tmuch feBnale poetry; but tliere is a truly femitinine tenderness, purity, and elegance, in the Psyche of Mrs. Tighe,
and in some of the snaller pieces of Lady Craven. On sonue ot the
works of Madarne de Stal —her Corinne especially-there is a still
deeper statmp of the gellills of her sex. lier pictures of its boundless
devotedness-its depth and capacity of suffering-its high atspirations-its painftul irrit-ibilitv, and inextinguishable thirst for emotion,
are powerful specimens of that rlmorbid anatomy of the heart, which




190                    ANNOTATIONS ON
no hand but that of a woman's was fin:, enough to have laid open,
or skilful enough to have recommended to our sympathy and love.
There is the same exquisite and inimitable delicacy, if not the same
power, in many of the happier passages of Madame tie Souza and
Madame Cottin-to say nothing of the more lively and yet mc:lan
choly records of Madame tie Stal1, during her long penance in the
Court of the Duchesse de Maine.
But we are preluding too largely; and must come at once to the
point, to which the very heading of this article has already admonished the most careless of our readers that we aTe tending.  We
think the poetry of Mrs, Ilemans a fine exemplification of female
poetry; and we think it has much of the perfection which we have
ventured to ascribe to the happier productions of female genius.
It may not be the best imaginable poetry, and may not indicate
the very highest or most commantding genitus; but it embraces a great
deal of that which gives the very best poetry its chief power of pleasing; and would strike is, perhaps, as llmore impassioned and exalted,
if it were not regulated and harimlonized by the most beautiful taste.
It is infinitely sweet, elegant, and tender-touching, perlhaps, and
contemplative, rather than vehement and overpowsering; and not only
tinished throughout with an exquisite delicacy, and even serenity of
execution, but iniformced w  ith a purity and loftiness of feteling, and a
certain sober and humble tone of indulgence antd piety, wsvh.h must
satisfy all judlgments, and allay the apprehensions cf those who are
inost afraid of the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The (liction
is always beautiful, harmonious, and free; and the thenmes, though
of infinite variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality, anld
judgment which mark the same nlaster-hand. These themiles she
has borrowed, wsith the peculiar interest anld imagery that belong to
them, fromr the legends of different nations, and the most opposite
states of society; and has contrived to retain mntch of whlat is interesting and peculiar in each of them, without adopting, salPog with it,
any of the revolting or extravagant excesses which  lay characterise
the taste or manners of the ipeole or the age from n   hich it has tbeen
derive(l. She hals thus transfused into her German or Scandinavian
legends, the imaginative and daring tone of the originals, without the
mystical exaggerations of the one, or the painful fierceness and coarseness of the other-she lhas preserved the clearness and elegance of the
French, without their coldness or affectation-and the tenderness
and simlplicity of the early Italians, without their diffuseness or ltngutor, Thoulgh occasionally expatiating, somewhat fondly and at
large, amongst the ssweets of her ownv planting, there is, on the kwhole,
a great condensation mand brevity in most of her pieces, and, almost
svithlout exception, a most judiicious and vigorous conclusion. T'he
great imerit, however, otf her poetry, is undoubltedly in its tenderness
and its lI)e: tifill iii;:Lgery. The first requires no explanation; but Nwe
nitist be allowedl to add a wvord as to the peculiar charnl and character of the latter.
"It has always been oumr opinion, that the very essence of F oetry,
apart frotii the pathos, the wit, or the brillitant description winichl
may be embodied in it, but nlay exist equally in prose, consists in the
fine perception and vivid expression of that sltbtle and iimysterious analogy which exists between the physical andl the Inmoral world-nwhichl
ilmakes outwvardc things and qualities the natural types and etonleims
of inward gifts and ernotions, annd leads us to iascribe life and senti.
mi!ent to every thing tl:hat interests us in the aspects of external Taiture.  The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplica ble as the
theory of it imay- be, is so deep;ntld universal in our nalture, that it
has stamnmped itself' on the ordlinary langlige  f Ien of every kindrlredl
oand speech: and tiltlt to} such i;an extei t, thait,Ine hailf of the epithets




RECORDS OF WOMAN, &c.                        191
by which we familiarly designate morkal and physical qualities, are
In reality so many metaphors, borrowedi reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity,
however, of the expression, in these instances, takes away its poetical effect-and indeed, in substance, its metaphorical character. The
original sense of the word is entirely forgotten in the derivative one
to which it has succeeded; and it requires some etymological recollection to convince us that it was originally nothing else than a typical or analogical illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding, and a furious blast-a weighty argumelnt, and a gentle
stream-without being at all aware that we are speaking in the
language of poetry, and transferring qualities from  one extremity of
the sphere of being to another. In these cases, accordingly, the
nietaphor, by ceasing to be felt, in reality ceases to exist; and the
analovgy being no longer intimated, of course cani produce no effect.
But whenever it is intimated, it does produce an effect; and that
effect, we think, is poetry.
" It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions.
In thefirst place, it strikes vividly out, and flashes at once on our
minds, the conception of an inwvard feeling or emotion, which it
might otherwise have been diflicult to convey, by the presentment or
some bodily form or luality, which is instantly felt to be its true representative; and snables us to fix and comprehend it with a force
and clearness not otherwise attainable: and, in the secon(l place, it
vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes of living and
sentient mnind; and fills the whole visible universe around us with
objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging them with the hues of
life, and associating them witll our own passions and affections.
This magical operation the poet, too, perfoirtns, for the most part, in
one of two ways-either by the direct agency of similes and tinetaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the niere gracefiul
presentment of such visible objects on the scene of his passionate
dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the emsotion
he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriatte acconilpanimient or
preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The formiter of tho-:
methods has perhaps been Inost frequently employed, and certainly
has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less obtrusi-ve,
and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious of the two; tannd is
often adopted, we believe, unconsciously by poets ot the highest order-the predlomrinant emnotion of their minds overflowing spontaneously on all the objects Which present theriselves to their ftancy,
and calling out from them, and coloring with its own hues, those that
are naturally emnblematic of its character, and ill accordance with its
general expression. It would be easy to show how habitually this
is done by Shakspeare and Milton especially, and how much many
of their finest passages are indebted both for force and richness of
effect to this general and diffusive harmony of the external character of their scenes with the passions of their living agents-this harmonizing and appropriate glow with which they kindle the whole
surrounding atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense into uni
son with all that touches the heart.
"But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the
fair writer before us is eminently a milistress of this poetical secret;
and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great
charm  and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon
this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, andt studded over with images of visible beauty. But these
are never idle ornaments; all her ponmps h-ave a meaning; and her
flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among




192    ANNOTATIONS  ON  1tic)OtiDS OF  V(O.)5, &,g
Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth andt of passion
This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem  at
first sight to be purely descriptive —but are soon found to tell upon
the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression.  But it is a
truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions,
where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not
ushered in by some such synlphony of external nature, and scarcely
a lovely picture that does not serve as a foreground to somne deep or
lofty emotion.  We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by
opening either of these little volumes at randloii, and taking what
they first present to us. —The following exquisite lines, for example,
on a Palm-tree in an English garden:
It waved not throurh all Eastern sky,
Beside a fount ot Ariaby,' &c.
"The following, which  the author has named,'Graves of a
Household,' has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the
others. to shov how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to
set offeach other:'They grew in beauty, side by side.
They fill'd one home with glee,' &c.
"We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness;
But it would not be flair to Mrs. Ilemoans not to present our readers
with one longer specimen-and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions.  This story, of "The
Lady of the Castle," is told, we think, with great force and sweetness:'Thou see'st her pictiired with her shining hair,
(Farned where these tresses ill Proveigal sona,') &c.
"The following sketch of i Joan of Arc in Rheims,' is in a loftiel
and more amnbitious vein; but sustained with equal grace, and as
touching in its solemn tenderness.  We can afflbrd to extract but a
part of it:
W —',ithin, the light,
Through the rich gloom of pictured winidows flowing,' &c.
" There are several strains of a more passionate character; especially in the two poetical epistles froin Lady Arabsella Stuart and Properzia Rossi.  We shall venture to give a fevw lines from the former.
The Lidy Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the
fears of otur pusillanisimous Jaisles by a secret union with the Lord
Seynlour, was dletained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless mon
arch, till the close of her life-(during srhich she is supposed to have
indited this letter to her lover from her prison-house.
My friend, my frlendt! where art thou! Day by clay,
Gliding, like some dlark mournful stleart, awsay,' &SC.
"The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral,
breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague
picturings, and is well entitled to the niallme it bears-' An Hour of
Romance:''There were thick leaves above nme and around,
Aiid low sweet sighs like those oftchildhood's sleep,' &c.
"There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem
on a' Girl's School:'-'Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lighlly, when those pure orisoins are done,' &c.
"There is a fine and stately solemnmity in these lines on'The Lost
Pleiad:'' Hath the niht lost a o nem, the regal niht
She wears her crown of old mnnagnificeoe,' &c.




SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.                     Ii3
"T he following on'The Dying Improvisatore,' have a rich lyrical
cadence, and glow of deep feeling:Never, oh 7 never more,
On thy Rome's purple heaven Inie eye shall dwell,' &c.
" But we must stop here. There would( be no end of our extracts,
if we were to yield to the temptation of noting down every beautiful
passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes
before us. We ouight to recollect, too, that there are few to whom
our pagres are likely to come, wvho are not already familiar with their
beauties; and, in fact. we have nad(le these extracts, less with the
presumnptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs. tIemans for the
first time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a
desire of illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the
choice and emlploymllent of her inmagery, of which we have already
spoken so mitch at large; —that fihe accord she has established between the world of sense and of soul —that delicate blending of our
deep inward emotions with their splendid symbols and emblems
without.
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS;
WITH OTHER POEMS.
They tell but dreams-a lonely spirit's dreams;
Yet ever through their fleeting imagery
Wanders a vein of melancholy love,
An aimlesss thought of honme; as in the song
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells
A passionate mremory of blue skies and flowers,
And living streams —far off'!
A SPIRIT'S RETURN.
"''lis is to be a nortal,
And seek the things beyond mortality!" —JMlanfred.
THY voice prevails-dear friend, my gentle friend!'IbThis long-shut heart for thee shall be unseal'd,
And though thy soft eye Mournfully will bend
Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal'd
Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close
JFor 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 harm )ny profound;
Where the, leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind
Fills with a viewless beillg, unconfined,
VOL. II. —17




194          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
The t -embling reeds and fountains-our own dell,
With its green dimness and Eolian breath,
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records wellHear me in tenderness and silent faith!
Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal mornI would thou had'st! —for then my heart on thine
Had pour'd a worthier love now, all o'erworn
By its deep thirst for something too divine,
It hath but fitfiul music to bestow,
Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago.
Yet even in youth companionless 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
Pass'd one by one, and melody and mirth
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.
But, with the fulness of a heart that burn'd
For the deep sympathies of' mind, I turn'd
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 minister'd 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!
That curtain'd realm of spirits! —thus my cry
Hath troubled air and silence-dost thou lie
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen
Shut fiom us ever' l The resounding woods,
Do their depths teem with marvels?-and the floods,
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins
Of quenchress melody through rock and hill,
Have they bright dwellers?-are their lone domains
Peopled with beauty, which may never still
Our weary thirst of soul?-Cold, weak and cold,
Is earth's vain language, pieroing not one fold
Of our deep being! Oh, for gifts more high!
For a seer's glance to rend mortality!
For a charm'd rod, to call from each dark shrine
The oracles divine!
— i 




A SPIRIT'S RETURN.                195
f 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 worshipp'd 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 nought
Save the one being to my centred thought.
I'here was no music but his voice to hear,
No joy but such as with his step drew near;
Life was but where he look'd-l ife where he moved;
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.
Oh! but such love is fearthl!-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 sorrowiully clear!-an under-tone
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone
Whispering of grief:-Of grief? —be strong, awake!
Hath not thy love been victory, 0, my soul.
Hath not its conflict won a 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 bosom'd 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 flash'd through the trouble of my dream!
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 shed,
When stars alone beheld the drooping head,
Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden'd 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;




196          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
The wings of that which pants to follow fast
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blastThe 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,
I, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the last!
I might not once his fainting head sustain,
Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain,
Nor say to him, " Farewell!" —He pass'd awav-.
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,
Join'd with the unknown, the viewless-he became
Unto my thoughts another, yet the sameChanged-hallow'd-glorified!-and his low grave
Seem'd a bright mournful altar —mine, all mitne:Brother and friend soon left me that sole shrine,
The birthright of the faithftil!-tkeir world's wave
Soon swept them from its brink.-Oh! deem thou not
That on the sad and consecrated spot
My soul grew weak'-I tell thee that a power
There 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!-Know'st thou what I sought'
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought 
-Communion with the dead!-I sent a cry,
Through the veil'd 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,
Arm'd and inspir'd, and wing'd with agony;
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream;
I summon'd, I adjured!-with quicken'd sense,
With the keen vigil of' a life intense,
I watch'd, an answer from the winds to wring,
I listen'd, 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 skyOne prayer to-night —" Awake, appear, reply!"
Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne,
The dark way never hath allow'd return.
That all which tears can move, with life is fledThat earthly love is powerless on the dead?
Believe it not!-there is a larg.,e lone star
Now burning o'er yon westerli Iiil afar,




A SPIRIt;'S ItE'rTURN.                19
And under its clear light there lies a spot
Which well might utter forth-Believe it not!
I sat beneath that planet-I l-ad 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 (lark tree o'ershadowing me that hour,
Stood motionless, even as the grey church-tower
Whereon I gazed unconsciously:-there came
A low sounI, like the tremor of' a flame,
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing,
Flittino throug'h twilight woods, across the air;
And I fook'd up!-Oh! for strolrl words to bring
Conviction o'er thy thought!-rBefore me there,
He, the departed, stood!-Ay, face to face,
So near, and yet how far!-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 throughl the breathless air:
And an unfathom'd calm, that seem'd to lie
In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye 
Told of the gulfs between our beinr set,
And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met,
Made my soul faint:-withfcar? Oh! not with fear!
With the sick feeling that in i.is far sphere
Mly love could be as nothing! But he spokeHow shall I tell thee of the startling thrill
In that low voice, whose breezy ton-es could fill
My bosom's infinite? 0, firiend. I woke
Then first to heavenly life!-Soft, solemn, clear,
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear,
Yet strangely seem-l'd as if the while they rose
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose
Of slumbering,viters wafted, or the dells
Of mountains, hollw11   with stweet echo-cells;
But, as they mnurnnli'd on, the mortal chill
Pass'd fiom me, like a mist before the morn,
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still,
Possess'd my frame: I sE ught that lighted eyeFrom its intense and searching purity
I drank in soul!-I question'dof the deadOf the hush'd, starry sh)'res their fbotsteps tread,
And I was answer'd:-if remembrance there,
With dreamy whirpers fill the immoirtal air;
If thought, here piled froi  mnany a jewel-heap,
Be treasu'e in that pen-ive landl to keep
If love, o'ersweeping chiange, and blight, and blast
Find there the music of his'horne at last;
1* 




SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
I ask'd, and I was answer'd: —Full and high
Was that communion with eternity,
Too rich for aught so fleeting! —Like a knell
Swept o'er my sense its clo-ing words, " Farewell,
On earth we meet no more!"-and all was goneThe pale bright settled brow-the thrilling tone,
The still and shining eye! and never more
May twilight gloomn or midnight hush restore
That radiant guest! One full-fi-aught hour of heaven,
To earthly passion's wild imrplorings given,
Was made my own-the ethereal fire hath shiver'd
The fragile censer in whos.e mould it quiver'd,
Bri ghtlv, consumningly! Wh-at now is left?
A faded world, of glory's hues bereftA void, a chain!-I dwell'midst throngs, apart,
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart;
A fix'd, immortal shadow stands between
My spirit and life's fast receding scene 
A gift hath sever'd 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 spokenNo after-sound is sweet!-this weary thirst!
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!-Could'st thou know
How every breeze then sunmons ze to go!
How all the light of love and beauty shed
By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead!
The only beautiful that changre no moreThe only loved!-the dwellers on the shore
Of spring fulfill'd!-The dead!-w-honm call we so() 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that knowv
Things wrapt from us!-Away! —within me pent,
That which is barr'd from its own element
Still droops orstrlu gles! —But the day wtill comeOver the deep the frlee bird finds its home,
And the stream Lngers'midst the rocks, yet greets
The sea at last; and the wi!ng'd flower-seed Smeets
A soil to rest in:-shall not I, too, be,
My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr'd
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard,
Whose agony of triumph won thee bacli
Through the dim p-ss no mortal step may track,
Yet shall we meet!-that glimpse of joy divine
Proved thee for ever and for ever mline!




THE LADY OF PROVENCE.                  1'9
THE LADY OF PROVENCE.*
"Courage was cast about her like a dress
Of solemn comeliness,
A gather'd mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace."  Donnt
THE war-note of the Saracen
Was on the winds of France;
It had still'd 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 thile oliow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotildc, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the snighty lay,
On the old Provengal shore;
Many a Chatillon beneath,
Unstirr'd 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 couch'd inl 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 look'd 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 pray'd;
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love,
Upraised to the Virgin's portray'd 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 pass'd,
Trembling, as trernbles a bird's quick heart,
When it vainly strives from its cage to partSo knelt she in her woe;
A weeper alone with the tearless deadOh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed.
Or the dust had stirr'd below!
Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone,
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan;
*Founded on an incident in the early French history.




'200         SONGS OF T'IHE AFFECTIONS.
Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands?
No! a breathless vassal before her stands!        [host?
-';Hast thou been on the field t?-Art thou come from ths
-"' Fromn the slaughter, lady!-All, all is lost!
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low,
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim t;e;
And thy lord," his voice took a sadder sound" Thy lord-he is not on the bloody around!
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 pass'd 
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,
She dash'd 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, and 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 tied?
-Away! he is lying by lance and shield, —
Point me the path to his battle-field!"
The shadows of the forest
Are about the lady now;
She is hurrying tfhrough the midnight on,
Beneath the dark pine-bougah.
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 temlpest-strife,
Are oroaning like things of' troubled life 
The wind fromn the battle seems rushing bv
With a funeral-march through the gloonmy sky;
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,
But her frame 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 reach'd the field of the warrior-dead:
There lay the noble, the valiant, lowAy! but one word speaks of deeper woe;
There lay the loved-on each fallen head
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed;
Sisters were watchinig in many a rhomlie
For the fetteerd footstep, no Imore to come;
Names in the prayer of that night,were spoken,
Whose claimer unto kindred pr: yer was broken
And the fire was heap'd, and the bright wine i)our'd,
For those, now needinig nor ie;urth linor board
Only a requienl, a shroud, a knell,
And oh! ye beloved of \womene, ai-ewell!




THE LADY OF PROVENCE.                   )O1      i
Silently, with lips compre-s'd,
Pale hands clasp'd above her breast,
Stately brow of anguish high,
Dealthlike cheek, but dauntless eye;
Silently, o'er that red plain,
Moved the lady'midst the slain.
Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry,
Or tte ringing tramp of a steedT, came nigh;
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,
Sudden and shrit from the mountains borne;
And her maidens trembled; but on her ear
No meaning feil with th:se sounds of ftear;
They had less of mastery to shale her now,
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough.
She search'd into nmany an unclosed eye,
That look'd, without soul, to the starry sky 
She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast,
She lifted up helmet and cloven crestNot there, not there he lay!
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done,
Where the heart of the battle Lath bled,-lead on!"
And the vassal took the way.
He turn'd 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 gleam'd
And the scatter'd plumage stream'd,
And the broken shields were toss'd,
And the shiver'd lances cross'd,
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 staluu:
He was there! but affection's glance alone
The darkly-changed in that hvour had known;
With a falchion yet in h's cold.hand grasp'd,
And a banner of France to his bosom clasp'd,
And the form that of conflict bore fearfill trace,
And the face-oh! speak not of that dead face!
As it lay to answer love's look no more,
Yet never so proudly loved before!
She quell'd in her soul the d(eep floods of woe,
The time was not yet fi)r their waves to flow 
She felt the filll presence, the might of dleath,
Yet there camie no sob with her strurggling breath,
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,
As she turned to his fol!nowers-" Your lord is there
Look on hrim! know ihim by -:ecrf'1nd crest!Bear him away wilthi his silis to ri.:t'"
__ _ _ _ _ _   __ _ _ __ _ _   _____  ____.




SONGS OF THE AFFECT'ONS
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'inidst 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 no;
With a hush'd and stealthy treasc,
Bearing on the noble dead;
Sheath'd in armor of the fieldOnly his wan face reveal'd,
Whence the still and solemn gleamn
Doth. a strange sad contrast seem
To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches wavering in every hand,
For they dread each moment the shout of war,
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar
There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend:
No sound comes back like the sound of yore,
Unto sweeping swords from the marble fioor;
Byr the red fountain the valiant lie,
The flower of Provengal 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 strugglinfr passion must now have way;
In the cheek, halfseen 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 fame 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 i' death might hear."I won thy fame from the breath of wrong
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!
Now call me hence, by thy side to be,
The world thou leav'st has no place for nie.
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worthFaithful and tender! Oh! call me forth!
Give me my home on thy noble heart,Well have we loved, let us both depart!"And pale on the breast of th- dead she lay,
The living cheek to the cheek of clay;




TIlE CORIONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.    203
The living cheek!-Oh! it was not in vain,
T'hat 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 weary 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!
THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.
"Tableau, ofi I'Amour fait alliance avec Ia Tombe; union redou
table de la mort et de la vie!" —lIadame de Stael.
THERE was music on the midnight:
From a royal fane it roll'd,
And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.
Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.
There was hurrying through the midnight
A sound of many feet;
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness
Along the shadowy street:
And softer, fainter, grew their tread,
As it near'd the minster gate,
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed
From a scene of royal state.
Full glow'd 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 mnarble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom,
For something lay'midst their fretted gold.,
Like a shad ow of the tomb.
And within that rich pavillion,
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's forn sat silently,
Midst the glare of light alone.
Her jewel'd robes fell strangely stillThe drapery oni her breast




204           SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
Seern'd 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 of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!
Then died away that haughty sound,
And from the encircling band
Stepp'd prince and chief,'midst the hush profound.
With homage to her hand.
Why pass'd 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 l
Death! death! canst thou be lovely
Unto the eye of life?
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
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 light.
All gather'd round the Dead!
And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips riaidly compress'd,
Lest the strong heart should fail:
Kingf Pedro, Nwithi a jealous eye,
Watchingd   the homage done,
By the land's flower and chivalry,
To her, his martyr'd one.
But on the face he looked not,
XWhich once his star had been;
To every form his glance was turn'd,
Save of the breathless queen;
Thouah;oinething, won fromn the grave's embrace,
Of her beauty still Wlas there,
Its hues were all of that shadowy place,
It was not for hiin to bear.
Alas! the crown, the sceptre,
The treasures of the earth,
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!
The rites are closed:-bear back the dead
Unto the chamber deep!.............................~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~i 




ITALIAN,IRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.          903
Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with tihe dust to sleep!
There is music on the midnightA requiem sad and slow,
As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;
And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,
Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay
And tearlessly and firmly
King Pedro led the train;
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again,'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart:
Who call'd thee strong as Death, 0 Love t
Mightier thou wast and art.
ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN
"O sanctissima, 0 purissima!
Dulcis Virgo Maria,
Mater ainata, intemerata,
Ora, ora pro nobis." —Sicilian MJAariner'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 I bear
Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie
All, all unfblded there,
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.
For thou, that once did'st move,
In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou know'st the grief; the love,
The fear of woman's soul;-to thee I come!
M any, and sad, and deep,
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, could'st watch and weepHear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress'd!
There is a wandering bark
Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave:
Oh! let thy soft eye mark
His course; —3e with him, holiest, guide and save!
VOL. I-.-18




9013         SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
My soul is on that way;
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim
Through the long weary day
I walk, o'ershadow'd 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 pour'd
Mybeing's hope —scarce leaving Heaven a part;
Too fearfully adored,
Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!
I tremble with a sense,
Of grief to be;-I hear a warning lowSweet 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.teverish 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 waveHope of the sailor's eye,
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save!
TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.
FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world unreach'd by human thought,
Spirit, sweet spirit! if' thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,
Answer me, answer me!
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 imelt away, like song fiom festal bowers?
Answer, oh! answer me!
Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that shone
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering hazeDid'st thou bear with thee to the shore unknown,
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze!
Hear, hear, and answer me!
Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife,, —------- ----— __ —-- I- ----- --'




THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE.               207
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 sleepSpirit! then answer me!
By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By 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!
The grave is silent:-and the far-offsky,
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!
Answer me, answer me!
THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE.
"For all his wildness and proud phantasies,
I love hin!"-Croly.
THY heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois
bounds,                                    [sounds;
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrents
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,                           [is there;
And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard-Hunter! thy heart
I know thou lov'st me well, dear friend! but better, better far,
Thou lov'st 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!
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 fire-light shine,
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine!
Lauwoine, the avalanche.
II~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




208          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
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, wheil 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!
THE INDIAN WITH IHIS DEAD CHIII).*
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 th' ancestral wilderness,
I bear thy dust, my child!
I have ask'd the ancient deserts
To give my dead a place,
Where the stately footsteps of the free
Alone should leave a trace.
* An Indian, who had established himself in a township of Maine,
feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards hin by
the white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only child
gave ulp his ftarlt soon afterwards, dug tip the bodyt of his child, and
carried it with him two htundred tliles through the forests to join the
Canadian Indians.-See Tudor's Letters on. the Eastern Statea of
America.
i i                                                  i ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I:
i /                                                   I r~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~__




SONG OF EMIGRATION.
And the tossing pines made answer"Go, bring us back thine own!"
And the streams from all the hunters' hills
Rush'd with an echoing tone.
Thou shalt rest by sounding waters
That yet untamed may roll;
The voices of that chaintess host
With joy shall fill thy soul.
In the silence of the midnight
I journey with the dead,
Where the arrows of my fhther's bow
Their falcon flight have sped.
I 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 watch'd my child's decay.
Uncheer'd, I saw the spirit-light
Front his young eyes fade away.
When his headl sank on my bosom,
When the death-sleep o'er him fell,
Was there one to say, "A friend is near?'
There was none!-pale race, farewell!
To the forests, to the cedars,
To the warrior and his bow,
Back, back!-I bore thee laughing thence.
I bear thee slumbering now!
I bear thee unto burial
With the miehty hunters gone;
I shall hear thee irt the forest-breeze
Thou wilt speak of joy, my son!
In the silence of the midnight
I journey with the dead;
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet,
My father's path 1 tread.
SONG OF EMIGRATION.
THERE was heard a song on the chiming sea,
A mingled breathing of grief and glee;
Man's voice. unbr;ken by sighs, was there,
Filling with triumph the sunny air;
Cf fresh green l.inds, and  f p'stures new,
It sang, awshile t!lt hlark thlrouogh the surges flew.
11',*




210          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
But ever and anon
A murmur of farewell
Told, by its plaintive tone,
That from woman's lip it fell.
"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 press'd,
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!"
"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 play'd'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 bnng proud spoils to the hearth at night"
"But oh! the grey church-tower,
And the sound of' Sabbath-bell,
And the shelter'd 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 floods,
And the path of our daring in boundless woods!
And our works unto many a lake's green shore,
Where the Indian's 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"




TIHE KING OF ARRAGON'S IAMENTr              211
THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.
"If I could see him, it were well with me!"
COLERIDGE S Wallenst in,
THERE: were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish'd
city's halls,
As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls  -
And the conquerors fill'd the wine-cup high, after years of
bright blood shed;                        [the dead.
But their lord, the King of Arragon,'midst the triulnmph, wail'd
He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers
below                                    [his brow;
The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets-and a gloom came o'er
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal
tone;
But his heart,'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.
And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city! thiou city of the sea!
But, oh! what portion of delight is mnilne at last in thee?I am lonely'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them
roll,                                        [soul.
And the soft breath of' thine orange-bowers is mournful to my
"My brother! oh, my brother! thou art gone-the true and
brave,
And the haughty joy of victory hath died uponl thy grave 
There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where
I lead on;                                   [gone!
There was one to love mle in the world-my brother! thou art
" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-temrpest's wrath,
We stood together, side by side; one hope was ours-one path;
Thou hast wrapp'd mne in thy soldier's cloak, thou least fenced
me with thy breast;                        [and best!
Thou hast watch'd beside mny couch of pain-oh! bravest heart
"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 have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!
"I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my
sway,                                         [away 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly; my fiiend hath pass'd
*'rhe grief of Ferdinand, King of Arrgon, fi)r the loss of his brother,
Don Pedro, who wats killed dlring the;iege o' Naples, is affectingly
described by the histuriatn larinia. It i4 also the subject of one of
the old Spanish Ballals in Ltockhart's beautiful collection.




212          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS
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!
"I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offlring for a
crown;                                 [cold renown
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased
IIow often will my weary heart'midst the sounds of triumnph die,
When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!
"1 am lonely-I am lonely! this rest is even as d. a th! [breath;
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and tine blattle-trunlpet's
Let me see the fiery charger loam, and the royal banner wave,
But where art thou, my brother'? where — in thy low and
early grave!"
And louder swell'd the songs of joy through that victorious
night,                                        [light;
And taster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' and torches'
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror's
moan-                                        [gone!"
"My brother! oh, my brother! best and bravest! thou art
THE RETURN.
"HAST thou come with the hear of thy childhood back I
The free, the pure, the kind?"
-So murmurtd the trees in my homeward track,
As they play'd to the mountain wind.
"Hath thy soul been true to its early love?"
Whisper'd my native streams"Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove,
Still revered its first high dreams."
"Hast thou borne in thy bosomn the holy prayer
Of the child in his parent hails!"
-Thus breathed a voice on tile thrilling air,
From the old ancestral walls.
"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful tidead,
Whose place of rest is nigh l
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed,
With the mothers trusting eye l"
-Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain,
As I answer'd-" 0, ye shades!
[ bring not my childhood's heart again
To the freedom of' your glades.
"1 have turn'd from my first pure love aside,
0 bright and happy streams!




TEIE VAUDOIS' WIFE.                   213
Li ght after light, in my soul have died
The day-spring's glorious dreams.
"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'dThe prayer at my mother's knee;
Darken'd 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 bless'd years,
They shall make me again your own."
THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.
" Clasp me a little longer, on the brink
Of fate! while I can ftel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to heat, oh! thinkAnd let it mitigate thy woe's excessThat thou 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 of Wyoming.
THY voice is in mine ear, beloved!
Thy look is in my heart,
Thy bosom is my resting-place,
And yet I must depart.
Earth on my soul is strong-too strong —
Too precious is its chain,
All woven of thy love, dear friend,
Yet vain-though mighty-vain!
Thou see'st mine eye grow dimn, beloved I
Thou see'st 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,
Yet have we for their communing
Still, still Eternity!
Alas! thv tears are on my cheek,
My spirit they detain 
I know that from thine agony
Is wrung that burning rain.
* 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 and endurance.




L st14     SONGS OF TIlE AFFECTIONS.
Best, kindest, weep not; —make the pang
The bitter conflict, lessOh! sad it is, and yet a joy,
To feel thy love's excess!
But calm thee! Let the thought of death
A solemn peace restore!
The voice that must be silent soon,
Would speak to thee once more,
That thou may'st bear its blessing on
Through years of after lifeA 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 rest
That e'er fond woman's knew:
I bless thee, fitithfui fiiend 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
Shower'd 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 replied
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!
And yet more for the glorious hope
Even to these moments givenDid 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?
A shadow and a trembling still
Were mingled with our bliss!
We plighted our young hearts when storms
Were dark upon the sky,
In full, deep knowledge of their task
To suffer and to die!
Be strong! I leave the living voice
Of'this, my martyrd blood,
With the thousand echoes of the hills,
With the torrent's fbaming flood, —
fF1                                                        II~~~~~~~~~




TtIE GUERILLA  IEADER'S VOW.              215
A spirit'midst the caves to dwell,
A token oa 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;
There nust our god be worshipp'd still
With the worship of the free:
Farewell!-there's but one pang in death,
One only,-leaving thee!
THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW
" All my pretty ones!
Did you say all? 
Let us make medicine of this great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief!" —Macbeth.
MY battle-vow!-no minster walls
Gave back the burning word,
Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone
Of smother'd vengeance heard:
But the ashes of a ruin'd home
Thrill'd, as it sternly rose,
With mingling voice of blood that shook
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,
Soar'd from their precious clay.
I stood amidst mly dead aloneI kiss'd their lips —I pour'd,
In the strong silence oi that hour,
My spirit on my sword.
The roof-tree fallen, the smouldering floor,
The blacken'd threshold-stone,
The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood,
Whose fountain was my own;
These, and the everlastinr hills,
Bore witness that wild night;
Before them rose th' avenger's soul,
In crush'd affection's might.
The stars, the searching stars of heaven,;
With keen looks would upbraid,
If from my heart the fiery vow,
Sear'd on it then, could fad-p




216          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
Thev have no cause -Go, ask the streams
That by my paths have swept,
The red waves that unstain'd were borneHow hath my faith been kept?
And other eyes are on my soul,
That never, never close,
The sad, sweet glances of the lostThey leave me no repose.
Haunting my night-watch'midst the rocks,
And by the torrent's foam,
Through the dark-rolling tnists they shine
Full, full of' love and home!
Alas! the mountain eagle's heart,
When wrong'd, mnay yet find rest;
Scorning the place made desolate,
He seeks another nest,
But 1-your soft looks wake the thirst
That wins no quenching rain;
Ye drive me back, my beautiful'
LTo the stormy fight again.
rHEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE.*
"Thither where he lies buried!
That single spot is the whole world to me."
COLE RIDGE'S Wallenstesm
THY voice was in my soul! it call'd me on;
0 my lost friend! 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 comne!
Now speak to me again! we loved so wellWe lovedl! oh! still, I know that still we love!
I have left all lhings with thy dust to dwell,
Throlagh thes, diiII aisles in dreams of thee to rove:
This is is  y holne!
Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom!
Speak! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell!
I will not shrink;-oh  mighty is the tomb,
But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell,''his 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, could'st thou part t
* See Wallenstein, Act 6th.




rHE SISTERS oF SCIO.                 21X
I hear the rustling banners; and I hear
The wind's lowv singing through the fretted stone;
1 hear not thee; and yet I feel thee nearWhat is this bound that keeps thee from thine own?
Breathe it away!
I wait thee-1 adjure thee! hast thou known
How I have loved thee? could'st thou dream it all 
Am I not here, with night and death alone,
And fearingr not? and 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!
But I shall come to thee! our souls' deep dreamns,
Our young affections, have not gush'd in vain;
Soon in one tide shall blend the sever'd streams,
The worn heart break its bonds-and death and pain
Be with the past!
THE SISTERS OF SCIO.
"As are our hearts, our way is one,
And cannot be divided. Strong affection
Contends with all things and o'ercometh all things.
Will not I live writh thee? will I not cheer thee?
Would'st thou be lonely then? would'st thou be sad!"
Joanna Baillie.'SISTER, sweet sister! 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!
"Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye,
Our brother's bounding step-where are they, where 1
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 soul is strongThou, too, wilt rise in holv  light ere long.
Vol-. t.-19




Ele18 sSONGS OF TIlE AFFECTIONS.
"A breath of our free heavens and noble sires,
A memory of our old victorious dead,These mdntle me with power! and though their r'es
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 f:int 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!"
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
[The 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 gathered round the King, and
united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person, in exchange for 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 meet hin. And when he saw his father approach
ing, he exclaimed, says the ancient chronicle,'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 dauk as to Bernardo's history after this eveit.]
Tim warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart ot
fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd 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!"
"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this
day:                                            [way."
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foany speed.
And lo! from far, as on they press'd; there came aglitteringband,
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 ycarn'd so long to
see."




BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.                 219
[HI dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood
came and went                           [ing, bent;
He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there dismountA 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 dropp'd from his like
lead,He look'd up to the face above-the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow-the brow was fix'd and
whiteHe met at last his father's eyes —but in theln was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint
that gaze I
They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze;
They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form he
he stood,                                  [blood.
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the
"Father!" at length he murmur'd 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 darkly mournfil brow                                  [now. —
"No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for
My king is false, my hope betray'd, my father-oh! the
worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away fir'om earth!
"I thought to stand where banners waved, mny sir>! beside
thee yet                                   [met, —
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's fiee soil had
Thou would'st have known my spirit then-for thee my fields
were won,-                              [no son!"
And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though  thou had'st
Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,
Amidst the pale and wilder'd 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 bcfbore the dead!" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is
this!
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where
are they'-                            [cold clay!
If thou would'st clear thy per;ured soul, send life through thfiis




le 0         SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
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,-                                  [thy head!"
Thou canst not-and a king?-IIis dust be mountains on
He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell-upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look-then turn'd from tha
sad place:
His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untoH] in martial strain,His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.
THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.*
" To a mysteriously consorted pair
This place is consecrate; to death and life,
And to the best afflctions that proceed
From this conjunction."  Wordswtoorth
How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of striken love! ill anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to witler:
Hopes from their source all holy, though of earth,
All brightly gathering round afrection'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;But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart
Did'st 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!
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, ol' thee.
Slumberer! love calls thee, fobr 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'st, " God of earth and heaven!
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given!"
* At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from
the sepulchre, with her infant in her arnns, at the sound of the last
trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus:-" Here am I
O God! with the child whom thou hast given me."




THE EXILE'S DIRGE.                      &1
tHE EXILE'S DIRGE.
" Fear no more the heat o' the setn,
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages." Cymbeline.
["I attended a funeral owhere there were a number of the German
settlers present. After I h'td performted such service as is usual
on similar occasions, a most venerabtle looking old Iman camne forward, and asked mne if I were willing that they should perform
some s(' their peculliar rites. He opened a very ancient version of
Luther's Flvinns, and they all began to sing, in (ertrlan, so loud
that the wovods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient people, carrying one of their
brethren to his last home, and using the language and rites which
they hall brought with them over the sea fromt the Vaterland, a
word which often occeured in this hymtnn. It was a long, slow, and
mournfll air, which they sung as they bore the body along: the
words'mein Gott,'' mein Bruder,' and' Vaterlantd,' died away in
distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall long remember that
fiuneral hyoin."-FLINT's Recollections of the Valley of the Jlississitppi. J
rHERE went a dirge through the forest's gloom.
-An exile was borne to a lonely tomb.
"Brother!" (so the chant was sung
In the slumberer's native tongue,)
"Friend and brother! not fobr thee
Shall the sound of weeping be:
Long the exile's woe hath lain
On thy life a withering chain;
Music from thine own blue streams,
Wander'd through thy fever-dreams;
Voices from thy country's vines,
Met thee'midst the alien pines;
And thy trtte heart died away,
And thy spirit would not stay."
So swell'd the chant; and the deep wind's moan
Seem'd through the cedars to mururrmu-"Gone!"
"Brother! by the rolling Rhine
Stands the home that once was thine;
Brother! now thy dwelling lies
Where the Indian arrow fies!
He that bless'd thine infant head,
Fills a distant greensward bed;
She that heard thy lisping prayer,
Slumbers low beside him there;
They that earliest with thee play'd,
Rest beneath their own oak shade,
Far, far hence! —yet sea noa shore
Haply, brother! part ye more;
God Ihath call'd thee to that band
In the immortal Fatherland!"
i:                                                                     i;~~~~~1(}




222          SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
"The Fatheirland! "-with that sweet word
A burst of tears'midst the strain was heard.
"Brother! were we there with thee
Rich would many a meeting be!
Many a broken garland bound,
Many a mourn'd 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 rivenYet to pray! and wait the hand
Beckoning to the Fatherland!"
And the requiem died in the forest's gloom;
They had reach'd the exile's lonely tomb.
THE DREAMING CHILD.'Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them."
Beaumont and Fletcher
Arm 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!-wherefbre?-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 look'd not into death's, and thence become
A questioner of mute eternity,
A weary searcher for a viewless home:
Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain,
By feverish watching for some step beloved;
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train,
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved.
Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd,
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of sleep!
MIy 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 nmust o'ersweep thy soul with coming years
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe!




THE CHARMED PICTURE.
Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream,
Wake, wake! as yet thy 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 dismay'd 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 thee back from visionary strife!Oh, shall my soul, thus waken'd to rejoice,
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life?
THE CHARMED PICTURE.
"Oh! that those lips had language!-Life hath pass'd
With me but roughly since I saw thee last."
Cowper.
THmNE eyes are charm'd-thine earnest 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 mind
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
Hath made the weary pine
For one true tone of other days,
One glance of love like thine!
Look on me thus, when sudden glee
Bears my quick heart along,
On wings that struggle to be free,
As bursts of skylark song.
In vain, in vain!-too soon are felt
The wounds they cannot flee;
Better in childlike tears to melt,
Pouring my soul on thee!




2'24         TSONGS OF TilE AFFECTl()NS.
Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone,
Whence is thy power of change,
Thus ever shadowing back my own,
The rapid and the strange?
Whence are they charm'd-those earnest eyes I
-I know the mystery well!
In mine own trembling bosom lies
The spirit of the spell!
Of Memory, Conscience, Love,'tis bornOh! change no longer, thou!
For ever be tTie blessing worn
On thy pure thoughtful brow!
PARTING WORDS.
"One struggle more, and I am free."
Byron.
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 bearOh! bid the conflict cease!
[ hear thy whisper-and the warm tears gush
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart;
Thou bidd'st the pe:ice. the reverential hush,
The still submission, fiom my thoughts depart;
Dear one! this must not be.
The past looks on me from thy mournful eye,
The beauty of our firee and vernnl days;
Our communings with sea, and hill, and skyOh! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze,
Thou art all earth to me!
Shut out the sunshine fiom 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!




THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.                  25
If 1 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!
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 7
-Return! thy parting wakes mine agony!
-Oh, yet awhile delay'
THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.*
i           TTHou'RT passing hence, my brother!
Oh! my earliest friend, farewell!
Thou'rt leaving me, withoiut thy voice,
In a lonely home to dwell;
And from the hills, and from the hearth,
And from the household-tree,
With thee departs the lingering mirth,
The brightness goes with thee.
But thou, my friend, my brother!
Thou'rt speeding to the shore
Where the dirgelike tone of' parting words!              Shall smite the soul no more!
And thou wilt see our holy dead,!l             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
j i         On the blue mountains, whence his youth
ti            Pass'd 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 splring,
That yet my gushing soul is fill'd.!            With lays she loved to sing.
* "Messages from the living to the feadd are not uncommon in the
Highlands. The Gaels have suich a ceaseless consciousness of immortality, that their departed friends are considered as merely absent for a time, and perlinttedl to relieve the hours of separation by
occasional intercourse with the objects of their earliest affections."
See the Notes to Mrs. Bruntos's Works.
If~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 




#22         SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams,
Tender and sadly sweet;Tell her my heart within me burns
Once more that gaze to meet.
And tell our white-hair'd 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 ofyore.
Happy thou art that soon, how soon,
Our good and bright will see!Oh! brother, brother! may I dwell,
Erelong, with them and thee!
THE TWO HOMES.
"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 hills a vein of light,-'tis there!'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, color'd with the skies!
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies.
My home! the spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track;
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing,
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.
There am I loved-there pray'd for-there my mothei
Sits by the hearth with meekly 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 blending,
All the home-voices meet at day's decline;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending,There laughs my homle —sad stranger! where is thine?
_ii~. -c~I~-    ---            - -     ~' —  -------— _7~-   r  L —




THE SOLDIER'S DEATHBED.                227
Ask'st thou of mine?-In solemn peace'tis lying,
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away;'Tis where I, 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!
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.
THE SOLDIER'S DEATHBED.
"Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht! da ich noch ein Bubo
war-war's mein Lieblingsgedanke, wie sie zu leben, wie sie zu
sterben!"-Die Rauber.
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 he that a softer tone,
Even in this moment, with your laughing glee,
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me:
Oilne, your soldier,'midst the mountains lying,
On the red banner of his battles dying,
Far, tar away!-and oh! your parting prayerWill not.his name be fondly murmur'd there?
It will!-A blessing on that holy hearth!
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth.
Mother! I may not hear thy voice again;
Sisters! ye watch to greet my step in vain;
Young brother. lfre 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 witer come,




238          SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS.
No world, between your hearts! May ev'n your tears,
For my sake, full of long-remember'd 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 reap'd:-their work is doneThou, too, art set!-farewell, farewell, thou sun!
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod,
Offers a trusting spirit up to God.
THE IMAGE IN THE HEART.
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 pastMortality's last exercise and proof
Is undergone."                 Wordsworth.
"The love where death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow."-Byron.
I CALL thee bless'd!-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 look'd 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 bless'd!
For in thy heart there is a holy spot,
As'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm,
For ever green!-the world's breath enters not,
The passion-tempests may not break its calm;'Tis thine, all thine!
Thither, in trust unbaffled, may'st thou turn
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes,
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn
That fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies
In its ownl si:-ine.




T'IE LAND OF DREAMS                    229
Thou hast thy home!-there is no power in change
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 hush'd 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 bless'd,
If only there.
Bless'd, for the beautiful within thee dwelling
Never to fade'-a refuge from distrust,
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling,
To clothe the barrenne-s 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 unreach'd, the ideal gleam,
That ever seems before, beyond, above,
Far off to shine.
But thou, from all the daughters of the earth
Singled and mark'd, 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!
THE LAND OF DREAMS.
"And dreams, in their development, have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch ot 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."  Byror
0 SPIRIT-LAND! thou land of dreams!
A world thou art of mysterious gleams,
O)f startling voices, and sounds at strife,
A world of the dead in the hues of life.
Like a wizard's mnagic glass thou art,
When the wavy shadows float by, and part:
Visions of' aspects, now loved, now strange,
Glimmering and  linrgling itl ceaseless change.
VOL. Ii.-20
~ —-   ------— ~ —..-1.~. —..1..~_-.I-. _Z22_.  ---   Z1,



030           SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
Thou art like a city of the past,
With its gorgeous hails 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 guiris 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 go,
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe.
But for sne, 0 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, and 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
"It is but a dream; it will melt away!"    [lay,I sit by the hearth of my early days;
All the home-faces are mnet by the blaze,And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say,
"It is but a dread 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! where are ye, where?
Shadow not forth, 0 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 futusre thy 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 p)urer 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.




WOMAN ON TRHEI FIELD OF BATTLE.           231
WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.
" Where hath not woman stood,
Strong in affection's might? a reed, upborne
By an o'ermastering current?"
GENTLE and lovely form,
What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle-storm
Bore down the spear?
Banner and shiver'd crest,
Beside thee strown,
Tell, that amidst the best,
Thy work was done!
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 crown'd,
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!
And the swift charger sweep
In full career,
Trampling thy place of sleep, —
Why camest thou here?
Wh?-ask the true heart why
Woman hath been,
Ever, where brave men die,
Unshrinking seen 2
Unto this harvest ground
Proud reapers came-..




mLQ 235lSONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
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 thougnht, one power,
h bee could have led,
So, through the tempest's hour,
To lift tiy head!
Only the true, the strong,'I he love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long
Pours on the dust!
THE DESERTED HOUSE.
Gr,oosi is upon thy lonely hearth,
Oh, silent house! once hll'd 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 seenis to brood
Something more deep than solitude.
Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze,
Mine own sweet home of other days!
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 vanish'd now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;
The echoes of kind household-words
Are with me'midst thy singing birds.
Till my heart die>, it dies away
In yearnings for wh t might not stay;
For love whicht ne'er deceived my trust,
For all which went with " dust t- dust!"




THE STRANGER'S HEART.                  33
What now is left me, but to raise
From thee, lorn spot! nmy spirit's gaze,
To lift, through tears, my straining eye
Up to my Father's house on high 
Oh! many are the mansions there,*
But not in one hath grief a shqire!
No haunting shade from things gone by,
May there o'e;sweep the unchanging sky.
And they are there, whose long-loved mien
In earthly home no more is seen;
Whose places, where they smiling sate,
Are left unto us desolate.
We miss them when the board is spread;
We miss them when te:e prayer is said;
Upon our dreams their dying eyes
In still and niournfut fondness rise.
But they are where these long'ngs vain
Trouble no more the heart and brain;
Tile sadness of this aching love
Dims not our Father's house above.
Ye are at rest, and 1 in tears,t
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres!
Under the poplar boughs 1 stand,
And mourn tWie broken household band.
But, by your life of lowly faith,
And by your joyful h pe in death,
Guide me, till on s mne brighter shore,
The sever'd wreath is bound once monre!
Holy ye were, and good, and true!
No change can cloud miy thoughts of you;
Guide me, like you to lyve and die,
And reach my Father's house on high!
THE STRANGER'S HEART.
THE stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
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 leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
I " In my father's house there are lmany mansions'-John chap
iiv.
t From an ancient Ilebrewv dirge:
s Mourn for the mourner, Rlld not for the dead,
For ite is at rest, and we in tears!"
20* 




034          SONGS OF'1IIt, AfFECTIONS.
To him that sound hatm sorrow's toneThe stranger's heart is with his own.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day  -
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'dHis mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou think'st it sweet when fiiend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow diimFar, far are those who pray'd with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy viltage-landThe voices of thy kindred bandOh!'midst them all when bless'd thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!
TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.*
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 divineIs 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 browWas the celestial gift no shield from wrong.
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
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 mntst gifted spirits bleed,
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!
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, fiom that happy nest,
Gush as a fbunt 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;
* That of Rizzio, at Holyroodhouse.












COME HOME.-THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.
Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere,
To the deep souls that find no echo here.
COME HOMEI!
ColeE home!-there is a sorrowing breath
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,
And the sweet word-brother —wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.
O ye beloved! come home!-the hour
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 you, ye wandering onesI
With all your boyhood's glee
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea?
By stormy hills of battles old?
Or where dark rivers foam?Oh! life is dim where ye are notBack, ye beloved, come home!
Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds, o'er the main!
Our love is grown too sorrowfulBring 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!
TILE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION
" Imploralpace!"*
ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep,
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,
* Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the impres
sion produced upon him by some tomibs 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,-'Implora pace.'"
_____________________________________________   ______  ___________________




236          SONGS:} lTi! I,, AFFECTIONS
And lone;ffectioin%,,,I11,ll are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews i:f dreailless rest;
And froim the so)ul the ligihtning-ma:rks to laveOile draught of' that sweet wave!
Yet, mortal, pause!-within thy mind is laid
Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine
IHeap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine;Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?
Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd,
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace,
And fill the hillow channels of the past;
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf,
Rase 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 daydreams would recall?'rhink —would'st 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 farNever! oh-never, in my home to dwell!
Take their soft looks fi-onl off my yearning soulFill high th' 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?
Would'st thou erase all records of delight
That make such visions bright?
Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!-yet stay-'Tis firom the past we shadow foith tile land
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way,
And the soul's iriends be wreath'd in one bright band
-Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill,
I must remember still.
For their sake, for the dead-whose image nought
May dim within the temple of mny breastFor their love's sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me as a spirit-yet
1 ask not to forget.




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                   237
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE BRIDAL DAY.
On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that
the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddeuly while standing as a bride at the altar.
" We bear her home! we bear her home l
Over the murmnrinteg salt sea's foam:
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow, pain, and tite fever strife."-Barry Corntoali
BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair'Midst thy braids of sunny hair,
And the white veil o'er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo glearnling,
Mellow'd all that poinp andlight
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of'joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flow'd that crimson from the unrest,
Or the gladness of' thy breast? 
-Who shall tell us? from thy bower.
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion's glad salute,
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcome thee triumphantly!
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wroug ht,  
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment,
"From the home of childhood's glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Trembling'miidst our joy for thee."
O~-~ —--— eo ~__  ii




MISCELLANE(OUS POEMS.
Bride! when through the stately fans,
Circled with thy nuptial train,'Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,'Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver'd to some bosom storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love's unfinish'd vow;
When like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sank heavily -
Was that drooping but the excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower,
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?
-Who shall tell us 2-on thy tongue
Silence,'and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rush'd again the crimson streak,
Never to thine eye return'd
That which there had beam'd and burn'd t
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy woe,
With thy niarriage-robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, yoang bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair,
Beauty, splendor, hope, and trust,
Into darkness-terror-dust!
There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as fbrth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail,
Yet perchance a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering while the stern, sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell;
" From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love's wane-a death in life
But to watch-a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, awayWhere these blights no more have sway




THE ANCESTRAL SONG.                 239
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Comfort'midst our tears for thee!"
THE ANCESTRAL SONG.
"A long war disturb'd your mindHere your perfect peace is sign'd;
Tis now full tide'twixt night and day,
End your moan, and come away!"
WEBSTER-DucRess of JlMalfy.
THERE were faint sounds of weeping — fear and gloorm
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan's old halls:-rich odors there
Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch:-there emeralds gleam'd,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine,-Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly;-for there one lay,
Passing from all earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynimrn lands,
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press'd them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears.'But this was o'erLove's last vain clinging unto life; and nowA mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow,
Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seem'd removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, faraway! her handmaids watch'd around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway'd lamps, made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
Sweet, yet profoudly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a mid night sky;




240            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
And thus it seem'd, in that low thrilling tone,
Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own.
Come, come, come!
Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd
For the step that ne'er return'd;
Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy lifeNow the heavy day is done,
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the scal'd heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain,
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
Froin the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more 
We have loved with earth's excessPast is now that weariness!
We have wept, that weep not now- 
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes- 
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'tis hush'd, tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever thirst is still'd,
All the air with peace is fill'd, —
Conle, come, come!
And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay,
She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away!
THE MAGIC GLASS.
"How lived, how loved, how died they?"-Byron.
"THE dead! the glorious dead!-and shall they rise?
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes?
Thou ask'st a tearful spell!




THE MAGIC GLASS.                    241
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
"Would'st thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array?
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.'Or would'st thou look upon the lords of song'?O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream."
"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow'd for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd
With peace, if human love hath ever still'd
The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth!-An idle quest is thine;
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf may bloomn
But ne'er hath fame made relies of its flowers —
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,
Or poet hail'd their tomb.'
"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves Inay te!l
That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
Records oftj.y and woe"
Vor. 1I.- 1




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.
"Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrslre blen peu
de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aim6e
et d'une mnre heureuse."-.Madame de Stael
DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conquerors pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,*
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.
Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.
Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre 
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!
Now afar it rolls-it diesAnd thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.
All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.
Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?*The trebly hundred trilumphs. —Byron.




THE RUIN.                       243
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest-hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!
THE RUIN.
"Oh'tis the heart that magnifies this life
Making a truth and beauty of its own."
Wordsworth.
"Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it."
Guesses at Truth.
No dower of storied song is thine,
O desolate abode!
Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow'd.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.
Nor have rich bowers of pleasaeunce here
By courtly hands been dress'd,
For princes, from the chase of deer,
Under green leaves to rest;
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of' delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.
Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty's lot,
House of quench'd light and silent board!
For me thou needest not.
It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link'd one kindred band.
Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
-A  solemnizing breath,
A presence all around thee dwells,
Of human life and death.
I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,
To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.
Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!
Deserted now by all!
Voices at eve here met in mirth
Which eve may ile'er recall.
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And chlildhood's laughing glee,




244             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.
Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd
Upon the infant head,
As if in every fervent word
The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life awayAlas! for love in changeful air,
Where nought beloved can stay!
Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept,
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept;
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.
The seat left void, the missing face
Have here been mark'd and mourn'd,
And time hath fill'd the vacant place,
And gladness hath return'd 
Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp'd one by one!
And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.
Is there not cause, then-cause for thought,
Fix'd eye and lingering tread,
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draughts of purer day,
Man's soul, with fi ful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?
Holy to human nature seems
The long-forsaken spot;
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!
Therefore in silent reverence here,
Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have link'd one household band,
THE MINSTER.
"A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of imnnortality.''-Byron.
SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer;




TflE SONG OF NIGHT'.                245
Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:
Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul tow quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!
-Not for the light that pours its fervid streanms
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous glcom:
Not for rich music, though in. triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high;
Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry:Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for these I ask one lingeri-:g hour.
But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord
Links me to mortal wveal, my soul is bound 
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd
Their anguish forth, are with me and around;I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.
Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!
That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head:
And thou, still battling with the tempest's forceThou, whose bright spirit through all time hast bledSpeak, wounded Love! if'penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?
No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace!
-Doth not this hush give answer to my quest?
Surely the dread religion of the place
By every grief hath mlade its might confest!
-Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!
THE SONG OF NIGHT.*
"0 night,
And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!"          Byron
I COME to thee, 0 Earth!
With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
* Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented un
der the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep'n
her arms.
21*




246            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.
I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.
I come with peace:-I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
i;               On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones —
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings,
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;
But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'crborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb:
O'er the sad colch of'late repentant love
i     They pass-though low as murmurs of a doveLike trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train;
Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the deadPhantoms of heart and brain!
i[               Looks from departed eyesThese are my lightnings!-fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
I, that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!-the arm'd, the strongThe searcher of the soul!
hi




THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.              247
I, that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest-birth
Of memory thought, remorse:-Be holy, Earth!
am the solemn Night!
THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.*
"Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal?
Are ye like those that shake the human breast?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest I"
Childe Harold
MIDNIGHT, and silence deep!
-The air is fill'd with sleep,
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath;
The fix'd and solemn stars
Gleam through my dungeon bars —
Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!
Ye watch-fires of the skies!
The stillness of your eyes
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul;
I feel this weight of rest
An earth-load on my breastWake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!
I am your own, your child,
O ye, the fierce, and wild,
And kingly tempests! —will ye not arise?
Hear the bold spirit's voice,
That knows not to rejoice
But in the peal of your strong harmonies.
By sounding ocean-waves,
And dim Calabrian caves,
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate;
And with the rocking pines
Of the olden Apennines,
In your dark path stood fearless and elate:
Your lightnings were as rods,
That sn-lote the deep abodes
Of thought and vision-and the stream g'ush'd tree;
Come, that my soul again
May swell to burst its chainBring me the music of the sweeping sea'
* Pietro Muller, called I1 Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of
storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror,
presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests
and darkness-fired by lightning-now rising on the mountain-wave,
and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprison.
ment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his
dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.-See LAN2S's
History of Painting, translated by Roscoe.




24a             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Within me dwells a flame,
An eagle caged and tame,
Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast;
Then is its triumph's hour,
It springs to sudden power,
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast.
Then, then, the canvass o'er,
With hurried hand I pour
The lava-waves and gusts of' my own soul!
Kindling to fiery life
Dreams, worlds, of pictured strifeWake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!
Wake, rise! the reed may bend,
The shivering leaf descend,
The forest branch give way before your might;
But I your strong compeer,
Call, summon, wait you hereAnswer, my spirit!-answer, storm and night!
THE TWO VOICES.
Two solemn Voices, in (, funeral strain,
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain
Meet in the sky:
"Thou art gone hence!" one sang; " Our light is flown,
Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own
Ever to die!
"Thou art gone hence!-our joyous hills among
Never again to pour thy soul in song,
When spring-flowers rise!
Never the friend's familiar step to meet
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet
Of thy glad eyes."
"Thou art gone home, gone honte!' then, high and clear,
Warbled that other Voice; "Thou hast no tear
Again to shed.
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,
Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again
To bow thy head.
"Thou art gone home! oh! early crown'd and blest!
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest'With aught below?
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life awayThrice bless'd to go!"
Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of'grief"Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief,
So loved should be;
Thou tak'st our summer hence!-the flower, the tone
The music of our being, all in one,
Depart with thee I




THE PARTING SHIP.                  249
"Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead?
The dark unknown?
Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,
Thy smile is gone!"
"Home, home!" once more the exulting Voice arose:
"Thou art gone home!- fiom that divine repose
Never to roam!
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain,
To read of change, in eyes beloved, againThou art gone home!
"By the bright waters now thy lot is castJoy for thee, happy firiend! thy bark hath.past
The rough sea's foam!
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd,
Home! home!-thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd.
Thou art gone home!"
THE PARTING SHIP.
"A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain."- Wordsworth
Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea,
Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell;
Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be,
Fare-thee-well, bark! farewell!
Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft,
The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song;
Who now of storms hath dream or memory left?
And yet the deep is strong!
But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles
Ofsummer tremble on the water's-breast!
Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles,
In lone, wild beauty drest.
To thee a welcome breathing o'er the tide,
The genii groves of Araby shall pour;
Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side,
On the old Indian shore.
Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie
O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl'd,
And its leaves whisper, as the wind sweeps by
Tales of the elder world.
Oft shall the burning stars of Southern skies,
On the mid-ocean see thee chain'd in sleep,
A lonely home for human thoughts and ties,
Between the heavens and deep.




250           MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown'd,
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way,
Strange creatures of the abyss that none may sound
In thy broad wake shall play.
From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear,
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark;Blessings go with thee on thy lone career!
Hail, and farewell, thou bark!
A long farewell!-Thou wilt not bring us back
All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth!
Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track
Their own sweet native earth!
Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's shade,
Where through the foliage Indian suns look bright;
Some in the snows of wintry regions laid,
By the cold northern lights
And some, far down below the sounding wave,
Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them sweep.
Never may flower be strewn above their grave,
Never may sister weep!
And thou-the billow's queen-even thy proud form
On our glad sight no more perchance may swell;
Yet God alike is in the calm and stormFare-thee-well, bark! farewell!
THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST.
WMHISPER, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree,
One, where a thousand stood.
Well might proud tales be told by thee,
Last of the solemn wood!
Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,
With leaves yet darkly green?
Stillness is round, and noontide glows.
Tell us what thou hast seen.
"I have seen the forest shadows lie
Where men now reap the corn;
I have seen the kingly chase rush by,
Through the deep glades at morn.
" With the glance of many a gallant spear,
And the wave of many a plume,
And the bounding of a hundred deer,
It hath lit the woodland's gloom.
I have seen the knight and his train ride past,
With his banner borne on high;
O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast
From his gleaming panoply.




TIlE STREAMS.                    25{
"The pilgrim at my feet hath laid
His palm branch'midst the flowers,
And told his beads, and meekly pray'd,
Kneeling, at vesper-hours.
"And the merry-men of' wild and glen,
In the green array they wore,
Have feasted here, with the red wine's cheer,
And the hunter's song of yore.
"And the minstrel, resting in my shade,
Hath made the forest ring
With the lordly tales of thehigh Crusade,
Once loved by chief and king.
But now the noble forms are gone
That walk'd the earth of old;
The soft wind hath a mournful tone,
The sunny light looks cold.
" There is no glory left us now,
Like the glory with the dead:I would that where they slumber low
My latest leaves were shed!"
Oh! thou dark Tree, thou lonely Tree,
That mournest for the past.!
A peasant's home in thy shades I see,
Embower'd from every blast.
A lovely and a mirthful sound
Of laughter meets mine ear;
For the poor man's children sport around
On the turf, with nought to fear.
And roses lend that cabin's wall
A happy summer glow:
And the open door stands free to all,
For it recks not of a foe.
And the village bells are on the breeze
That stirs thy leaf, dark Tree!
How can I mourn,'midst things like these,
For the stormy past, with thee?
THE STREAMS.
The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanlsh'd 
They live no longer in the faith of heaven,
But still the heart doth need a language!"
COLERIDGE'S Wallreistin
YE have been holy, 0 founts and floods!
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods,




e52          nMISCELLANEOUS P',EMS.
Ye that are born of the valleys d ep,
With the water-flowers on your breast asleep,
And ye that gush from the sou'tding cavesHallow'd have been your waves.
Hallow'd by man, in his dreams of old
Unto beings not of this mortal mould
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours,
And sought with its fancied sound to still
The heart earth could not fill.
Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone,
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown;
Thousand of gifts to the sunny sea
Have ye swept along, In your wanderings free,
And thrill'd to the murmur of many a vowWhere all is silent now!
Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been
So link'd in love to your margins green;
That still, though ruin'd, your early shrines
In beauty gleam through the southern vines,
And the ivied chapels of colder skies,
On your wild banks arise.
For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth,
Are those bright streams! where your springs have birth
Whether their cavern'd murmur fills,
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills,
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow
Is heard'midst the hamlets low.
Or whether, ye gladden the desert sands
With a joyous music to pilgrim bands,
And a flash firom under somie ancient rock,
Where a shepherd-king might have watch'd his flock
Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads,
And a green Acacia spreads.
Or whether, in bright old lands renown'd,
Tie laurels thrill to your first-born sound,: nd the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine,
weeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming line,
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves,
Beside heroic graves.
Voices and lights of the lonely place!
By the freshest fern your path we tnrace:
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss,
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss,
By the rainbow glancing of insect wings,
In a thousand mazy rings.
There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers
Are all your own through the summer hours;




THE VOICE OF THE WIND.                253
There the proud stag his fair image knows,
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs,
And the Halcyon's breast, like the skies array'd,
Gleams through the willow-shade.
But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays
Peopled your banks ill the olden days,
And the memory left by departed love,
To your antique founts in glen and grove,
And the glory born of the poet's dream —
These are your charms, bright streams 
Now is the time of your flowery rites,
Gone by with its dances and young delights:
From your marble urns ye have burst away,
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day;
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown,
And the woods again are lone.
Yet holy still be your living springs,
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things!
Holy, to converse with nature's lore,
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more,
And to silent thoughts of the love divine,
Making the heart a shrine!
THE VOICE OF THE WIND.
"There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit."
Gray's Letters.
OH! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is
thine,                                      [signl
From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bear'st a sound and
A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine
own,                                         [tone.
And the spirit is thy harp, 0 Wind! that gives the answering
Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver'd helmets
lie,                                         [sky;
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes.
Theu hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought
back
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy trackThe chime of low soft southern waves on sorime green palmy
shore,
The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather'd billows' roar.
Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind!
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined;
VOL. I. —22




254            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and
free,
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee.
Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing
by,
Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry;
The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall
The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall.
Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient
minsters vast,                         [hath pass'd;
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing 
Thou hast caught the antheml's billowy swell, the stately dirge' 
tone,                                [slumber gone.
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of'
Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young 
days flew,                           [kind, the true 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the 
Thou callest back those melodies, trough now all changed and
fled —                                                    i
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead!
Are all these notes in thee, wild wind? these many notes in
thee?
Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must surely be;
Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, memory
lies,                                   [harmonies.
From whose deep urn the tones are pour'd through all earth's
THE VIGIL OF ARMS.*
A SOUNDING step was heard by night
In a church where the mighty slept,
As a mail-clad youth, till morrnig's light,'Midst the tombs his vigil kept.
He walk'd in dreams of power and fame,
He lifted a proud, bright eye,
For the hours were few that withheld his name
From the roll of chivalry.
Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone,
With a free and stately tread 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone
From the couches cf the dead:                           i
* The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity of keeping watch, the night before his inallgration, in a church, and comr 
pletely armed. This was called "the Vigil of Arms."!
1.




TIIE VIGIL OF ARMS.                  25
The silent many that round him lay,
The crown'd and helm'd that were,
The haughty chiefs of the war arrayEach in his sepulchre!
But no dim warning of time or fate
That youth's flushed hopes could chill;
He moved through the trophies of buried state
With each proud pulse throbbing still.
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung,
A swell of the trumpet's breath;
He look'd to the banners on high that hung,
And not to the dust beneath.
And a royal mask of' splendor seem'd
Before him to unfold;
Through the solemn arches on it stream'd,
With many a gleam of gold;
There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame,
Glittering athwart the gloom,
And he follow'd, till his bold step came
To his warrior-father's tomb.
But there the still and shadowy might
Of the monumental stone,
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light
That over its quiet shone,
And the image of that sire, who died
In his noonday of renownThese had a power unto which the pride
Of fiery life bow'd down.
And a spirit from his early years
Came back o'er his thoughts to move,
Till his eye was till'd with memory's tears,
And his heart with childhood's love!
And he look'd, with a change in his softening glance,
To the armor o'er the graveFor there they hung, the shield and lance,
And the gauntlet of the brave.
And the sword of many a field was there,
With its cross for the hour of need,
When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer,
And the spear is a broken reed!
-Hush! did a breeze through the armor sigh?
Did the folds of the banner shake?
Not so!-from the tomb's dark mystery
There seem'd a voice to break!
He had heard that voice bid clarions blow,
Ho had caught its last blessing's breath-'Twas the same-but its awful sweetness now
Had an under-tone of death!




256~ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
And it said —" The sword hath conquer'd kings,
And the spear through realms hath pass'd;
But the cross, alone, of all these things,
Might aid me at the last."
THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.
HEART! that did'st press forward still,*
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart!-and liest thou here?
May this narrow spot inurn
Aught that so could beat and burn?
Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent-save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;
Silent-save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,
-Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep,
In his nameless valley deep?
No! brave heart! though cold and lone,
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O'er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a miute, yet stately tread.
Shedding their pale armor's light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.
Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Arm'd to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming.
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o'er theeDreams! the falling of a leaf
Wins me fiom their splendors brief;' "Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will
follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw from him
the heart of Bruce into nlid-battle against the Mloors of Spain
i' 




NATURE'S FAREWELL.                  257
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot;
Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!
NATURE'S FAREWELL.' The beautiful is vanish'd, and returns not."
C(OLERIDGE'S Wallenstein
" A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home,
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam 
And the green leaves whisper'd, as he pass'd,
Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fhst l
"Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here,
Long would'st thou linger in doubt and fear;
Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours,
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wild flowers.
"Under the arch by our mingling made,
Thou and thy brother have gaily play'd.
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore,
But as ye have ilet there-oh! never more!"
On rode the youth-and the boughs among,
T'hus the free birds o'er his pathway sung:
"Wherefore so fast unto life away 
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!
"Thou may'st come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain;
Afar from the foliage its love will dwellA change must pass o'er thee-farewell, farewell!"
On rode the youth-and the founts and streams
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams:
"We have been thy playmates through many a day,
Wherefobre thus leave us?-oh! yet delay!
"Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee'tis a melody passing from earth.
Never again wilt thou find in its flow,
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.
"Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirr'd,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.
"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part —
What should it do ibr a burnii]g heart?
Thou wilt bring to the banks ot our freshest nill,
Thirst which no fountani; on earth may still.
9;>$'




~58            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
" Farewell!-when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tellYet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!"
And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh'd
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!
THE BEINGS OF THE MIND,
"The beings of the mind are not of clay,
Essentially imnmortal, they create
And multiply in us a. brighter ray,
And more belov'd existence; that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage."-Byron.
COME to me in your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought!
I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs,
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought;'Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone!
Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow'd
With life, and love, and many a burning word,
That bursts from grief, like lightning from a cloud,
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.
Come to me! visit my dim haunt!-the sound
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath:
The stock-dove's note above; and all around,
The poesy that with the violet's breath
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams,
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams.
Friends, friends!-for such to my lone heart ye areUnchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes
The glory melts not as a waning star,
And the sweet kindness never, never dies;
Bright children of the bard! o'er this green dell
Pass once again, and light it with your spell!
Imogen? fair Fidele! meekly blending
In patient grief; " a smiling with a sigh;"*
And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky;
Thou of the soft low voice!-thou art not gone!
Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone
*'Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh." —Cymbeline




THE LYRE'S LAMENT.                  259
And come to me! —sing me thy willow-strain,
Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain,
Undimm'd, unquenchable afiection lies;
Come bh wing thy young head to wrong and scorn,
As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne.
And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here,
That well might win thy footstep to the spotPale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier,
And pansies for sad thoughts,*-but needed not!
Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light
In that wild eye still tremulously bright.
And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong;
The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining,
The soul its nightingales pour firth in song,
Thou, making death deep joy!-but could'st thou die?
No!-thy young love hath immortality!
From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn,
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone;
But ye, the children of the soul, were born
Deathless, and for undying love alone;
And, oh! ye beautiful!;tis well, how well,
In the soul's world, with you, where change is not, to dwell;
THE LYRE'S LAMENT.
"A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its
melancholy music to the wind-but no human being was to be seen."
Salathiel
A DEEP-TONED lyre hung murmuring
To the wild wind of the sea:
"Oh melancholy wind," it sigh'd,
"What would thy breath with me?
"Thou can'st not wake the spirit
That in me slumbering lies,
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire
Of buried melodies.
" Wind of the dark sea-waters!
Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.
"But the spell-the gift-the lightning —
Within my frame conceal'd,
Must I moulder on the rock away,
With their triumphs unreveal'd?
*  "Here's pansies for you-thl:t's for thoughts.-Ham- lt.




h60r             NTMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
"I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!
I have sounds that through the ancient hills
Like a torrent's voice might roll.
"I have pealing notes of victory
That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich deep tones to send the wail
For a hero's death afar.
"I have chords to lift the pman
From the temple to the sky,
Full as the forest-unisons
When sweeping winds are high.
"And love-fobr love's lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violets' faint farewell:
"i Soft —spiritual-mournful- 
Sighs in each'note enshrined- 
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
Thou can'st not, ocean-wind!
"Ipass without my glory,
Forgotten I decayWhere is the touch tc give me life 7
-Wild, fitful wind, away!"
So sigh'd the broken music
That in gladness had no partHow like art thou, neglected lyre,
To many a human teart!
TASSO'S CORONATION.*
A crown of victory! a triumphal song!
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest;
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony!
A TRUaPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky,
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of
victory;
There is crowding to the. Capitol, the imperial streets along,
For again a conqueror must be crown'd-a kingly child of
song:
Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,'Midst the joy of Rome.' Tasso died at Rome on the da y b-fi)re that appointed for his cor
nation in the Capital.
--- r —--------------------- -------— ~ --------------------- P —;I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




THE BETT ER LAND.                  261
A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and fhr,
Tro shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of
flowers,.
To scatter o'er his path offame bright hues il gem-like showers.
Peace! within his chamber
Low the mighty lies;
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.
Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing
strain                                        [main.
Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to
dwell,
As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.
Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing-but low, sing low!
A soJft sad mniserere chant
For a soul about to go!
The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way,
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day;                                     [nownStreaming through every haughty arch of the Cesars' past reBring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown t
Shut the proud bright sunshine
From the fading sight!
There needs no ray by the bed of death,
Save the holy taper's light.
The wreath is twined-the way is strewn-the lordly trair are
metThe streets are hung with coronals-why stays the minstrel yet I
Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chiefBring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!
Silence! forth we bring him,
In his last array;
From love and grief the freed, the flownWay fobr the bier-make way!
THE BETTER LAND.
"1 HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, ard weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughsl"
--  Not there, not there, my child!"




262            MItSCELLANEOUS POEMS.
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fiagrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
" Not there, not there, my child!"
" Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold!Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
knd the diamond lights up the secret niln,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
" Not there, not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle bo
Ear hath not heard its deep songs ojoy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fairSorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless blootm,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there it is there, my child!"
THE WOUNDED EAGLE.
EAGLE! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird! what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thimne own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won?
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air 
Hast thou left that realm on high'
-Oh! it can be but to die!
Eagle, eagle! thou hast bow'd
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou, that had;st ethereal birth,
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
Anid the hunter's shaft hath fbund thee,
And the toils of death hath bound thee.
-Wkherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?




SADNESS AND MIRTH                    63
Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was thy sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now- the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
— Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
SADNESS AND MIRTH.
" Na~. these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter
Athl art the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem, and strange.
Oh! nothing strange,
Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O, gentle friend 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow "-Joanna Baillie.
YE met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold,
Sadness and mirth! ye were mingled there
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry.
For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom,
A thought and a shadow of the tomb;
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,
To the rose a coloring not its own,
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful powerSadness and mirth! ye had each your dower!
Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!
I know that even then, in his hour of pride,
The soul of the mighty within him died;
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still,
Which the music of victory might never fill!
Thou wert there, oh, mirth! swelling on the shout,
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out;
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine,
All the rich voices in air were thine,
The incense, the sunshine-but, sadness, thy part,
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart!




26i4            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear;
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier!
As the gleam front a sea-bird's white wing shed,
Crosses the storm in its path of dread;
As a dirge meets the breeze of a sumrnner skySadness and mirth! so ye come and fly!
Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast,
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest!
When the breath of the violet is out in spring,
When the woods with the wakening of music ring,
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass,
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass.
When will your parting be, sadness and mirth?
Bright stre'm and dark one!-oh! never on earth!
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near,
While death and love walk the satme dim sphere,
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep,
While the heart of man is a soundless deep!
But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair!
Where ye have no part in the summer air.
Far from the breath.ngs of changeful skies,
Over the seas and the graves it lies;
Where the day of the tghtning and cloud is done,
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG
Willst do nach den Nachtigallen fragen
Die mit seelenvollen melodie
Dich entziickten in des lenzes Tagen?
-Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.-Schiller
MO-JNFULLY, sing mournfully,
And die away, my heart!
The rose, the glorious rose is gone,
And I, too, will depart.
The waters changed their tone,
And wherefore, in the faded world.
Should music linger on?
Where is the golden sunshine,
And where flower-cup's glow?
And where the joy of the dancing leaves,
And the fountain's laughing flow?
A voice, in every whisper
Of the wave, the bough, the air,
Comnes asking for the beautiful,
And moaning, " Wihere. oh! where?"




TIHE DIVER.                     263
Tell of the brightness parted,
Thnu bee, thou lamb at play!
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!
-Are ye, too, pass'd away'l
Mournfully, sing nournfully!
Tile royal rose is gone.
Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt
In one deep farewell tone!
Not so, swell forth triumphantly,
The full, rich, fervent strain.!
Hence with young love and life I go,
In the sunnmmer's joyous train.
With sunshine, with sweet odor,
With every precious thing,
Upon the last warm southern breeze
My soul its flight shall wing.
Alone I shall not linger,
When the days of hope are past,
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf;
To wait the rushing blast.
Triumphantly, triumphantly!
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me, perchance, in other lands,
The glorious rose may blow.
The sky's transparent azure,
And the greensward's violet breath,
And the dance of light leaves in the wind,
May there know nought of death.
No more, no more sing mournfully!
Swell high, then brh ak, my heart
With love, the spirit of the woods,
With summer I depart!
THE DIVER.
They learn in suffering what they teach in song."-Shelley.
THou hast been where the rocks of coral grow,
Thou hast fought with eddyingr waves;Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves!
Thou hast look'd on the glearning wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven:
The deep is a stro:g ald;t fiarifil ho1id,
But thou its bl;r hast riven'
VoI. II.-23




IU              MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
A wild and weary life is thine;
A wasting task and lone,
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine
To all besides unknown!
A weary life! but a swift decay
Soon, soon shall set thee free;
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!
In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read —
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled!
And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be;
A star to all in the festive hall- 
But who will think on thee?
None!-as it gleams from the queen-like head,
Not one'midst throngs will say,
"A life hbath been like a rain-drop shed,
For that pale quivering ray."
Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
-And are not those like thee,
Who win for earth the gems of thought?
0 wrestler with the sea!
Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below
From many a buried urn:
Wringing from lava-veins the fire,
That o'er bright words is pour'd;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.
But, oh! the price of bitter tears,
Paid for the lonely power
That throws at last o'er desert years,
A darkly glorious dower!
Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strew'd;
-The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!
And who will think, when the strain is sung
Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd,
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gush'd with every word?
nIone, none!-his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee;
-Thoii, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,
0 wrestler with the sea!




THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.                 7
THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.
"Les poetes dont l'imagination tient A la puissance d'almer et de
souffrir, ne sont ils pas les bannis d'une autre region."
MADAME DE STAEL-De L'Allemagin.
No tears for thee!-though light be from us gone
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one!
No tears for thee!
They that have loved an exile, must not mcoarn
To see him parting for his native bourne
6'er the dark sea.
All the high music of thy spirit here,
Breathed but the language of another sphere,
Unecho'd round;
And strange, though sweet, as'nlidst our weeping skies
Some half-remember'd strain of paradise
Might sadly sound.
Hast thou been answer'd? thou, that from the night
And from the voices of the tempest's might,
And from the past,
Wert seeking still some oracle's reply,
To pour the secrets of man's destiny
Forth on the blast!
Hast thou been answer'd?-thou, that through the gloom,
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb,
A cry did'st send,
So passionate and deep? to pierce, to move,
To win back token of unburied love
From buried friend!
And hast thou found where living waters burst!
Thou that did'st pine amidst us in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!
Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore
The light of streams!
Speak! is it well with thee?-We call, as thou,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call
On the departed! Art thou bless'd and free?
-Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee,
Were silent all!
Yet shall our hope rise fann'd by quenchless faith,
As a flame, foster'd by some warnm wind's breath,
In light upsprings:
Freed soul of song; yes, thou hast found the sought;
Borne to thy home of beauty and of tl'ought,
On morning's winWge
________  _______~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ it




268            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
And we will dream it is thy joy we hear,
When lih's young music, ringing far and clear,
O'erflows the sky:No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours —
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers,
Never to die!
TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.
"Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti!
Risvegliate in vane'1 cor che non puo) liberarst.'
WHEREFORE and whither bear'st thou up my spirit,
On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill?
It hath no crown of victory to inheritBe still, triumphant harmony! be still!
Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling
Into rich floods of joy:-it is but pain
To mount so high yet find on high no dwelling,
To sink so fast, so heavily again!
No sounds for earth?-Yes, to young chieftain dying
On his own battle-field, at set of sln,
With his freed country's banner o'er him flying,
Well nlight'st thou speak of fame's high guerdon won.
No sounds for earth?-Yes, for the martyr leading
Unto victorious death serenely on,
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding,
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.
But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain!
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting,
Thou wakest lone thirst-be hush'd, exulting strain!
Be hush'd, or breathe of grief! —of exile yearnings
Under the willows of the stranfrer-shore;
Breathe of the so)ul's untold and restless burlnings,
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.
Breathe of deep love-a lonely vigil keeping
Through the night-hours, o'er wv sted wealth to pine;
Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heaping,
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine.
Or pass as if thv spirit-notes came sighing
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky;
Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, the undyingOf joy no more-bewildering harmony!; i~~~~~~~~~~~~777




SECOND SIGHT                      269
SECOND SIGHT.
Ne'er errd the prophet heart that grief inspired,
Though joy's illusions mock their votarist."-JMatuinx.
A MOURNFUL gift is mine, 0 friends!
A mournful gift is mine!
A murmur of the soul which blends
With the flow of song and wine.
An eye that through the triumph's hour
Beholds the coming woe,
And dwells upon the faded flower'Midst the rich summer's glow.
Ye smile to view fair faces bloom
Where the father's board is spread;
I see the stillness and the gloom
Of a home whence all are fled.
I see the wither'd garlands lie
Forsaken on the earth,
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly
Through the ringing hall of mirth.
I see the blood-red future stain
On the warrior's gorgeous crest;
And the bier amidst the bridal train
When they come with roses drest.
i hear the still small moan of time,
Through the ivy branches made,
Where the palace, in its glory's prime,
With the sunshine stands array'd.
The thunder of the seas I hear,
The shriek along the wave,
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer
Salute the parting brave.
With every breeze a spirit sends
To me some warning sign:A mournful gift is mine, 0 friends!
A mournful gift is mine!
Oh! prophet heart! thy grief, thy power,
To all deep souls belong;
The shadow in the sunny hour,
The wail in the mirthful song.
Their sight is all too sadly clearFor them a veil is riven:
Their piercing thoughts repose not here,
Their home is but in IHeaven.
23*




270            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.'IE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.
Thy path is not as mine; —where thou art blest,
My spirit would but wither; mine own grief
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing,
Than all thy happiness.
HATH the summer's breath on the south-wind borne,
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn?
Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves,
To the river shores where the osier waves?
Or art thou come on the hills to dwell,
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell!
Where the sloss bears print of the wild deer's tread,
And the heath like a royal robe is spread i'I'hou hast done well, 0 thou bright sea-bird!
FThere is joy where the song of' the lark is heard,
With the dancing of waters through copse and dell,
And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell.
Thou hast done well:-Oh! the seas are lone,
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone;
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells,
Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells.
-The proud bird rose as the words were saidThe rush of his pinion swept o'er my head,
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain,
Spoke him a child of the haughty main.
He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast,
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest
-Oh! who shall say, to a spirit fiee,
Y There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?"
THE SLEEPER.
"For sleep is awfill."-Byron
OH! lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep,
On the worn spirit shed,
And eyes that wake to weep.
A holy thing from Heaven,
A gracious dewy cloud,
A covering mantle given
The weary to enshroud.
Oh! lightly, lighty tread!
Revere the pale still brow,
The meekly-drooping head,
The long-hair's willowy flow.




THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.    l71
Ye know not what ye do,
That call the slumberer back,
From the world unseen by you
Unto life's dim faded track.
Her soul is far away,
In her childhood's land, perchance,
Where her young sisters play,
Where shines her mother s glance.
Some old sweet native sound
Her spirit haply weaves;
A harmony profound
Of woods with all their leaves;
A murmur of the sea,
A laughing tone of streams:Long may her sojourn be
In the music land of dreams!
Each voice of love is there,
Each gleam of beauty fled,
Each lost one still more fairOh! lightly, lightly tread!
THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.
O, Din, forsaken mirror!
How many a stately throng
Hath o'er thee glenm'd, in vanish'd hours
Of the wine-cup and the song!
The song hath left no echo;
The bright wine hath been quaff'd;
And hush d is every silvery voice
That lightly here hath laugh'd.
Oh! mirror, lonely mirror,
Thou of the silent hall!
Thou hast been flush'd with beauty's bloomIs this, too, vanish'd all I
It is, with the scatter'd garlands
Of triumphs long ago;
With the melodies of buried lyres;
With the faded rainbow's glow.
And for all the gorgeous pageants,
For the glance of gem and plume,
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath,
And vase of rich perfurne.
Now, dim, forsaken mirror
Thou givest but faintly back
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon,
On her solitary track.




And thus with man's proud spirit
Thou telleat me'twillbe
When the forms and hues of this world fade
From his memory, as from thee:
And his heart's long-troubled waters
At last in stillness lie,
Reflecting but the images
Of the solemn world on high.
TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON,
THE QUAfER PORT.
HIAPPY thou art, the child of one
Who in each lowly flower,
Each leaf that glances to the sun,
Or trembles with the shower;
In each soft shadow of the sky,
Or sparkle of the stream,
Will guide thy kindling spirit's eye
To trace the Love Supreme.
So shall deep quiet fill thy breast,
A joy in wood and wild -
And e'en for this I call thee blest,
The gentle poet's child I
THE STAR OF THE MINE.
Fnoi the deep chambers of a mine.
With heavy gloom o'erspread,
I saw a star at noontide shine,
Serenely o'er my head.
I had not seen it'midst the glow
Of the rich upper day;
But in that shadowy world below
How my heart bless'd its ray!
And still, the farther from my sight
Torches and lamps were borne,
The purer, lovelier, seem'd the light
That wore its beams unshorn.
Oh i what is like that heavenly spark I
-A friend's kind, steadfast eye;
Where, brightest when the world grows dark,
Hope, cheer, and comfort lie!




WASHINGTON'S STATUE.-ETC.
WASHINGTON'S STATUE.
SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA.
YES! rear thy guardian hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou western world.
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er freedora's flag unfurl'd.
There, as before a shrine, to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead:
The language of that nolble brow
For all things good shall plead.
The spirit rear'd in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There callly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o'er chainless earth.
And let that work of England's hand,
Sent through the blast and surge's roar,
So girt with tranquil glory stand,
For ages on thy shore!
Such, through all time, the greetings be,
That with the Atlantic billow sweep!
Telling the mighty and the fiee
Of brothers o'er the deep.
A THOUGHT OF HO'ME AT SEA.
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.'Tis lone on the waters
When eve's mournful bell
Sends forth to the sunset
A note of farewell;
When, borne with the shadows
And winds as they sweep,
There comes a fond memory
Of home o'er the deep;
When the wing of the sea-bird
Is turn'd to her nest,
And the thought of the sailor
To all he loves best!'Tis lone on the watersThat hour hath a spellTo bring back sweet voices,
With words of filnrwell!




Xn4            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER-IN-LAW.
WE miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,
And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough,
And the Spring sunshine round our home is glowing
Soft as thy smile. Thou should'st be with us now.
With us? we wrong thee by the earthly thought.
Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem nought
To the one promise given the pure in heart.
Yet wert thou blest e'en here-oh! ever blest
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith!
The silent joy that still o'erflow'd thy breast,
Needed but guarding from all change, by death.
So is it seal'd to peace!-on thy clear brow
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast;
And thy calm days in brightness were to flow
A holy stream, untroubled  the last.
Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love
A wealth of records, and sweet " ieelings given,"
From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove,
By whispers breathing "less of earth than heaven,"*
Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
Thy step the paths of joyous duty trod,
B dding them make an altar of thy tomb,
Where chasten'd thought may offlr praise to God.
April 1826.
TO AN ORPHAN.
THOU hast been rear'd too tenderly,
Beloved too well and long,
Watch'd by too many a gentle eyeNow look on life-be strong!
Too quiet seem'd thy joys for change,
Too holy and too deep;
Bright clouds, through summer skies that range,
Seem oftimes thus to sleep;
To sleep in silvery stillness bound,
As things that ne'er may melt;
Yet gaze again-no trace is found
To show thee where they dwelt.
* Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but an hour before het
death:"Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in themi than heaven."




HYMN BY THE SICK BED OF A MOTHER           279
This world hath no more love to give
Like that which thou hast known 
Yet the heart breaks not-we survive
Our treasures-and bear on.
But oh! too beautiful and blest
Thy home of youth bath been!
Where shall thy wing, poor bird, find rest,
Shut out from that sweet scene 
Kind voices from departed years
Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks that will smite the source of tears,
Across thy soul must play.
Friends-now the altered or the dead,
And music that is goneA gladness o'er thy dreams will shed,
And thou shalt wake-alone.
Alone! it is in that deep word
That all thy sorrow lies;
How is the heart to courage stirr'd
By smiles firom kindred eyes!
And are these lost?-and have I said
To aught like thee-be strong?
-So bid the willow lift its head
And brave the tempest's wrong!
Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'dThou shaken with the wind!
On one, one friend thy weakness cast —
There is but One to bind!
HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER.
FATHER! that in the olive shade
When the dark hour came on,
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid,
Strengthen thy son;
Oh! by the anguish of that night,
Send us down hless'd relief
Or to the chasten'd, let thy might
Hallow this grief!
And Thou, that when the starry sky
Saw the dread strife begun,
Did teach adoring faith to cry,
"Thy will be done;"
By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all
That e'er have mourn'd the chiefThou Saviour! if the stroke must fall,
Hallow this grief!




9i76           MISCELLANLOUS PIECES
WHERE IS THE SEA?
SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.
rA Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called
upon to admire its beauty, only replied —" The sea —here is it?" I
WHERE is the sea?-I languish hereWhere is my own blue sea?
With all its barks in fleet career.
And flags, and breezes free.
I miss that voice of waves which first
Awoke my childhood's glee;
The measured chime-the thundering burst —     -
Where is my own blue sea?
Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise.
Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me diesWhere is my own blue sea?
I hear the shepherd's mountain fluteI hear the whispering tree;The echoes of my soul are mute:
-Where is my own blue sea?
TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.*
How is it that before mine eyes,
While gazing on -thy mien,
All my past years of life arise,
As in a mirror seen?
What spell within thee hath been shrined,
To image back my own deep mind?
Even as a song of other times
Can trouble memory's springs;
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes
Can wake departed things;
Even as a scent of vernal flowers
Hath records firaught with vanish'd hours;Su-h power is thine!-they come, the dead,
From the grave's bondage firee,
And smiling back the changed are led,'1' look in love on tbh e;
And voices that are music flown
Speak to me in the heart's fll tone:
* Painted by WV. fE. West, in 1827.




N O IMORIE.                    2'
Till crowding thoughts my soul oppressThe thoughts of Sappier years,
~i            And a vain gush of tenderness
O'erflows in child-like tears;
[!            A pass.ion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way,
But thou, the while-oh! almost strange,
Mine imaged self! it seems
That on thy brow of peace no change
Reflects my own swift dreams;
Almost I marvel not to trace
Those lights and shadows in thy face.
To see thee calm, while powers thus deep
Affection-Memory-Grief —
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep
O'er a frail aspen-leaf!
0 that the quiet of thine eye
Might sink there when the storm goes by!
Yet look thou still serenely on,
And if sweet friends there be,
That when my song and soul are gone
Shall seek my form in thee —
Tell them of one for whom'twas best
To flee away and be at rest!
NO MORE.
No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,
A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,
Breathe through those words-those murmlurs of farewell
No more!
To dwell in peace, with home affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,
To -eel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoiceNo more!
A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blazeNo more!
Throu h woods that shadow'd our first years to rove
With all our native music in the air;
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,
And turn, and read our own hearts' answer thereNo Imore9
i           VoL. ii.-24.i 




278            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's-the woe
Their passion breathes-the desolately deep!
That sound in Heaven-oh! image then the flow
Of gladness in its tones-to part, to weepNo more!
To watch, in dying hope, afection's wane,
To see the beautiful tiom Itfe depart,
To wear imrrpatiently a se cret chain,
To waste the untold riches of the heartNo more!
Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn
For human love*-and never quench the thirst,
To pour the soul out, winning no return,
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursedNo more!
On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead;
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,
Intensely questioning for treasures fledNo more!
Words of triumphant music-bear we on
The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air;
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,
To learn in joy;-to struggle, to despairNo mnore!
THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.
WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,
This world of changes and farewells, a friend
That will not fail me in his love and worth,
Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?
Far hath my spirit sought a place of restLong on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I love the best,
And some deceived, and some are with the dead.
But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust,
Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart
Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust,
And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart!
PASSING AWAX.
Pbsuig away" is written on the world, and all the world containa.
IT is written on the rose,
In its glory's full array* " Jamais, aais,  je n e serai aimn conme j'aime," was a mounftl
expression of Madamle tie Samii's.




THE ANGLER.                      279
Read what those buds disclose"Passing away.R
It is written on the skies
Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset's d es" Passing away."
It is written on the trees,
As their young leaves glistening play
And on brighter things than these" Passing away."
It is written on the brow
Where the spirit's ardent ray
Lives, burns, and triumphs now"Passing away."
It is written on the heartAlas! that there Decay
Should claim from Love a part"Passing away."
Friends, friends!-oh! shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet
Pass not away?
Shall we know each other's eyes,
And the thuiihts that in them lay,
When we mingled sympathies"Passing away I"
Oh! if this may be so,
Speed, speed thou closing day!
How blest, from earth's vain show
To pass away!
THE ANGLER.*
"I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice;
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave."-lsaac tWalton.
THou that hast loved so long and well
The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams;
* This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work
entitled Death's Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric Watts.




80               MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of sprinog
Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,
One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.
And there but low sweet sounds are heardThe whisper oi the reed,
The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mlead:
Yet, through the mlurmluring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave,
At noon, his )anting bLeast;'Tis not the bittern, by tile wave
Seeking her sed.ry nest;
The air is fill'd with summer's breath,
The young flowers laugh-yet look!'tis death
But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and s ge,
Hath learn'd to read tile words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;
Then, lover of the silent hour,
By deep lone waters past,
Thence hast thou drawn a taith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.
DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.
"AY, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!
I am the lord of the lonely torrntb,
And a mightier one than thou!
"Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chiefBid her a long filrewell!
Like the morning's dew shall pass that griefThou comest with me to dwell!
"Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep
Thy steed o'er the breezy hill
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and chill!"
Ii                                  ____________      ______________




SONG FOR AIR BY IIUMMEL.               281
"Was the voice I heard, thy voice, oh Death!
And is thy day so near?
Then on the field shall ry life's last breath
Mingle with victory's cheer!
"Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note,
Above me as I die!
And the palmn-tree wave o'er my noble grave,
Under the Syrian sky.
"High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall,Death, death! I fear thee not!"
"Warrior! thou bear'st a haughty heart,
But I can bend its pride!
How should'st thou know that thy soul will pan
In the hour of victory's tide l
"It may be far from thy steel-clad bands,
That I shall make thee mine;
It may be lone on the desert sanlds,
Where men for fobuttains pine!
"It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some deep Paynim hold;I have slow dull steps and lingering pains,
Wherewith to tame the bold!"
"Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest,
If this indeed must be:
But the Cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee!
"Sound, clarion, sound!-for my vows are given
To the cause of the holy shrine;
I bow mny soul to the will of Heaven,
Oh Death!-and not to thine!"
SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.
On! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back my ow  to rile;
For if in thine I have no part,
Why should mine dwell with thee 1*
Yet no! this mournful love of mine,
I will not from me cast;
Let me but dream'twill win me thine,
By its deep truth at last! 
* The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the Gete
24*




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
— Oh! ifthy heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!
TO THE
MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY,
BON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WIIO DIED IN THE CAUSE, AND LA
MENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE.
"Timne cannot teach forgetfulness,
When grief's full heart is fed by farne."-Byroa.
THOU should'st have slept beneath the stately pines,
And with the ancestral trophies of' thy race 
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrile
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place!
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread.
Thou bright young stranger'midst the mighty deal!
Yet to thy name a noble rite was giveil,
Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave,
Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven,
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave;
And thv dust blends with mould heroic there,
With all that sanctifies the inspiring air.
Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep,
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone
Thy childhood dwells-whose thoughts a record keep,
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone;
Of all thine early grace and gentle worthA vernal promise, faded now from earth!
But a bright memory claims a proud regretA lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs
Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet,
Whose soul can number with love's holy things,
A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot,
A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.
THE BROKEN CHAIN.
I Am free!-I have burst through my galling chain,
The life of young eagles is mine again;
I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea,
I may rove where the wind roves —my path is free!
The streams dash in joy down the summer hill,
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will,
i                                                 tj~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~i




THE SHADOW  OF A FLOWER.                  283
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze?
And is not my spirit as one of these?
Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers,
And the voices that ring through its forest bowers,
And the laughing glance of the fbunts that shine,
Lighting the valleys-all, all are mine!
I may urge through the desert my foaming steed,
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed;
I may meet the storm in its rushing gleeIts blasts and its lightnings are not mnore free!
Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain?
Art thou free in the wilderness, fiee on the main?
Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar,
But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?
The bird when he pineth, may hush his song,
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong;
But thou-canst thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep,'midst thy brethren?-no, not for pride.
May the fiery word from thy lip find way,
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day 
May the care that sits in thy weary breast
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest?
No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn;
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free!
No! thou art chain'd till thy race is ran,
By the power of all in the soul of one;
On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter beDreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?
THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.
" La voila telle que la mort nous l'a faite."-Bossuet.
rNever was a philosophical imagination more bealitifll thian that ex
quisite one of Kircher, Dighy, and others, who discovered in the
ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised lup
by the power of heat. The ashes ofroses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses
which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like
apparitions, they are seen but for a moment. —Curiosities of Lite
ralure.]'TWAs a dream of olden days,
That Art, by some strange power,
The visionary form could raise
From the ashes of a flower,
That a shadow of the rose,
By its own meek beauty bow'd,




j    QN4       MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose,
Like pictures in a cloud.
Or the hyacinth, to grace,
As a second rainbow, Spring:
Of Summer's path a dreary trace,
A fair, yet mournful thing!
For the glory of the bloom
That a flush around it shed,
And the soul within, the rich perfume,
Where were they?-fled, all fled!
Nought but the dim faint line
To speak of' vanish'd hours -
Memory! what are joys of thine?
-Shadows of buried flowers!
LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL,
CREATURE of air and light!
Emblem of that which will not fade or die!
Wilt thou not speed thy fl;ght,
To chase the south wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay
With silence and decay,
Fix'd on the wreck of cold mortality?
The thoughts once chamber'd there,
Have gather'd up their treasure and are gone;
Will the dust tell thee where
That which hath burst the prison-house is flown 7
Rise, nursling of the day!
If thou would'st trace its wayEarth has no voice to make the secret known.
Who seeks the vanislh'd bird
Near the deserted nest and broken shell?
Far thence, by us unheard,
He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell:
Thou of the sunshine born,
Take the blight winrs of' morn!
Thy hope springs heavenward from yon rmin'd cell.
THE BELL AT SEA.
(The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast of Fife, used
formerly to be marked only by a bell, which was so placed as to
be swung by the motion of the waves, when the tide rose above
the rock. A lighthouse has since been erected there.]
WHEN the tide's billowy swell
Had reach'd its height,
Then toll'd the rock's lone bell,
Sternly by night.




THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM.
Far over cliff and surge
Swept the deep sound,
Making each wild wind's drrge
Still more profound.
Yet that funereal tone
The sailor bless'd
Steering through darkness on
With fearless breast.
E'en so may we, that float
On life's wide sea,
Welcome each warning note,
Stern though it be!
THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM.
"Thou stream',
Whose source is inaccessibly profound,
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?
-Thou imagest lmy life."
DARKLY thou glidest onward,
Thou deep and hidden wave!
The laughing sunshine hath not look'd
Into thy secret cave.
Thy current makes no musicA hollow sound we hear,
A muffled voice of mystery,
And know that thou art near.
No brighter line of verdure
Follows thy lonely way;
No fairy moss, or lily's cup,
Is freshen'd by thy play.
The halcyon doth not seek thee,
Her glorious wings to lave!
Thou know'st no tin: of the summer sky,
Thou dark and hidden wave!
Yet once will day behold thee,
When to the mighty sea,
Fresh bursting fiom their cavern'd veins,
Leap thy lone waters free.
There wilt thou greet the sunshine
For a moment, and be lost,
With all thy melancholy sounds,
In the ocean's billowy host.
Oh! art thou not, dark river,
Like the fearfil tkloughts untold,
Which haply in the hush of night
O'er man-l, a soul have soll'd?




586          IIMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Those earth-born strange misgivings —
Who hath not felt their power?
Yet who hath breathed them to his friend,
E'en in his fondest hour?
They hold no heart communion,
They find no voice in song
They dimly follow far from earth
The grave's departed throng.
Wild is their course, and lonely,
And fruitless in man's breast;
They come and go, and leave no trace
Of their mysterious guest.
Yet surely must their wanderings
At length be like thy way;
Their shadows, as thy waters, lost
In one bright flood of day!
THE SILENT MULTITUDE.
"For we are many in our solitudes." —Lament of Tat&.
A MIGHTY and a mingled throng
Were gather'd in one spot;
The dwellers of a thousand homesYet'midst them voice was not.
The soldier and his chief were thereThe mother and her child:
The friends, the sisters of one heartn —
None spoke-none moved-none smiled
There lovers met, between whose lives
Years had swept darkly by;
After that heart-sick hope deferr'dThey met-but silently.
You might have heard the rustling leaf,
The breeze's faintest sound,
The shiver of an insect's wing,
On that thick-peopled ground.
Your voice to whispers would have died
For the deep quiet's sake 
Your tread the softest moss have sought,
Such stillness not to break.
What held the countless multitude
Bound in that spell of peace?
How could the ever-vsunding life
Amid so many cease?
Was it some pageant of the airSome glory high above,
That link'd and husli'd those human souls
In reverential love?




T'HE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.
Or did some burdening passion's weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe-the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear-the strong fear of death?
A mightier thing-Death, Death himself
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there-yet hermits all- 
Thousands-but each apart.
THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.*
0 EVER joyous band
Of revellers amidst the southern vines!
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand,
Fixed in undying lines!
Thou, with the sculptured bowl,
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath,
And thou, from whose young lip and flute, the soul
Of music seems to breathe;
And ye, luxuriant flowers!
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties,
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours,
Under Italian skies:
Ye, that a thousand springs,
And leafy summers with their odorous breath
May yet outlast,-what do ye there, bright things!
Mantling the place of death l
Of sunlight and soft air,
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green,
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear;Why thus, where dust hath been?
Is it to show how sliht
The bound that severs festivals and tombs
4~        Music and silence, roses and tf.  blight,
Crowns and sepulchral glooms?
Or when the father laid
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep,
When the friend visited the cypress shade,
Flowers o'er the dead to heap;
Say if the mourners sought,
In these rich images of summer mirth,
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought
Of our last hour on earth 
* "Les sarcophages mrtmne chez les amnciens, ne rapellent que des
idles guerrieres ou riantes: —on voit des jelx. les dlanses, representes
cn bas-relief sur les tombeaux."-Cori/Lne.




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Ye have no voice, no sound,
Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek;
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown'd
Yet to my soul ye speak.
Alas! for those that lay
Down in the dust without their hope of old!
Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day,
But all bevond was cold.
Every sweet wood-note then,
And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow
And each glad murmur from the homes of men
Made it more hard to go.
But we, when life grows dim,
When its last melodies float o'er our way,
Tts changeful hues before us faintly swim,
Its flitting lights decay;E'en though we bid farewell
Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees,
Yet may we lilt our hearts, in hope to dwell'Midst brighter things than these,
And think of deathless flowers,
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given,
And know the while, how little dream of ours
Can shadow forth of Heaven.
EVENING SONG OF TtIE TYROLESE PEASANTS.*
COME to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us, is given
By the cool soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie.
When the burden and the heat
Of labor's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.
* "The loved hour of repose is striking. Let uis come to the sun
set tree." See Claptain Stlerer's interesting.Notes and Refiectiorm
during a Ramble in GerMany.




THE MEMORY OF 11tE.)EAD.               281
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
Yes; tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshntess round!
And the gale that fanlls our brows.
But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorchingr noontide heat 
There shall be no more snow,*
To weary wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of' the skies,
To the Sabbath of' our God.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
FORGET them not:-though now their nam(.
Be but a Imournful sound,
Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.
Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;
And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor where their love and life went by
Forsake the spot!
They have a breathing influence there
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad —yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream-the ground.
* "Wohl ihi, er ist hingegangen
Wo kein schnoe miehr ist"
Schiller' s.V7dowessiche Todtenklagu
VoL,. n.-25




900             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;
Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread
Still tend their garden-bower,
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!
The holy dead!-oh! bless'd we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look aiar,
Through all our woe!
Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!
Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our s:)uls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!
HE W.ALK'D WITH  G)OD.*
(Genesis v. 24.)
HE walk'd with God, in holy joy,
While yet his days were few;
The deep glad spirit of the boy
To love and reverence grew.
Whether, each nightly star to count,
The ancient hills he tiode,
Or sought the flowers by stream and fountAlike he walk'd with God.
The graver noon of manhood came,
The full of cares and fears;
One voice was in his heart-the same
It heard through childhood's years.
* "These two little pieces," (' Ie walked with God,' and'Ths
Rod of Aaron,') says the author in one of her letters, " are part of a
collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. T.hey are
all to be on Scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking
events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones
of the New." The two following are subjoined, as having been
(probably) intended to form a part of the set.e series.




THE ROD OF AARON. — THE VOICE OF GOD             B!
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,
O'er his green pasture-sod,
A shepherd king on eastern plains —
The patriarch walk'd with God.
And calmly, brightly, that pure life
Melted from earth away;
No cloud it knew, no parting strife,
No sorrowful decay;
He bow'd him not, like all beside,
Unto the spoiler's rod,
But join'd at once the, glorified,
Where angels wvaik with God!
So let us walk!-the nirht must come
To us that conmes to all
We through the darkness must go home,
Hearing the trulmpet's call.
Closed is the path for evermore,
Which without death he trod;
Not so that way, wherein of yore
His footsteps wvalk'd with God!
THE ROD OF AARON.
(vumbers xvii. 8.)
WAS it the sigh of the southern gale
That flush'd the almond bough?
Brightest and first the young Spring to hail,
Still its red blossoms glow.
Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers
With a kindling look of love?
Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers,
That smile of heaven can rove!
No! from the Lreeze and the living light
Shut was the sapless rod;
But it felt in the stillness a secret might,
And thrill'd to the breath of God.
E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air,
O'er our glad spirits move;
And all such things as are good and fair,
Be the blossoms, its track that prove!
ITHE VOICE OF GOD.
"I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.' — Gen i I
AnIDST the thrilling leaves, thy voice
At cvening's fall t!rrw near;




!92Q            MIISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Father! and did not man rejoice
That blessed sound to hear?
Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch'd by the solemn tone?
Not so!-for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.
Therefore,'midst holy stream and bower
His spirit shook with dread,
And call'd the cedars, in that hour,
To veil his conscious head.
Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow,
Each whisper of the shade,
Grant me, my God, thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!
TIHE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.
"And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.
"And the people mnimured against Moses, saying, What shall we
drink?
"And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree,
which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made
sweet."-Exodus, xv. 23-25.
WHERE is the tree the prophet threw
Into the bitter wave f
Left it no scion where it grew,
The thirsting soul to save?
Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?
Is there no distant eastern bower
With such sweet leaves o'erspread?
Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours
Which yet may well i-nbue
Earth's many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven's own balmy dew.
Oh! mingled with the cup of grief
Let faith's deep spirit be!
And every prayer shall win a leaf
From that bless'd healing tree!
THE PENITENT'S OFFERING.
(St. Luke, vii. 37, 38.)
THOU that with pallid cheek,
And eyes il sam!ne.:s -lmctk,




THE SCUIPTIUR II  CHILDREN.                 293
And faded locks that hummbly svwept the ground,
From thy long wan(derinls won,
Before the all-healing Sol],
Did'st bow thee to the earth, oil, lost and found t
When thou would'st bathe his feet
With odors richly sweet,
And many a shlower of woman's burning tear,
And dry them with that hair,
Brought low the dust to wear,
From the crown'd beauty of its festal year.
Did he reject thee then,
While the si!arp scorn of men
On thy once bright aend stately head was cast?
No, fiornom the Saviours itien,
A solemn light serele,
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last
For thee, their siniles no more
Familiar faces wore;
Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone;
WVho raised thee up, and bound
Thy silent spirit's wound?He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!
But which oh, errinlg child!
From home so long beguiled,
Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven,
That o'er the Ltlised reed,
Condemn'd of earth to bleed,
In music pass'd,  Thy sins are all forgiven?"
Was it that perfumne fraught
With balm and incense brought,
From the sweet wor ds of Araby the  bless'd?
Or that fast flowing rain,
Of tears, which, not in vain
To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd 1
No, not by these restored
Unto thy Faither's bo'rd,
Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made;
But costlier in his eyes,
By that bless'd sacrifice,
Thy heart, thy full-deep heart, before Him laid.
THE SCULPTURED CHIILDREN,
ON CIIANTRYS aIONUMIENT IN.ICIIFIELD CATHEDRAL.
THE monument by Chtitrey in Lichfielt Catlhedral, to the memory
of the two children of Mlr::. trlin,;oni, is one of tile mnost affecting
works of art ever executed. lie h1ts given a pathos to marble
25*




294               QMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires, and is
touched only at their bidding, might have thought from any previous experience that it wvas out of the powver of statuary to attain.
The mnontlttent is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and
truth. The two children, two little girls, are replresented as lyilng
in each other's arms, and, at first glance, appear t, be sleeping:
3 But somrnethli, lies,
roo deep and still oon those s;ult scaled ev,::."'
It is while lying in the helplessness of innlocent:leep, that infltncy
and childhood are viewed with thie iltost touchingr interest; and
this and the loveliness of the children. the luncertlainty ol the expression att first view, the din sihatdowing tfirth of that sleep frotim
which they cannot be awakened, their hovsering, as it were, upont
the confines of life, as if' they tligqht still ble recalled, all conspire to
render the last feelingr, that aleati is indleed befi)re us, most (leeply
affecting. They were the only children )f th.eir tIother, and she
was a swidow. A tublet conerimetiorative of their father hangs over
the mloninlletlt. This staindls at the endl of one of the sidie aisles
of the choir, svhere thiere is nothing to distract the attention trom
it, or wveaken its etflict. It  may be contenpliated in silence and
alone.'l'he intscription, in that subdulied tone of strong feeling
which seeks no relief in swords, hlarmonizes with the character of
the whole.  It is as follows:Sacred to the Mlemory of
ELLEN JANE antl TiitAIANSE, only children
Of the late Rev. WVILLItAI tiBINSioiN, tanld  LLEN JANE, his wife,
Their affectionate Mother,
In fond rernemtbrance of their hetaven-loved innocence,
Consigins tiheir resemtblance to this sanctuary,
In huoiible gratitude for the glorious assurance,
That " of such is the Kingdom of God." *
A. N
FAIR images of sleep,
Hallow'd, and roft, and deep,
On whose caln  lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlighlit on shut bells
Of flowers, il nmosy dells,
Fill'd with the hush of night and surnuler skies!
How many hearts have felt
Your silent beauty -nelt
Their strength to grushing tendern i-s  away!
How many sudden tears,
From  depths of bturied years
All fireshly bursting, have confess'd your sway!
How many eyes will slied
Still, o'er yotr nmarble bed.
Such drols f'orm m-nemory's troublie:d fountains wrungWhile hope:tthil bii-:hts to bear,
While love breathes -iortall air,
While roses perish ere to glory sprung!
Yet from a voiceless home,
If some sad mlother coirle,
Fromt tile Offerigf, atn Arlctricn  annual.




WOMAN AND FANIME.                  295
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest,
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
If then the dove-like tone
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If' for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom lair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;
O gentle forms, entwined
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink!
Sield from your calm profound
A still small voice-a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
By all the pure meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die 
O'er her worn spirit shed,
O fairest, holiest dead!
The faith, trust, joy, of immortaiity!
WOMAN AND FAME.
THou hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.
hAway! to me-a woman —bring
Sweet waters from afifction's spring.
Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine
Into so proud a wreath 
For that resplendent gift of thine,
Heroes have smiled in death:
Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!
Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat
As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:
But mine, let mine-a woman's breast,
By words of home-born love be bless'd
A hollow sound is in thy song,
A mockery in thine eye,
To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy-   -- — ~~ —    ~...~.-~.~-...... " —.......;-. -.~.:.I.Z-7




9i             IMISCELILANEOUS POEMS.
For kindly loolis to cheer it on,
For tender accents that are gone.
Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the droopitng reed,
The cool fresh fountain inl the day
Of the soul's feverish need:
Where must the lone one turn or flee?Not unto thee —oh! not to thee!
A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.
DREAMER! and would'st thou know
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne?
Would'st thou bear hence tit' unfathom'd source of woe
In thy heart's lonely urn?
What hath it been to thee,
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast?
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea,
Finding no place of rest:
A precious odor cast
On a wild stream, that recklesslv swept by:
A voice of' music uttcr'd to the blast,
And winning no reply.
Even were such answer thineWould'st thou be bless'd?-too sleepless, too profound,
4re the soul's hidden springs; there is no line
Their depth of love to sound.
Do not words faint and fail
When thou would'st fill them with that ocean's power!
As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale
In some o'erwhelnting hour.
Doth not thy firail formn sink
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot,
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link
Where thy beloved are not?
Is not thy very soul
Oft in the gush of' powerless blessing shed,
Till a vain ten(tern(ess, beyond control,
Bows down thy weary hee(d?
And would'st thoit bear all thisThe burden and the shadow of thy lifeTo trouble the blue skies of clloudless bliss
With earthly feelings' strife?
Not thus, not tlius-oh, no.
Not veil'd and mnatttltd with dliunm clrouds of care,




TIIE VOICE OF MIUSIC.                 29,
That spirit of my soul should with me go
VTo breathe celestial air.
But as the skylark springs
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven,
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings,
So must love mount to heaven!
Vainly it shall not strive
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give,
As light might wake a lyre.
And oh! its blessings there
Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear heaa,
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear,
A joy of sunlight shed.
Let me, then-let me dream
That love goes with us to the shore unknown 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam
In mercy shall be thrown!
THEE VOICE OF MUSIC.
"Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."
Childe Harold
WHENCE is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
How canst thou wake by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death!
How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by —
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?Speak to me, voice of' sweet sound, and tell!
What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring'!
Even'midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by thee!
Vain are those tears! —vain and iruitless altShowers that refresh niot, yet still niu-t fill;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burnls,
For a brighter horne while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our;osorn-cells;
Something that finds not its answver hereA chain to be cla-p'dl in:mother sphere.
Therefore a current of sadlness deep,
Through the str-ean of thv triumtl.hs is e-lhard to sweep
Like a Imoni oF the breez'e tihlrot)ll at su!nllner:ky-,ike a n' rne cf the deload w:ien wt. wine foamn' hi}ih'




298            MISCELLANE(OUS POEMS.
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troblled thought;
Speak! forthou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regionsnore bright than earth.
THE ANGEL'S GREETING.
Hark — they whisper!-Angels say,
Sister spirit, comie away." —Pop.
COME to the land of peace.
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul awayThe sounds of' weeping cease.
Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.
Come to the briglit and blest,
And crown'd for ever!'midst that shiningr band,
Gather'd to Heaven's own wreath fi'oo every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!
Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother!-on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
In silence wert thou left:
Corne to thy sisters!-joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.
Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy Father!-it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, niemory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory-death by love no place:
Come, spirit, to thy God!
A FAREWELL TOC)   ALES.
FOR THE MELODY CALLED " THIE ASIH GROVE," ON LEAVING TIHA
COUNTRY WITh MY CIIILDREN.
TmE sound of thy streams  In iy spirit I bearFarewell! and a blessing be with thee gi-een land!
On thy hearthlls, on thy halls, on thy pure niouritain air,
On the. chords of the hatil,  nd the lili:st-,el's fiee hand!
i /~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




IMPROMTU LINES. —A PARTING SOCNG.             299
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee!-yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of' thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore
And not f;)r the memory set deep in thy dells,
Ot the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore
And not fbr thy songs of those proud ages fled,
-Green land, poet land of my home and my dead!
bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
Where'er a low hamle-t smiles up to thy skies;
For the cottage hearthls burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that shines torth from thy children's kind eyes!
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread,
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!
IMPROMPTU LINES,
ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM IIER'OME FLOWERS WHIIEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.
YE' tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of tihe Sumiaer's murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers:A sweeter tale is yours fair flowers!
Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing springA fount of' kindness ever new,
In a friend's heart, the good and true.
A PARTING SONG.
"Oh! lies Ainis, rappellez vous quelquefois mes vers; mon ame y
est erupreinte."-Co&rinnc.
WHENx will ye think of me my friends'
When will ye think of me!When the last red light, the farewell of day,
Frolnt the rock and the river is passing awayWhen the air with a deep'ning hiush is fi'aught,
And the heart grows burdend with tend w ith tener ItoughtThen let it be!
When will ye think of mne kind friends i
When will ye think of'lte?
XWhen the rose of the rich inidsunlller time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime —
When ye gather its bloonr, as ill bright hours fled,
From the walks where my fo)tsteps no mnore may treadThen let it be!




300             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
When will ve think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of' ne?
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden mrelodyWhen ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dreamThen let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!
iij        Kindly and gently, but as of one
For whom'tis well to be fled and gone-.
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose homle is foundSo let it be.
"Whe  WE RETURN NO MORE!*
" When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around ime the wiade field revive
With fruits and fertile prtlmse; and the Spring
Come forth, her wvork of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn'd from all she brought to all she could not bring."
Childe Harold
" WE return!-we return!-we return no more!"
So comes the song to the mountain-shore.
From those that are leaving their highland home,
For a world far over the blue sea's foam:
" We return no more!" and throulgh cave and dell
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.
"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er;
M urmnuring up from the depths of the heart,
* I         tX Where lovely things with their light depart:
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.
" We return!-we return! —we return no more!"
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay
Hath died trom the summnrer woods away?
When the glory fromn sunset's robe hath pass'd,
Or the leaves are borne on the rl-t]hing blast?
No!-it is not the rose that returns no more
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;
And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers,
With a stream of love through the starry hours;
* Ha til! —la til! —!a til i /t:li'! /  - e returtl!-Ve return!we return no Iore!"-the bujLrcl,' t iL Ili gl!land so  of eumigration
_     _77777=777,_




WANDERING FEMALE SINGER-THE PALMER.  301
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues,
Nor the frail flush'd leaves which the wild wind strews
"We return!-we ruturn!-we return no more!"
Doth a bird sing thus Irom a brighter shore?
Those wings that follow the southern breeze,
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas?
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.
"But we — we retuin!-we return no more!"
The heart's young dreams, when their spring is o'er;
The love it hath pour'd so freely forthThe boundless trust in ideal worth;
The faith in affictior —deep, fond, yet vain —
These are the lost that return not again!
TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.
THOU hast loved and thou hast suffer'd!
Unto feeling decp and strong,
Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail stringI know it by thy song!
Thou hast loved-it may be vainlyBut well-oh! but too wellThou hast sufier'd all that woman's breast
May bear-but must not tell.
Thou hast wept and thou hast parted,
Thou hast been forsaken long,
Thou hast watch'd for steps that came not backI know it by thy song!
By the low clear silvery gushing
Of its music from thy breast,
By the quivering of' its flute-like swellA sound of the heart's unrest.
By its fond and plaintive lingering,
On each word of grief so long,
Oh! thou hast loved and sufler'd muchI know it by thy song!
THE PALMER.
"The faded palm branch in his hand,
Show'd pilgrim fromn the Holy Land."-Scott.
ART thou come from the far-off land at last?
Thou that hast wanderd long!
VoL. II.-26




302            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass'd
Witn the merry voice of song.
For the sunny glance and the bounding heart
Thou wilt seek-but all are gone;
They are parted e'en as waters part,
To meet in the deep alone!
And thou-from thy lip is fled the glow,
From thine eye the light of morn;
And the shades of thou;ght o'erhang thy brow,
And thy cheek with life is worn.
Say what hast thou brought fri-om the distant shore
For thy wasted youth to pay?
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more?
Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way?
"I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand,
Yet I call not my bright youth lost!
I have won but high thought in the Holy Land,
Yet I count not too dear the cost!
"  look on the leaves of the deathless treeThese records of my track;
And better than youth in its flush of glee,
Are the memories they give me back!
"They speak of toil, and of high emprise,
As in words of solemn cheer,
They speak of lonely victories
O'er pain, and doubt, and fear.
"They speak. of scenes which have now become
Bright pictures in my breast;
Where my spirit finds a glorious home,
And the love of my heart can rest.
"The colors pass not fiom these away,
Like tints of shower or sun;
Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay,
Is the wealth my soul hath won!
"A rich light thence o'er my life's decline,
An inborn light is cast;
Fot the sake of the palm from the holy shrine,
I bewail not my bright days past!
THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.
"OH! call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;
The Summer comes with flower and bee-         -
Where is my brother gone?




TO THE NEW-BORN.                   303
"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track
I care not now to chase its flightOh! call my brother back!
"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden tree        ~
Our vine is drooping with its loadOh! call him back to me!"
"He would not hear thy voice, fair child,
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like Spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see.
"A rose's brief bright life of joy,
Suich unto him was given;
Go-thou muast play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven."
"And has he left his birds and flowers;
And must I call in vain?
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again.
"And by the brook and in the glade
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me play'd,
Would I hadl loved him more:"
TO THE NEW-BORN.*
A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears!
A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and
tears.
Thy father greets thee unto life, with a full and chasten'd
heart,                                      [art!
For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all precious as thou
I see thee not asleep, fair boy, upon thy mother's breast,
Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest;
And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will
o'erflow,                                 [know!
While bending o'er thy soft-seal'd eyes, thou dear one, well I
A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless'd thou art in truth,
For a home where God is felt, awaits thy childhood and thy
youth:                                       [air,
Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and
And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded
there.
* Addressed to the child of her eldest brother.




304            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given,
In that young day-spring glance the pledge of a soul to rear for
heaven!                                  ling shed!
Smile! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy o'er thy wakenBlessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head!
THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS.
SHE came forth in her bridal robes array'd,
And'mnidst the graceful statues, round the hall
Sheddinu the calm of their celestial mien,
Stood pa'e yet proudly beautiful, as they:
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair,
And death utpon her brow! —bu glorious death!
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal
Of love, o'ermastering love; which, till that hour,
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight
Of its unutterable tenderness,
Had burden'd her full soul. But now, oh! now,
Its time was come-and from the spirit's depths,
The passion and the mighty melody
Of its immortal voice, in triumnlh broke,
Like a strong rushing wind!
The soft pure air
Came floating through that hall-the Grecian air,
Laden with mrusic-flute-notes from the vales,
Echoes of song-the last sweet sounds of life
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime
Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her formThe glorified of love! But she —she look'd
Only on him for whom'twas joy to die,
Deep-deepest, holiest joy!-or if' a thought
Of the wart siimlight, and the scented breeze,
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide
Of her unswerving soul-'twas but a thought
T'hat own'd the summ-er loveliness of life
For him a worthy offering!-So she stood,
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile,
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook,
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath
Of inborn oracles!-then flush'd her cheek,
And all the triumph, all the agony,
Borne on the battling waves of love and death,
All from her woman's heart, in sudden song,
Burst like a fount of fire.
"i go, I go!, I 
Thou sun, thou gol;'en sun, I go




TIIE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS.                305
Far fr6m thy light to dwell;
Thou shalt not find my place below,
Dim in that world-bright sun of Greece, farewell!
"The laurel and the glorious rose
Thy glad beam yet may see,
But where no purple summer glows,
O'er the dark wave I haste from them and thee.
"Yet doth my spirit faint to part?
-I mourn thee not, O sun!
Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart,
Sing me triumphal songs! —my crown is won!
"Let not a voice of weeping riseMy heart is girt with power!
Let the green earth and festal skies
Laugh, as to grace a conqueror's closing hour!
"For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord!
Thee, my soul's loved! I die;
Thine is the torch of life restored,
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory!
"Now may the'boundless love, that lay
Unfathom'd still before,
In one consulling  burst find way,
[n one bright flood all, all its riches pour!
"Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now,
Its glory and. its mightAre they not written on my brow?
And will that image ever quit thy sight?
"No! deathless in thv i;tithful breast,
There shall my meinory keep
Its own bright altar-place of rest,
While o'er my grave the cypress branches weep.
"Oh, the glad light!-the light is fair,
The soft breeze warmn and flee;
And rich notes fill the scented air,
And all are gifts —ny love's last gifts to thee!
"Take me to thy warm heart once more!
Night falls-my pulse beats low:
Seek not to quicken, to restoreJoy is in every pang-1 go, I go!
"I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath,
I meet thy fond look still;
Keen is the strife of love and death;
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill.
" Y.t swells the title of rapture strong,
Though in:sts o'ershade mine eye!
-Sin,'Paan! sing a conqueror's song!
26*
------— cl —-~~~~~5c~~I




306            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE HOME OF LOVE.
Taosu'mov'st in visions, love!-Around thy way,
E'en through this world's rough path and changeful dav
Forever floats a gleam,
Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn,
But thine own soul's illumined chambers born-'rhe coloring of a dream!
Love, shall I read thy dream? —oh! is it not
411 of some sheltering, wood-embosom'd spotA bower for thee and thine 1
Yes! lone and lowly is that home; yet there
Something of heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine.
Something that mellows and that glorifies,
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies,
As o'er some blessed isle 
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon the ethereal bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile'.
The very whispers of the wind have there
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear
Greeting fiorn some bright shore,
Where none have said farewell!-where no decay
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day;
Where the storm's might is o'er.
And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest,
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast
Hidden from earthly ill:
There would'st thou watch the homeward step, whose sound
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round,
Thine inmost soul can thrill.
There by the hearth should many a glorious page,
From mind to mind the immortal heritage,
For thee its treasures pour;
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard,
Or dearer interchange of playful word,
Affection's household lore.
And the rich unison of mingled prayer,
The melody of hearts in heavenly air,
Thence duly should arise;
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath,
Of spirits, not to be disjoin'd by death,
Up to the starry skies.
There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come
To mar the stillness of that angel-home;
There should thy slumbers be








...........
pt- -L




BOOKS AND FLOWERS.                      3(
Weigh'd down with honey-dew, serenely bles'd,
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest
Under some balmy tree.
Love, Love! thou passionate in joy and woe!
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace belowHere, where bright things must die?
O thou! that wildly worshipping, dost shed
On the frail altar of a mortal head
Gifts of infinity!
Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love!
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above,
Still round thy precious things;
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose,
In their sweet shade call yield thee no repose,
Here, where the blight hath wings.
And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued,
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude,
So in thy prescient breast
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill
To the low footstep of each coming ill;
-Oh! canst thou dream of rest?
Bear up thy dream! thou mighty and thou weak!
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to breakAs a flame, tempest-swa.y'd!
EIe that sits calm on high is yet the source
Whence thy soul's current hnth its troubled course,
He that great deep hath made!
Will he not pity?-He whose searching eye
Reads all the secrets of thine agony?Oh! pray to be forgiven
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess,
And seek with Hivm that bower of blessednessLove! thy sole home is heaven!
BOOKS AND FLOWERS.
"Lavue d'une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flttte mes sens A
un point inexprinmalle. Sous le tranqulille abri dul toil paternalj'etais
nourrie des l'enfimce avec (les floeirs et des livres; —dans l'etroite
enciente d'une prison, ain nilien des fers irmposies par la tyrannie,
j'oublie linjustice des homarnes, leurs sottises et ines maux avec des
livres et des flulers." —J}al.dale Ploland.
COME, let me make a sunny realnm around thee,
Of thought and beaumty! I-ere arle boolks and flowers.
With speiils to loose t.l:fe oteier wsbhich hath bound theeThe rayclld coil of this world's fevceri-h hours.
The soul of song is ill these dealthldes p):ges,
Even as the odor in the flower enshrined;




308              MISCELLANEOTJS POEMtS.
Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages
Have left the silent melodies of mind.
Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change, a-ad anguish
For some high place where faith her wing might rest,
Are burning here-a flame that may not languishStill pointing upward to that bright hill's crest!
Their grief, the veil'd infinity exploring
For treasures lost, is here;-their boundless love
Its imighty streams of gentleness outpouring
On all things round, and clasping all above.
And the bright beings, their own heart's creations,
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still;
Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations
Are here, and victories of' prevailing will!
Listen, oh, listen! let their high words cheer thee!
Their swan-like music rinrinz through all woes;
Let my voice bring their holy influence near theeThe Elysian ail of their divine repose!
Or would'st thou turn to earth?  Not earth all furrow'd
By the old traces of man's toil and care,
But the green peaceful world that neve;r sorrow'd,
The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air!
Look on these flowers! As o'er an altnr shedding,
O'er Milton's page, soft light from color'd urns!
They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding,
When to her breast the prodigal returns.
They are from lone wild places, forest dingles,
Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream,
Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleanm.
They are from where the soft winds play in gladness,
Covering the turf' with flowery blossom-showers;
i     -Too richly dower'd, O friend! are we for sadnessLook on an empire-mind and nature-ours!
FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA ATTENDED BY ANGELS.."ow rich that forehead's calm expanse'
How bright that heaven-directed glance?
-Waft her to glory, winged powers,
Ere sorrow be renew'd,
And intercourse with mortal hours
Bring back a hu imbler Inood!" —IVordswcortl
How can that eye, with inspiration beaming,
Wear yet so deep a calm?-Oh, child of song'
Is not the music-llind a world of dreaming,
Where forms of' sad, bewildering beauty throng?




THE BRIIGAND IEADER AND HIIS WIFE            3J09
Hath it not sounds from voices long departed?
Echoes of tones that rung in childhiood's ear?
Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted,
Stealing'ilidst crowds away, have wept to hear?
No, not to thee! —thy spirit, meek, yet queenly,
On its own starry height, heyond all this,
Floating triumphantly and yet serenely,
Breathes no taint undler-tone through song of bliss.
Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swelling,
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies?
Brig]ht guests! even such as left of yore their dwelling,
~or the deep cedar shades of Paradise!
What strain?-oh! not the nightingall's when showering
Her own heart's life drops on the burning lay,
She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering,
And pours her strength, but not her grief away:
And not the exile's-when,'midst lonely billows,
He wakes the alpine notes his mother sung,
Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows,
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung:
And not the pilgrim's —though his thoughts be holy,
And sweet his ave song, when day grows dim;
Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly,
Something of sadness floats through that low hymn.
But thou!-the spirit which at eve is filling
All the hush'd air and reverential sky,
Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture thrilling,
This is the soul of thy rich harmony.
This bears up high those breathings of devotion
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free;
Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion
Is the dream-haunted music-land for thee.
THE BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF EASTLAKE'S.
DARK chieftain of the heath and height!
Wild feaster on the hills by night!
See'st thou the stormy sunset's glowr
Flung back by glancing spears below?
Now for one strife of stern despair!
The foe hath track'd thee to thy lair.
Thou, against whom the voice of blood
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood;
And in whose dreams a moan should be,
Not of the water, nor the tree;




310             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Haply thine own last hour is nigh,Yet shalt thou not forsaken die.
There's one that pale oeside thee stands,
More true than all thy mountain bands!
She will not shrink in doubt and dread,
When the balls whistle round thy head:
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eve
No longer may to her's reply.
Oh! many a soft and quiet grace
Hath faded from her form and face;
And many a thought, the fitting guest
Of worman's meelk religious breast,
Hath perish'd in her wanderings wide,
Through the deep forests by thy side.
Yet, mournfully surviving all,
A flower upon a ruin's wall,
A fiiendless thing, whose lot is cast
Of lovely ones to be the last;
Sad, but unchanged through good and ill,
Thine is her lone devotion still.
And oh! not wholly lost the heart
Where that undying love hath part;
Not worthless all, though far and long
From home estranged, and guided wrong;
Yet may its deptlhs by Heaven be stirr'd,
Its prayer for thee be pour'd and heard!
THE CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE ~WOODLANDS.
SUJGGESTED BY K PICTURE OF SIR THOMIAS LAWRENCE S.
" All good and guiltless sas thou art,
Some transient griets wvill tolldh thy heartGriefs that alonet thy alter'd face
Willt breathe a more subduing arace,
Than even those looks of joy thiat lie
Olt the soft cheek of infancy."- Wilson
IIAsT thou been in the woods with the honey-bee?
IIast thou been with thle lamb in the pastures free?
With the hare through the copses and dingles wild?
Wite the butterfly over the ihea th, fair child?
Yes: the light fill of thy bounding fbet
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat:
Yet hbest thou ranged the green forest-dells
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.
Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;
The woodbine, the primnrose, the violet dim;
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim:
These are old words that have made each grove
A dreaming haunt for romance and love



THE FAITH OF LOVE.                  311
Each sunny bank, where faint odors lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.
Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er;
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep,
Like hidden gems, in the flower-urns deep;
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell;
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriers shed,
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head,
Oh! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee,
What is rememtbrance or thought to thee?
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spritg,
O'er thy green pathway their co'ors fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoonWhat if to droop and to perish soon?
Nature hath mines of such wealth-and thou
Never wilt prize its delight as now!
For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair;
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
Into the stillness of autumn skies -
And to teach thee tlialt grief hath her needful part,'Midst the hidden things of each human heart.
Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this T
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss!
Such be thy portion!-the bliss to look,
With a reverent spirit, through nature's book
By fount, by forest, by river's line,
To track the paths of a love divine;
To read its deep meanings-to see and hear
God in earth's garden-and not to fear!
THIE FAITH OF LOVE.
TI'ou hast watch'd beside the bed of death.
Oh, fearless human Love!
Thy lip received the last faint breath,
Ere the spirit fled above,
Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier,
In a low and farewell tone.
Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear-Oh, Love! thy task is done.
Then turn thee from each pleasant spot
Where thou wert wont to rove,
For there the friend of thy soul is not,
Nor the joy of thy youth, oh, Love!




i 3 12         MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Thou wilt meet but mournful memory there,
Her dreams in the grove she weaves,
With echoes filling the summer air,
With sighs the trembling leaves.
Then turn thee to the world again,
From those dimn haunted bowers,
And shut thine ear to the wild sweet strain
That tells of vanish'd hours.
And wear not on thine aching heart
The image of the dead,
For the tie is rent that gave thee part
In the gladness its beauty shed.
And gaze on the pictured smile no more
That thus can ife outlast:
All between parted souls is o'er,
-Love  Love! forget the past!
"Voice of vain boding.! away, be still!
Strive not against tile faith
That yet my bosoni with light can fill,
Unquench'd, and undinitl'd by death:
"From the pictured smile I will not turn,
Though sadly now it shine;
Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn
For the step once link'd with mine:
"Nor shut mine ear to the song of old
Though its notes the pang renew,
Such memories deep in my~leart I hold,
To keep it pure and true,
" By the holy instinct of my heart.
By the hape that bears me on,
have still  y own und ing part
In the deep affection gone.
"By the presence that about me seems
Through night an-d day to dwell,
Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams;
-I have breathed no last farewell!"
THE SISTER'S DREAM.
[Suggested by a picture, in which a young girl is represented as sleep
ing, and visited during her slumbers by the spirits of her departed
sisters.'
SHE sleeps!-but not the free and sunny sleep
T'hat lightly on the brow of childhood lies:
Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep,
Yet, ere it sunk upon her shad,)w'd eyes,
Thoughts of pust scenes and kindred glaves o'erswept
Her soul's meek stillness —ashe had pray'd and wept.




A FAREWELL TI,O AlM,t)O'I:SFORD.           313
And now in visions to her couch they come,
The early lost-the beautiful-the deadThat unto her be queathed a mournful home,
Whence with their voi'(es all sweet laughter fled
They rise-the sisters of her youth arise,
As from the world where no frail blossom dies.
And well the sleeper knows themn not of earthNot as they were when binding up the flowers,
Tel:ing wild legends round the winter-hearth,
Braldin-g their longs fair hair for festal hours;
These things are past-a spiritual gleam,
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.
Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years
In those pure aspects mnay no more be read,
Thence, too, hath sorrow melted-and the tears
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed,
Are all effaced! there earth hath left no sign
Save its deep love, still touching every line.
But, oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more
A thought of pity, than in vanish'd days;
While, hovering silently and brightly o'er
The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say,
"Yet, sister, yet we love thee-come away!"'Twill fade, the radiant dream! and will she not
Wake with more painful yearning at her heart?
Will not her home seem yet a lonelier. spot,
Her task mnore sad, when those bright shadows part? 
And the green summer after them look diin,
And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn?
But let her hope be strong, and let the dead
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still,
Be their names utter'd, be their memory spread
Yet round the place they never more may fill!
All is not over with earth's l)rken tieWhere, where should sisters love, if not on high?
A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFIORLD.
[These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of Abbots
ford, in the sumtnimer of 189. lie was then apparently in the vigor
of an existence whose energies prnmised long continuance; and
the glance of his quick, snilinlg eye, antd the very sound of his
kindly voice, seemnetl to kindle tihe gladlness of his own sunny and
benignant spirit in all who hatd the happiness of approaching him.]
HotME of the gifted! fare thee well,
And a blessing on thee rest;
While the heather waves its purple bell
O'er moor and mtountain crest;
VoL. II.-27




314              RMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
While stream to stream around thee calls,
And braes with broom are drest,
Glad be the harping in thy hallsA blessing on thee rest!
While the high voice from thee sent forth
Bids rock and cairn reply,
Wakening the spirits of the North,
Like a chieftain's gathering cry;
While its deep master-tones hold sway
As a king's o'er every breast,
Home of the Legend and the Lay!
A blessing on thee rest!
Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower!
Long honors to thy line!
And hearts of proof, and hands of power,
And bright names worthy thine!
By the merry step of childhood, still
May thy free sward be prest!
-While one proud pulse ill the land call thrill,
A blessing on thee rest!
O'CONNOR'S CHILD.
[This piece was suggested by a picture in the possession of Mrs. Law
rence of Wavertree Hall.-It represents the "Hlero's Child" of
Campbell's Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of rock, marked
with a cross, in a wild and desert pllace. A tempest seenis gather
ing in the angry skies above her, but the attitude of the drooping
figure expresses the utter carelessness of desolation, and the countenance speaks of entire abstraction from all external objects.-A
bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst the sveeds and wild-flowers of the desert.]
" I fled tile home ot'rf ief
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall,
I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall
And took it (owo, andot vow'd to rove'l'lThis desert jlaue a huntress boldl
Nor wouldt 1 cha.nue riy bried lonve
For aly heart of livig IsouL11J."   Campbell.'I'mE sleep of storms is dark upon the skies,
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud:Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise,
And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bow'd,
And leave the tomb, as tombs are left-alone,
To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan.
Tell her of revelries in bower and hall,
Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pourd;
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall,
And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord;




TIlE PRAYER FOR. LIFE.               315
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave,
Than the sad " Love lies bleeding' of the grave.
Oh! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell,
Wherewith love binds the spirit strong in pain,
To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell,
A parting agony,-intense, yet vain,
A look-and darkness when its gleam hath flown,
A voice-and silence when its words are gone!
She hears thee not; her full, deep, fervent heart
Is set in her dark eyes;-and they are bound
Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart,
Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground;
And love with death striven long by tear and prayer
And anguish frozen into still despair.
Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last
A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born;
Around her path a vision's glow is cast,
Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn!*
For her the gulf is fill'd-the dark niaht fled,
Whose mystery parts the living and the dead.
And she can pour forth in such converse high,
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong,
Oh! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny,
And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng,
Than hers-the queen of that majestic gloom,
The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb!
THE PRAYER FOR LIFE.
O SUNSHINE and fair earth!
Sweet is your kindly mirth,
Angel of death! yet, yet awhile delay!
Too sad it is to part,
Thus in my spring of heart,
With all the light and laughter of the day.
For me the falling leaf'
Touches no chord of grief;
No dark void in the rose's bosom lies:
Not one triumphal tone,
One hue of hope, is gone
From song or bloom beneath the suminmer skies.
Death, Death! ere yet decay,
Call me not hence away,
Over the golden hurs no shade is thrown;
* "A son of light, a lovely fo)rn,
He comes and makes her glad."-Campbeil.




16            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The poesy that dwells
Deep in the green woods and dells,
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.
Yet not for this, 0 Death!
Not for the vernal breath
Of winds that shake forth music from the trees;
Not for the splendor given
To night's dark regal heaven,
Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.
But for the happy love
Whose light, where'er I rove,
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile,
Shedding on branch and flower
A rainbow-tinted shower
Of richer life-spare, spare me yet awhile.
Too soon, too fast thou'rt come!
Too beautifill is home,
A home of gentle voices and kind eyes!
And I the loved of all,
On whom fond blessings fall
From every lip-oh! wirt thou rend such ties?
Sweet s sters! weave a chain
My spirit to detain;
Hold me to earth with strong affection back:
Bind me with mighty love
Unto the stream, the grove,
Our daily paths-our life's familiar track.
Stay with me! gird me round!
Your voices bear a sound
Of hope-a light comes with you and departs;
Hush, my soul's boding swell,
That murmurs of farewell;
How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts?
Death! grave!-and are there those
That woo your dark repose'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth.
Surely about them lies
No world of loving eyesLeave me, oh! leave me unto home and hearth!
THE WELCOME TO DEATH.
TTHou art welcome, 0 thou warning voice!
My soul hath pined for thee;
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore
To wanderer on the sea.




TIlE VICTOR.                     317
I hear thee in the rustling woods,
In the sihinllg vernal airs;
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth,
With a deeper tone than theirs.
The lonely earth! Since kindred steps
From its green paths are fled,
A dimness and a hush have lain
O'er all its beauty spread.
The silence of the unanswering soul
Is on me and around;
My heart hith echoes but for thee,
Thou still, small, warning sound!
Voice after voice hath died away,
Once in my dwelling heard;
Sweet household-name by name hath changed
To grief's forbidden word!
From dreams of night on each I call,
Each of the far removed
And waken to my own wild cry"Where are ye, my beloved?"
Ye left me! and earth's flowers were dim
With records of tle pist:
And stars pour'd down another light
Than o'er mly youth they cast:
Birds will not sing as once they sung,
When ve were at my side,
And mournful tones are in the wind,
Which I heard not till ye died!
Thou art welcome, 0 thou summoner!
Why should the last remain.
Wha:t eye can reach my heart of hearts,
Bearing in light again?
E'en could this be, too much of fear
O'er love would now be thrownAway, away! from time, from change,
Once more to meet my own!
THE VICTOR.
De tout ce qui t'ainoit n'est-il plus rein qui t'aime?-ILanmartine
MIGHTY ones, Love and Death!
Ye are the strong in this world of ours,
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell'midst the flowers,
-Which hath the ccnqueror's wreath?
Thou art the victor, Love!
Thou art the fearless, tile crown'd, the fiee,
The strength of the battle is given to thee,
The spirit fromn ab:ve!
27*




318             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Thou hast look'd on Death, and smiled!
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form,
Thro' the waves of the fight, thro' the rust of the storm
On field, and flood, and wild!
No!-Thou art the victor, Death!
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke,
From the depths of the eye, when the. spirit woke?
-Gone with the fleeting breath!
Thou comest-and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves —yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lone and reft ]
Silence is where thou art 
Silently there must kindred meet,
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet,
No bounding of heart to heart!
Boast not thy victory, Death!
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power,
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower,
That slumber, the snow beneath.
It is but as a tyrant's reign
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still
But the fiery thought and the lofty will,
Are not for him to chain!
They shall soar his might above!
And thus with the root whence affection springs,
Though buried, it is not of mortal thingsThou art the victor, Love!
LINES WRITTEN FOR THIE ALBUM AT ROSANNA.*
OH! lightly tread through these deep chestnut-bowers
Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved!
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and flowers,
Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath loved!
A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode,
Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops flow'd.
And bid its memory sanctify the scene!
And let th' ideal presence of' the dead
Float round, and touch the woods with softer green,
Aiid o'er the stream a charmi, like moonlight, shed;'I'hrough the soul's depths ill holy silence feltA spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt.
* A beautiful place in the county of' Wicklow, formerly the abode
of the authoress of" Psyche."




THE VOICE OF' THE WAVES.               319
THE VOICE OF THE WAVES
WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK.
"How pelfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
No mood, which season takes away or brings,
I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
But welcome fortitude and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne."
WVordaswOrth.
ANswER, ye chiming waves
That now in sunshine sweep;
Speak to me firom thy hidden caves
Voice of the solemn dee D!
Hath man's lone spirit here
With storms in battle striven?
Where all is now so calmly clear,
Hath anguish cried to heaven?
-Then the sea's voice arose,
Like an earthquake's under-tone:
" Mortal, the strife of hutnan woes
fV/here hath not nature known?
"Here to the quivering mast
Despair hath wildly clung,
The shriek upon the wind hath pass'd,
The midnight sky hath rung.
"And the youthful and the brave,
With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
In darkness have gone down.
"They are vanish'd from their placeLet their homes and hearths make moat!
But the rolling waters keep no trace
Of pang or conflict gone."
-Alas! thou haughty deep!
The strong, the sounding far!
My heart beore thee dies,-I weep
Io think on what we are!
To think that so we pass,
High hope, and thought, and mind,
Even as the breath-stain from the glass,
Leaving no sign behind!
Saw'st thou nought else, thou main?
Thou and the mtidnigrht sky?
Nought save the struggle, brief and vain,
The partin  agony!




320             MISCELLANI,3US PO)E.ltS.
— And the sea's voice replied,
"Here nobler things have been!
Power with the valiant when they died,
To sanctify the scene:
"Courage, in fragile form,
Faith trusting to the last,
Prayer, breathing heavenward through the storm,
But all alike have prtss'd."
Sound on, thou haughty sea!
These have not paus'd in vain;
My soul awakes, my hope springs free.
On victor wings again.
Thou, from thine empire driven,
May'st vanish with thy powers;
But, by the hearts that here have striven,
A loftier doom is ours.
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
"I seem like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garland(s dead,
And all but tle departed."-JAfoora
SEE'ST thou von grey gleaming hall,
Where the deep elni-shadows iall?
Voices that have left the earth
Lorig ago,
Still are mnulmurinl round its hearth,
Soft anls low:
Ever there;-yet one alone
HIath the gift to hear their tone.
Gue.ts came thitlher, and depart,
Free of step and light of heart;
Children, with sweet visions bless'd,
In the haunted chambers rest;
One alone unrslumrbering lies
When the nioht hath scal'd all eyes,
One quick heart and watchful ear,
Listening for those whispers clear.
See'st thou w-here the woodbine flowers
O'er yon low  l )rclh ha1ng in showers?
Startling fatce. of the dead,
Pole, yet sweet.
One lone wotn ut'.s entering tread
There still Ileet! 




THE SHEPRIERD-POET OF THE ALPS                 312
Some with voung smooth foreheads fair,
Faintly shining through bright hair;
Some with reverernd locks of snowvAll, all buried long ago!
All, from under deep sea waves,
Or the flowers ot foreign graves,
Or the old and banner'd aisle,
Where their high tombs gleamn the while;
Rising, wandering, floating by,
Suddenly and silently,
Through their ealrthly home and place,
But amrrlidst another race.
Wherefore, unto, one alone,
Are those sounds atnl visiolts known'
Whcrefore hatil that spell of power
Darlk and dread,
On her soul, a balcfill dower.
Thus been shed?
Oh! in those deep-seeing eves,
No strange gift of Inmstery lies!
She is lone where once she imoved,
Fair, and happy, and b)eloved!
Sunny smliles were glancing round her,
Tendrils of' kind hearts haf bound her.
Now those silver chords are broken,
Those bright looks have left no token;
Not one trace on all the earth,
Save her Inemnory of their miiirth.
She is lone and lingering now,
Dreams have gather'd o'er her brow,'Nlidst gay sln.s and children's play,
She is dwelling tfr away
Seeing what none-else may seeHaunted still iher place must be!
THE SIiLPIIERD-POET OF THE ALPS
"God gave him reverence of laws,
Yet stirring blood in freedomi's causeA spirit to his rocks akin,
The eye of the hawl, and the fire therein!"
Coleridf&
SINGING of the free blue sky
And the wild-flower glens that lie
Far amidst the ancient hills,
Which the fountain music fills;
Singing of the snow-peaks bright,
And the royal eagle's fight,
And the couralige iand the grace
Foster'd hy the cl:amioirs-chase;




322            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
In I is fetters, day by day,
So the Shepherd-poet lay,
Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell
Did those notes of freedom swell,
Breathing sadness not their own,
Forth with every Alpine tone?
Wherefore!-can a tyrant's ear
Brook the mountain-winds to hear
When each blast goes pealing by
With a song of liberty?
Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand
O'er the Shepherd-poet's land;
Sounding there the waters gush'd,
While the lip of man was liush'd;
There the falcon pierced the cloud,
MWhile the fiery heart was bow'd:
But this might lnot lonr endure,
Where the mountain-honles were pure;
And a valiant voice arose,
Thrilling all the silent snows;
His-now singing far and lone,
Where the young breeze ne'er was known
Singing of the glad blue sky,
Wildly-and how mournfully!
Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer
To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire?
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past,
Now that their poet is chain'd at last?
Think of the mountains, and deem not s: i!
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow!
Yes! though forbidden be every word
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd,
Yet even as a buried stream through earth
Rolls on to another and brighter birth,
So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die,
Burst forth with the anthem of liberty!
And another power is moving
In a bosom findly loving:Oh! a sister's heart is deep,
And her spirit strong to keep
Each light link of early hours,
All sweet scents of childhood's flowers!
Thus each lay by Erni sung,
Rocks and crystal caves among,
Or beneath the linden-leaves,
Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves,
Rapid though as bird-notes gushing,
Transient as a wan-cheek's flushing,
Each in young Teresa's breast
Left its fiery words impress'd;




THE S-IEPHEERD-P'OET OF THE ALPS.            33
Treasured there lay every ine,
As a rich book on a hidden shrine.
Fair was that lone girl, and meek,
With a pale transparent cheek,
And a deep-fringed violet eye
Seeking in sweet shade to lie,
Or, if raised to glance above,
Dim with its own dews of love;
And a pure, Madonna brow,
And a silvery voice, and low,
Like the echo of a flute,
Even the last, ere all be Inute.
But a loftier soul was seen
In the orphan' sister's mien,
From that hour when chains defiled
Him, the high Alps' noble child.
Tones in her quivering voice awoke,
As if a harp of battle spoke 
Light, th at seem'd born of' an eagle's nest;
Flash'd from her soft eyes unrepress'd;
And her form, like a sIpreading water-flower,
When its firail cup swells with a sudden shower,
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride,
And rief for tht brother, her young heart's guide.
Well might they love!-those two had grown
Orphans together and alone:
The silence of the Alpine sky
Had hush'd their hearts to piety;
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid,
Had been their altar when they pray'd;
There, more in tenderness than woe,
The stars had seen their young tears flow;
The clouds, in spirit-like descent,
Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent,
And the wild storms link'd theni to each otherHow clear can peril make a brother!
Now is their hearth a forsaken spot
The vile waves ulprulned o'er tteir mountain-cot
Away, in that holy arfection's might,
The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night;
She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face,
Filling with soul every secret place,
Hath a dower fiom Heaven, and a gift of sway,
To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way,
Like the sudden flinging forth on high,
Of a banner that startleth silently!
She hath wander'd through n-many a hamlet-vale,
Telling its children her brother's tale;
And the strzains, by his spirit pour'd away,
Freely as fountainsw miniht shower their spray,
From her f-rvent lip a new life have caught,
And a pawer to lkindle vy:t bolder thought;




324             AT ISC E:TLLAN EOS POEMNIS.
While sometimes a melody, all her own,
Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone,
May be heard'midst the lonely rocks to flow,
Clear through the water-chimnes-clear, yet low.
"Thou'rt not where wild-flowers wave
O'er crag and sparry cave 
Thou'rt not where pines are sounding,
Or joyous torrents boundingAlas, my brother'!
"Thou'rt not where green, on high,
The brighter pastures lie;
Ev'n those, thline own wild places,
Bear of our chain dark traces:
Alas, my brother!
"Far hath the sunbeam spread,
Nor found thy lonely bed 
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee,
Nor one sweet whisper brought theeAlas, my brother!
"Thou, that for joy wert born,
Free as the wings of morn!
Will aught thy young life cherish,
Where the Alpine rose would perish?
Alas, my brother!
"Canst thou be singfing still,
As once on every hill?
Is not thy soul forsaken,
And the bright gift froilo thee taken?Alas, alas, my brother!"
And was the bright gift fiom the captive fled?
Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead?
Not so!-but trs rooted in stillness deep,
The pure stream-lily its place will keep,
Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver,
While the red waves rush down the foamitng, rivel
So freedom's faith in his bosom lay,
Tremblin_(, yet not to be borne away!
He thought of the Alps and their breezy air,
And felt that his co.untry no chains might bear;
He thought of the hunter's haughty life,
And knew there mlust yet be noble strite 
But, oh! when he thought of that orphan maid,
His high heart mnelted-he wept and pray'd!
For he saw her not as she moved e'en then,
A wakener of' heroes in every glen,
With a glance inspired which no grief could tame
Bearing onil Hope like a torch's flame,
While the strengthening voice of  migrhty wrongs
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs;
But his dreams were fill'dl by a haunting tone,
Sad as a sleeple ilfant's:',
_____ —-------         -`;



TO THE   -O{U2i.klAIN  WVINDS.               3
And his soul was pierce  l)by a nlo:rnful eye
Which look'd on it-oh! how be-techinglv!
And there floated past hirm a fi'agile fobrnm,
With a willowy droop, as beneath the stornm;
Till wakeningr in anguishl his faiit hIart strove
In vain with its burl1ien of tLelpless love!
-Thus woke the dreamner one weary nightThere flai-h'd through his dungeon a swibt strong light;
He sprang up-he clilmb'd to the gratitng-bhars,
-It was not the rising of  moon or stars,
But a sicnal flame from a peak of' snow,
Rock'd througha the dark skies, to and fro!
There shot forth another-another stillA hundled answers of' hill to) hiil!
Tossing like pines in the telnpest's way,
Joyously, wildly, the blight spires play,
And each is aial'd with a pealing shout,
For the high Alps waving their banners out!
Erni, young Erni! the land hath risen!
-Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison!
Those fiee streamers glancing and thou not there!
-Is the moment of' raptulre, or fierce despair?
Hark! there's a tumult that shakes his cell,
At the gates of the mountain citadel!
Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing!
Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing 1
"There may not lonag be fetters,
Where the cloiud is earth's array,
And the bri(ht floods leap fiorn cave and steep,
Like a hunter on the prey!
"There may not long be fi'tters,
Where the wlhite Alps have their towers;
Unto eagle-homles, if the arrow comnes,
The chain is not for oui!'
It is she'-She is comne like a dalyslprlilg beam,
She that so nmournfully s!ladow'd his dream!
With her shinitng eyes and her buovant trml,
She is come! her tears otl imis cheek are warm;
And 0! the thrill in that wecpinrt voice!
"My brother, n-y brother! comle forth, rejoice!"
— Poet! the land of thy love is free,
— Sister! thy brother i.s won by thee!
TO TIlE MIOUNTAIN WINDS.
tlow divine
The liberty, fir t!'i i lior enjrt;l  tian,
T'I) roaml:t 1ti:n:(,;  1 leti)iet glens,
And mmtl uclt:tltt;ll; te "itr,',lalts, only trodt
Bv ideviils fijtstcp!-'-lIt  oiis colsetrato
*~               i~'Vor,. mT. —'3




326              MISCELL ANEOUS POEMS.
To o(lest timne!-And reckless of the storm
That keeps the raven quiet in his nest,
Pe as a presence or a mrotion-One
Among the miany tilere."-  Vord.sworth.
MoNTs'IN winds! oh! whithler d(lo ye call me t
Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue!
Chains of care to lower earth enthlral mle,
Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo?
Oh! the strife of this divided heino!
ls there peace where ye are borite on ih ig
Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing,
In our hearts would haunting niemories die?
Those wild places are not as a dwelling
Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone!
Never fiom these rocky halls caUme swelling
Voice of kindness in famiiliar tone!
Surely music of oblivion sweepeth
Int the pathway of yottr wanderings free;
And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth,
Sings of no lost home amidst its glee.
There the rushing of the falcon's pinion
Is not Irom some hidden pano' to fly;
All thinrs breathe of power and stern dominion
Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die.
Mountain winds! oh! is it, is it only
Where man's trace hath been that so we pine?
Bear me up, to grow in tlhought less lonely,
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrilne!
Wild, and mighty, 1d mysterious s..  gers!..
At whose totie toy heart within tae horns
Bear nie where the last red sunheamo Iisg-ers,
Where the waturs hi-)ve their secret urns
There to commnoute witls a loftier pi ri t
Than the trouhilug shadows of regrret;
There thne witsgs of' hieedoto to inherit,
WVhere the endurling ansd the wing'd are suet.
Hitush, proud voices! gentle he your falliisg!
Wotuan's lot thus chainles-s tiny is te he
Hush!l time heart yoor truwisce sounds are calling,
Darkly st"il nusy grow-hot neyer fr-ee
THIE PIU)CmLSSION.
The peace which passe'lh;it talranis''icoeditself in,
her looks and ruixes enients. It lay ott her, countenance like a steady
uminshadowned roa~t"Cr   r
TJErIE were, tramispliugti sounds rf' nitany tret,
Anid mssusic, rmmsh'd through the- cic.vdeu street;




TIlE PROCESSION.                   3m7
Proud music, such as tells the sky
Of a chief return'd from victory.
There were banners to the winds unroll'd,
With naugihty words on each blazon'd fold;
High battle-names, which had rung of yore,
When lances clash'd on the Syrian shore.
Borne from their dwellings, green and lone,
There were flowers of the woods on the patihway strown,
And wheels that crush'd as they swept alon —
Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng.
I saw where a bright procession pass'd
T'he gates of a nIinstcr oldi and vast;
And a king to his crowning place was led,
Through a sculptured line of the warrior dead.
I saw, far gleaming, the long array
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay,
And the color'd light, that wrapp'd them all,
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall.
But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye
Away from th' ancestral pageantry:
A grave by the lordly minster's gate,
Unhonor'd, and yet not desolate.
It was but a dewy greensward bed,
Meet for the rest of a peasant head;
But Love-oh! lovelier than all beside!That lone place guarded and glorified.
For a gentle form stood watching there,
Young-hut how sorrowfully fair!
Keeping the flowers of the holy spot,
That reckless feet might profane them not.
Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek,
And her ey e, though tearful, serenely meek;
And I deemn'd, by its lifted gaze of love,
That her sad heart's treasure was all above.
For alone she seem'd'mnidst the throng to be,
Like a bird of the waves far away at sea;
Alone, in a mourner's vest array'd,
And with folded hands, e'en as if she pray'd.
It faded before me, that masque of pride,
The haughty swell of the music died;
Banner, andarmor, and tossing plume,
All melted away in the twilight's gloom.
But that orphan form, with its willowy grace,
And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face
Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night-hour glide-Oh! Love is lovelier than all beside.




328               MISCELLANEOUS POE.M1S.
TIlE BROKEN LUTE.
" When the lamnip is shatter'd,
The ligght in the (liust lies (lead;
XWhen the cloud is scatt r't,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is brokenl
Sweet sounds are rem!eeiber'd not
When the wrordls are spotk,?il,
Loved accents are soon 1i;rgot,
As rnusic and splendor
Survive not the lrop and lute,
The heart's echoes rendir
No song when the slpirit is tmute." —Shcleley.
SI;E dwelt in proud Venetian halls,'Mlcst forms that breathed fi-orn tile pictured walls;
Bitt a  low of' beauty like her own,
There had no dreaml- of the painter thrown.
Lit fro:n ws ithin was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays fioml a larlp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, Itad a changeful hue,
As it ye mlitrht see ltow the s olfl wrought through
Anld every flash fiom  her f'ervcnt eye
Seem'd the bright w tkenirlg of Poesy
Evw n thus it was!-froln her clhildhood's yearsA being of suddeln stiiles and tefarsPassionate visions, quick light and shade,
Such was that high-born It'liarn miaid
And the spirit of songr in hler bosoni-cell,
Dwelt, as the odors in violet's dwell,
Or as the sotinds in'lolian stringrsOr in aspen-leaves the quliverinrgs;
There, ever there, *with the life enshrined,
Waiting the call of the fitinte:t wind.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city's hour of' moonlilght (lee,
Oft would that gift of the southern sky
O'erflow from her lips in nielody;
Oft amrid festal hall'q it came,
Like the springing fortlh of a sudden flameTill the dance was hush'd, andl tile silvery tone
Of' her inspiration was heard alol:e.
And fume wellnt with her, the bright, the crown'd,
And niusic fli ated her ste!)s around
Arind every lay of her soul w:is borne
Through the sunny lalid, a oil wing(s of morn.
And was the dughllterl of Ve nice blest
With a power so d'eci) ill ler youthful breast
Could sithi be latippy, o'er w!ose dtark eve
So imany changes anlil u(rettis went I)y?
And il whose cheek thle silft Ctitis',l  wrought
As if' but lbornt fit'if!t!e r.ts'. of t!iiuurilt?
Yes! inle l im',o:'tuecs:~t'.if j uy awh ile-'




THE BROKEN LUTE.                      32)
She moved as a bark in the sunbeam's smile:
For her spirit, as over her lyre's fiull chord,
All, all on a happy love was pourd!
How loves a heart, whence the strealm of song
Flows, like life-blood, quick, bright, and strong?
How loves a heart, which hbith never proved
One breath of the worll?-LEven so she loved!
Bless'd, though the lord of her soul afar,
Was charging the foremost in M1oslem warBearing the flag of St. Mark's on high,
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky.
Proud music brea:thed in her song, when fame
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name
And her trust in his love was a wormnan's faithPerfect, and fearing no change but death.
But the fields are won from the Othman host,
In the land tha;t quell'd the Persian's boast,
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn,
For the day of triumph and return!
-The day is corme! the flashing deep
Foams whiere the galleys of'victo)ry sweep;
And the scel)tr( d city of' the wvave,
With her festal splenldor greets the brave;
C Y]nhbal and clarion, and voice, arould,
Make the air one stream of exultitig sound,
While the beautiful, with their Stilly smiles,
Look from each hall of the hundred isles.
But happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warri;,r's festival,
Moving a queen'imidst the radiant throng,
Was she, tto' inspired one, the maid of song!
The lute lie loved on ther arnl she bore,
And she rush'd in }ier joy to the crowded shore;
With the hue on hier cheek like the damask glow
By the sunset given unto mountain snow,
And her eve all fill'd with the spirit's pL.:y,
Like the flash of a gerl to the ctlangeful day,
And her long, hair waving ill riiillets blnight!
So camie that being;if hope and lighlt!
-One n:,niment, Ermlinia! oe tnelent miore,
Antd life, all the beaaty of lift;, is o'er!
Th-e bark of her love;r lath touchl'd the strtandWhoil leads lie forth x-itl a g(entle hand?
-A  young faihr tforln, xvlhoc nynphi-lke grace
Accordedl wtll with the Greciall f;cce,
And the eye, itn its cle:r soilt darknei-s menek,
An'd the lashles that dlroop'i o'er a pale rose check;
And he look'd oll that he:iuty with teander prideThe warrior hath brought baclk ain lnstern bride!
But how stciod slle, the b,:l-ie-ll-,  tielre,
Struck by the iighmt-i: l,n  s-Lf it d1,:a-ir?
23*
ii_...           -_ — ~   ____   -._.                                ________




330             a MI'SC:1L LA. EI.TTS POEMS.
Still, as amlazed with grief she stood,
And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood,
And there came from her quivering lip no word,
Only the fall of her lute was helrtd,
As it dropp'd from her hand at her rival's feet,
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!
What more remaineth! her day was done 
Her fate and the Broken Lute's wvere one!
The light, the vision, the gift of power,
Pass'd fiorn her soul in that tmortal hour,
Like the rich sound fromn the s'hatterfd strin;g,
XWhence thle gush of sweetness no morie might spring
As all eagle struck in his upward flight.
So was her hope froln her radi:nt height
Antd her song went with it for evermore,
A gladness taken from sea antd shore!
She had moved to the echoing sound of fameSilently, silently died her name!
Silently melted her life away,
As ye have seen a young flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire
Or a bright stream shrink from the summner's fire,
Leaving its channel all dry and muteWoe for the Broken Heart and Lute!
THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.
" How weeps yon gallant band
O'er himi their valor could not save 
For the bayonet is red with gore,
And he, the beautiftil and brave,
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand." — YWilson.
Is the shadow of the pyramid
Our brother's grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.
The blood-red sky above us
Was darkening into night,
And the Arab watching silently
Our sad and hurried rite.'Ihe voice of Egypt's river
Came liollow and profound,
And one lone palm-tree, where we stood,
Rock'd with a shivery sound:
While the shadow crfthe Pyramid
Hung o'er the grave we nade,
When the- battle-lday was dune,
And the desert's Lpartiln  sun
A field of dieath survey'd,




TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.              331
The fathers of our brother
Were borne to knightly tombs,
With torch-light and wit anthem-note,
And many waving plumes:
But he, the last and noblest
Of that high Norman race,
With a few brief words of soldier-love
Was gather'd to his place;
In the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his youthful form we laid,
When the battle day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.
But let him, let him slumber
By the old Egyptian wave!
It is well with those who bear their fame
Unsullied to the grave!
When brightest names are breathed on,
When loftiest fall so fast,
We would not call our brother back
On dark days to be cast,From the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his noble heart we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.
TO A PICTURE OF THE MAJJrNNA.
"Ave Maria! May our spirits dare
Look upl to thine, and to thy Son's above " —Byros.
FAIR vision! thou'rt from sunny skies,
Born where the rose hath richest dyes;
To thee a southern heart hath given
That glow of love, that calm of heaven,
And round thee cast th' ideal gleam.
The light that is but of' a dream.
Far hence, wchere wandering music fills
The haunted air of Roman hills,
Or where Venetian waves of yore
Heard melodies, they hear no more,
Some proud old Ilinster's gorgeous aisle
Hath known the sweetness of'thy smile.
Or haply, from a lone, tdim shrine,'Mid forests of the Apennine,
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell
Pass like a floating anthetl-swell,
Thy soft eyes o'er the pI)ilrim's way
Shed blessings with their gientle ray.




832              MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.
Or gleaming through a chestrut wood,
Perchance thine island-ch'tpel stood,
Where from the blue Sicilian sea,
The sailor's hymn hath risen to thee,
And bless'd thy power to guide, to save,
Madonna! watchtr of the wave!
Oh! might a voice, a whisper low,
Forth from those lips of beauty flow.
Could'st thou but speak of all the tears
The conflicts, and the pangs of years,
Which, at thy secret shrine reveal'd,
Have gushl'd from hunima  hearts unseal'd
Surely to thee hath woman comne,
As a tired wandlerer bhck to home!
Unveilingy many a timid guest,
And treasured sorrow of her breast,
A buried love-a wasting careOh! did those grie's win peace from prayer?
And did the poet's fervid soul
To tlhee lity bare its inmost scroll?
Those thoughts, which pour'd their quenchless fire
And passion o'er th' Italian lyre,
Did they to still submlission die,
Beneath thy calm, religious eye?
And hbath the crested helmet bow'd
Before thee,'midst the incense-cloud?
Hath tl4 crown'd-leader's bosom lone,
To thee its haughty griefs trnade known?
Did thy glince break their fiozen sleep,
And win the unconquer'd one to weep?
Huslh'd is the anthem-closed the vowThe votive garland wither'd now;
Yet lholy still to me thou art,
Thou that hast sooth'd so many a heart!
And still must blessed influence flow
Frotl the meek glory of' thy brow.
Still speak to suftiritrg vwoitat's love,
Of rest for gentle hearts above
Of hope, that hath its treasure there,
Of home, that knows no chlangeful air!
Bright form, lit up -ith thoughts divine,
Ave! such power be ever thine!
A THIOUGHT OF THE ROSE.
How much of rtemorv ( dwe!s nllidist thy bloom,
Rose! ever Nwe;ilri  bet:lr ot!i' thyr dower!




DREAMS OF HEAVEN.                   333
The bridal-day-the festival-the tombThou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower'
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of love or grief,
Dreams, fill'd with tokens of mortality,
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.
Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first,
In the clear light of Eden's golden day!
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,
Link'd with no dimi remembrance of decay.
Rose! for the banquet gather'd, and the bier;
Rose! color'd now by human hope and pain;
Surely where death is not-nor change, nor fear,
Yet may we meet thee, joy's own flower again!
DREAMS OF HEAVEN.
"We color Heaven with our own human thoughts
Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances,
Our passionate love, that seems unto itself
An Immortality."
DRIEA:M'ST thou of. Heaven?-what dreams are thine t
Fair child, fair gladsome child'?
With eves that like the dewdrop shine,
And bounding footsteps wild!
Tell me what hues the immortal shore
Can wear, my bird! to thee?
Ere yet one shadow hath pass'd o'er
Thy glance and spirit free?
"Oh! beautiill is Heaven, and bright,
With long, long summer days;
I see its lilies gleam in light,
Where many a fountain plays.
"And there uncheck'd, methinks, I rove,
And seek where yolng flowers lie,
In vale and golden-fruited groveFlowers that are not to die!"
Thou poet of the lonely thought,
Sad heir of gifts divine!
Say with what solemn glory fraught,
Ts heaven in dreams of thine?
" Oh! where the living waters flow
Along that radiant shore,
My souT, a wands rer here, shall know
Tlihe exile thirst no tmore.




'~34          MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
" The burden of the stranger's heart
Which here alone I bear,
Like the night-shadow shall depart,
With my first wakening there.
"And bome on eagle wings afar,
Free thought shall claim its dower.
From every realm, firom every star,
Of glory and of' power."
0 woman! with the soft sad eye,
Of spiritual gleam,
Tell me of those bright worlds on high
How doth thy fond heart dream i.
By thy sweet mournful voice I know,
On thy pale brow I see,
That thou hast loved, in fear, and woeSay what is Heaven to thee?
"Oh! Heaven is where no secret dread
May haunt love's meeting hour,
Where from the past no gloomn is shed
O'er the heart's chosen bower:
"Where every sever'd wreath is boundWhere none have heard the knell
That smites the heart with that deep soundFarewell-beloved, farewell!"
THE WISH.
COME to me, when my soul
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here;
When earthly chains are as a shriveled scroll,
Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near!
That I may look once more
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me;
That I may speak'to thee of theft bright shore,
Where, with our treasure, we have longed to be.
Thou friend of many days!
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth
Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise
The trembling pinions of my hope fromn earth?
By every solemn thought
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by,
From the deep voices of the mountains caught,
Or all th' adoring silence of the sky;
By every lofty theme
Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken,
By our communion in each fervent dream
That sought from realms beyond the Crave a token;




CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS.                        335
And by our tears for those
Whose loss hath touch'd our world with hues of death;
And by the hopes that with their dust repose,
As flowers await the south-wind's vernal breath:
Come to me in that dayThe one-the sever'd from all days-O  friend!
Even then, if human thought may then have sway,
My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.
Nor then, nor there alone:
I ask my heart if all indeed must die;
All that of holiest feelings it hath known 
And my heart's voice replies-Eternity!
CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS
ON
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
"THE collection of Mrs. Hemans's Miscellaneous Poems bpena
with verses in honor of the Pilgrim Fathers. She has celeb)rated
with solemnity and truth the circumnstances which gave sublimity to
the glorious scene of their landing, and their descendants cannot be
but pleased to see the devotedness displayed by them introduced
into poetry, and incorporated among the bright examples held up by
the inventive as well as the historic imuse for the admiration of iankind.
"Freedom, not licentiousness, religious freedom  not the absence
of religious rites, was the object for which the fathers came. An air
of earnestness was thus originally imparted to the character of the
country, and succeeding ages have not worn it away. Though it
may suit the hunmor of moralizers to declaim against the degeneracy
of the times, we believe that the country has of late years nlade advances in moral worth. Wo infer this front the Imore general diffusion of intelligence and the hirher standard of learning: from the
spirit of healthy action pervatfing all classes: from the diminished
number of crimes; fromn the genera: security of property; from the
rapid mnultiplication of Sabbath schools, than which no discovery of
our age has been insore important for the moral education of the people; from the philanthropy which seeks for the sources of vice, and
restrains it by renmoving its causes; from the active and comnpassionate benevolence, which does not allow itself to consider any class so
vicious or degraded as to have forfeited its claim to humane attention, which seeks and relieves imisery wherever it is concealed, and
embracing every continent in its regard, has its messengers in the
remotest regions of the s\orld. Religious freedoll is the last right,
which even in our day.- the inhabitants of this country would surrendler. It would b~e e;vsier t drive them front their houses and their
lands, than to take firom tilema the liberty of worshipping God according to the dictlites otf c,s-cience. Th'!ere is no general assertion
of this right, and no energetic display of zeal it nlaintaining it, sc:ely
because it is Inenaced by no alartning danger.
"In a state of society like ours, there may be little room for the
exercise of those arts, of which it is the chief aim to amuse and de




336                CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
light; and yet attention  is by no means confined to those objectq
which are directly connected with the advancement of personal or
public wealth.  For the costly luxuries of life, and even for its elegant pleasures, there mtay as yet be little roomn-: and still the mnoratlity of the nation be fisr from  forming itself on the new system of niorals devised  by our political economlists.  There has been no age,
we assert it with confidence, there has been no people, where the
efforts of ilind, directly connected with the preservation of elevated
feeling and religious earnestness, are nlore valued than they are by
the better part of our own community.  ~Ve cannot supporlt, or we
hlold it not best to support, tn expensive religions esttabli:i;hmlealt; but
every swhere the voice of religious honiage and instruction is heard;
e  cannot set -Ipart large estatles to; give splerldor to literary distinctions; bult youll will hi rdly find a retired nook, wshere only a few fandlilies seek their shelter near eatch other, so dlestitute, that the elemlenlts
of knowleldge  are not freely talught:  lte cannot establish galleries
foTr the various wvorks of the arts *of tlesigni; but the es-e th:'t can see
the beauties of nature is comllmnl)n wsith us, and tle recit:;  of d(eeds
of high worth Imeets w'ith re!dy listeners.'Thle I uxilrie:-, which are
for display, are exceedingly little known:   but ttie hilhest value is
set on every effort o(f mind connected withli the investigati;on of truth,
or the nurture of generous andl elevated sentiitlents.
Where the public mindt  h ad been thus fiolled  the (   poetry of Mrs.
Hemans was sure to find admirers.  The exercise of geonius, it' connected with no respect for virtue, mnight have remainedl lunnoticel;
the theory, which treats of beauty, 1as of somlething  independent oli
ioral effect, is still without advoctes aniong us.  It has thus farl
been an undisputel axionl, that if a prolluction is inlldecenlt or imtilloral, it for that very reason cannot claim  to be consi(leretl bealltiful.
We do not go so far as to assert, that there can be no merit in
works of which the general tendency is immorall  bit tihe mlert, if
there is any, does not lie in the immllloral Ipart, in the chalr  th lt is
tlbrown round vice, but rather in an occ'tsional grleatri of better lt'inciples, in nature occasionaully inlaking her voice heard ablove tie d(tl
of the (dissolute, in the pictures of loveliness  tnd  lloral trit  th'rt  t t
shine out through the darkness   Alidst all the horrors andl delirav -
ity of superstition, the strange  an1(  the  abomlinable ivagaries of tile
human imagination, exerciseld on religion in heathenish ignorance,
the observing  mind nl;iy yet recognise thle spirit thait connlects 1!n11
with a better  torld.  And so it is wsith poetry): amidst all the conttl 
sion swhich is manifest svhere the lheatvenly gift is under the conltrol
of a corrupt judlgent, soltlethilg of its native lustre will still tlappear.
WVhen we see the poet of transcendent genius deliintting any thing
but the highaer part of olur nature: vwhen wve oI;.:erve howN, after borrowing fiendish colors, he describes states of mlinill svith shIich devils
only sliotil( have symilpathy, rails at hullllan natltre in a st5 le wvhici
spitefill mlisanthropyv alone canll approve, or gives descriptions nf slenstuality fit only for tile revels of ConIulS; sthlell wI e see hint' hurrie(l
down the adulterate age, addint pollultions (o' his own,' we canll,ave
little to say or to excuse or jllatify an ladlllirntion (ot poetic ttl-ent, till
Nre are re(co'ciled to hulian nLLture'  and thte IlllUe by the 1)ire lhltIre
of better gllided mllinds.
"Iu swhat view of the slltbject can it ibe held a lroper lesignl (!'
poetry to rendier mlan haiteful to himself t  loi)(w can it (leli!lit ( r instruct tus to see our lelloW-lilen r;nged uiider the tw.to classs ot' designing villains and wveak (IIupes?  (cr whatIt sOllce:; of' pnetic i;-pration are left, if all tile relatilons of soct-t life are hl!(l ip to dcerl sion,
and every generous; impulse scorneil it; thte re.litt 1,1 lel;:titd (otiH
dence?
T'o  ]eitlltlad thliit wit  i' cr i ed i.,,,i tcn.',i../,:  sl;:t!~i tite fo)lin(




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                                     337
In every perforrimance may be unreasonable, since  the events of life
do not warrant uis in expecting  it; but we may derlanrd what is of
much niore importance, mloral justice-a consistency of character, a
conformity of the mind to its career of action.  It may not be inconsistent with reality, though it is with  probability., that an unprincipled umiscreant, governintg  himiself in  his gratitications by the narrowest seltishness, shouild  be succesf;ul  itn  his  pursuits, but it is
unnatural andl filse to give to such a nature ally of the attributes of
goodness.  Vice is essentially mean  aci-l low; it has no dignity, lc
courage, no betauty; and while  the  poet coan never impalirt to a production, tentling to promlote vice, tle power and interest swhich belongs to the Nworthy delil!eatiol of honoorable  actions, lie can  never
invest a fitlse heart writh the ntoble cllollities (ft a gelierous one.  Observe  it  this  respect  thle  tm:tnner  of the  dtramaitic  Ipoet, who  is
acknowledg ed  to  have  delineated  the  passiolis  sNiti  the greatest
fidelity.  Shakspetare describes tile  llind tas grradtrlly sitnking  undler
the influence of the mIaster-passiolt.  It strmps it.:elf on the whole
soul, and obliterates all the liner traces in wnhich hucreaiity had written
a witness of' gentler qualities.  AMacbeth is a Ijoral chiaracter of terrfic sublimtity, and an  illustration of that moratl justice, wvhlich swe
contend shouldt never be sxwating   The one strong   )assion Itotulds
the  character, and  btlasts  every  tender  sentr:eient.    When  onice
Othello is jealous, his juldgmtient is golle; the  seltishiness oft Richard
leads to waltonn   cruelty.   itn onie of Sihakspeare's  tragedies, not a
crimtie, but a tault is the fotindation of the titoral interest.  HIere too
he is consistent; and  tile  irresolutiion (of i'llailet leaves his minid
without etnergy, and his conterldinig  itssions wvithiout  terror   We
might explain our vioes iby exami tiles t'fitil thie coitiedies tof the great
draimatist, buit  racbteth til ad Rlichardl tflirnisih the clerLlest iiltstrattiotl
of themri.  And it is in such  exhilitionits of thile power of vice to tiegrade, that'gorgeous tlrrgedy' pertirins her severest oirce, lifting tip
the plall which hiles tile gha-stliness of'tinirincipled dleravity, andti
showing us, where vice  tatirts control, tile tie;tures, th;it  belhre mttay
have been resp',endetit with  lovelitiess, marrel andri despoiled of all
their swseet expression.
"'There  can, then, ble no  more  hidteous frult in  a literary  work
than  profligatcy.  Levity is next in order.  The  dlisplosition  to trifle
with topics of the highest rjotnltint, to applyi tihe leveJing l)rinlciple to
the emortions of the humtialr n  mrinidl, to tIoi(l tlp t) rilciltle  the exa ilted
thoughts andt kindllinlg astuira.tioris of s;hich ililhllrtn nrature is crapable.
can at the best chartit those oiily-, ril(o Ilave  liiJled to enter tihe trite
avenues to hIapl)iness.  Such  wsorlks  iaigy  bie  purtliil;rr, i)ec atise the
character of the l iublic ttincl  tiy f;r a s:eas-un  ire corriiupt.  A  liter;,tttre, consisting  of' such  s\vorlks, is the  greatest evil rr ith  s which iit
nation can  be cursedl.  INa tional  i)oCv rty       i  iothing in c(IIlllprisnl
for  poverty is remitecdiedl ty  prudent     enterprii- e;  biut  stili  xw<rits
poison the life-bliood of the Ipeople, the iriorti  vigor, lwhichi alonle cain
strive for liberty  nitd  honor.  Th'Ile a)(ul)gists lor tihis (ciss of co lilpositionis, in wshich Voltaiue itd Lt F'ntaiie  re tt             e t re e ttest masters, defeind it on tile gronltnt, tllhat it is xwell adatlnptedl to give pile. rtre
to minds whiich  hhave  beetn   aiccilsto      ljedl tI( it,  rinlo  tilhit rii oeiigners
need only a (dllberent moratl educ'ltioln to id)  able  to criioy it. 
without WVsting a orO(r ott tile c(iortiity of1 (ucirt(linrg   Ihs. --
sic;tlly  sensuallt, swe reply sl rely onl  tile  score  of efllec..        i.- A..
atatdapr  tis inrventiolns to at  lirtici lar stiate of' society,,as~ p,.c^:4'.1o
ftlirtiler.  ),. (!epiends (oi Otcirclul: niices ti)r hIis p)Ijullarity;,: -,eas
hno   tla[):s-! to} ig;LI1, )titt tt ) l l cilc:ht  l   lsaits,    fleetinc stl;,!: (,; the
prb)lic  s::int i;   rle is fli' p(it.  i()t Ofi  itrre, bhitt i()f:  tr:rl it:i tionl.  T['le:.tOrtr.tir, h l c rc: ir(s f l:'rr ttic:citrga:enes tiCr lt-icity
of the tllraitre', iS ('i  c'' iitll( 5'1t.   ()i  tre  intisit i)riiiatu  night a
Vh,.,i i.




CRITICAL ANNOTAT'l'lONS ON
meteor would be followed by all eyes for a while; and why. Because it is as evanescent as bright; we must gaze at once, or it will
be too late. Yet the mind soon returns to the contemplation of the
eternal stars which light tip the heavens with enduring lustre. Any
popularity, obtained by gratifying a perverse taste, is essentially
transitory, while all that is benevolent and social, and that favors
truth and goodness, is of universal and perpetual interest.
"These are but plain inferences from facts in the history of literature. The plays of Dryden were written to please an audience of a
vicious taste; they rmay have been received with boisterous applause, but nobody likes them now, though in thei: forill not unsuited to the stage; and as for the grossest scenes, any merit i:i the invention is never spoken of; as comnpen ating for their abominable
coarseness. On the other hand, Milton's Comus, though in its form
entirely antiquated, has the beautiful freshness of everlasting youth,
delights the ardent admirer of good poetry, and is always showving
new attractions to the careful critic. And where lies this immensdifference in the lasting effect of these t\wo writers?  l)ryden, it is
true, fell far short of Milton in poetic genius; but the true cause
lies in this; virtue, which is the soul of song, is wanting   in t-he
plays of Dryden, while the poetry of Milton bears the impress of his
own magnanimity.
"We are contending for no sickly morality; we would  shut out
the poet from the haunts of libertini:sm, iot from the haunts of llien;
we would have himn associate with his fellovs, hold intercourse wiilth
the great minds that light up the gloomn  of ages, and share in the
best impulses of human nature; and not, under the influence of a
too delicate sensibility, treat only of the harmlless flowers, and the
innocent birds, and the exhilarating charnm of agreeable scenery:
and still less, in the spirit of a sullen nlisanthropy, (delight in obscure
abstractions, find comfort only in solitude, andi rejoice, or pretend to
rejoice, chiefly in the mouintains, and the ocean, and the low s laces
of the earth.  Their pursuit of umoral beltuty does not lceat to an
affected admiration, or an inl)roper idolatry of the visible creation
The genius of the poet can imilpart a portiosn of its eloquence to the
external world, and elevate creation by connecting it with moral associations.  But descriptions, except of scenes where moral beings
are to move, possess little interest.  If landscape-painting is tn inferior branch of that art, though the splendid works o f C'laude demand praise without lmeasure, landsc;tpe poetry is a kind of aftectation, an unnatural result of excessive retieilment.  Descripltion is
important, but subordinate.'lThe external wo-irld, with all its gorgeouisness and varied fortms of beasuty; the cataract,' with its glory
of reflected light;' the forests, as they wave in the brilliancy of early
summer; the flowers, that are crowvded in gardens, or waste their
sweetness on the desert air;' the noise of the hidden brook, that all
night long in the leafy months sings its quiet tune to the sleeping
woods;' the ocean, whether reposing in tranquil majesty, or tossed
by the tempest; night, awhen the heavens are glittering with the
splendor of the constellations; morning, when one perfect splendor
beams in the sky, and is reflected in a thousand colors t'rom the glittering earth, these are not the subliirnmest themes, that awaken the
energies of the muse. It is mlind, and Inmind only, which 6an exhibit
the highest beauty. The hyinn of Inartyr-(dom, the strength by which
the patriot girds himlself to die,'God's breath in the soul of mian.'
the unlconquerable power of generous passion, the hopes and scrr;los
of humanity, love, devotion, and all the deep and bright Slitlgs of
affection, these are higher themes, of permanent interest ant; e:aited
character.
"Here, too, we find an analogy between poetic and r:!iogious feai




M ISCELL AN EO US POES,.                339
lng.  The image of God is to be sought for, not so iwiich in the outward world, as in the mind.  No comi5bination of inl;;,,;im  te ma1ttter can
equal the sublimity and wonderful powver of life.  To impa;Lt organic
life with the power of reproduction, is a brighter dijp)i:y of (in)lnipotence than any arrangement of tshe inianimate.  Il-terial wo)rld.  A
swarrm of flies, as through their short existence tley hi a:z and wheel
in the sulnnler's sun, ofier sis clear, and, to sOlie nli!ods, at clearer
demonstration  of Omnuipotence, than  the everlnastingl  but silent,
courses of the planets.  -But moral li'e is the highie-t creation of
divine power.  XWe, at least. know and can conceive (if note  higher.
We are, therefore. not to look f;r God aniong tie rivcr.i Itril' the for
ests, nor yet among tile planets and the stars. l)iit in tile hle:rt, of
men; he is not the Godl of the dlead. but of the living.
"Those who accord Nvith the general views  whvlicl wve have here
maintained, will be prelp:redl to exlpress uIlnuliliiedul aplpr;,obtion of
the literary career of Mrs. Hell;mans.  Il lin her awritings been Imereli
harmiless, we should not have entered into an a;nPlvsis of theil; bui
the mioral charmn whici is spread over them, is so pecuiliar, so full
of nature, and truth, and dleep feeling, that lier prodluctions claim at
once the praise of exquisite purity and ipsetic excellence.  She adds
the dignity of hler sex to a high sense of the duties of a poet; she
writes with buoyancy, yet awith ec;rnestnes:;; her poemiis bear the
imnpress of a character wvorthy of admlmira;tions.  In the purlsuit if literary renown, she never forgets vwhat is due t!o teummiiine reserve.
We perceive a Imiind endo sved wvithi piwers to aspire; and are still
fuirther pleased to filli no tnsaitisiied crsvilngs, no passionatte pursuit
of retmote objects, but high enl(toinmeits,,mrrrced by  conltenitmuent.
T'here is plainly the consciousness of thie various sorrows to which
life is explosed, and w ith it the spirit of resignai.tion.  She sets before
herself a cle;r and exalted idea of whantt a ftem-lmse writer should be,
and is on the wavy to realize lier m,,vne idle; of excellence.  living in
dommmestic retirenmenit, ini t beautiful i):trt (f' Wales, it is her own leelings and her own exlperiellnce wviclhl she commiunicoates to ius.  We
cannot illustrate our Ilesnillg bletter, thanl by introducing our rea;ders
at once to Mrs. Ilerianis hieisell, as she descrilbes to its the occupa
tions of a day.
AN HOURI OF IROIANCIe.'There ere thicl!caves above mi e  all   aroun,
And iuw  ssweet sighsl, like those ot' chiltlllood's sleep,
Amidsit t!lir dimelss, alld a ittutl s,mlll
As of solt siiowers oi1 water,' &c. &c.
"The poetry is here as beautiful as the scene dlescriibedl is quiet and
pleasing.  It lrmins an  umiiiai)le picture of the occutlpati(is of a contemplative mind.  T'lhe langrunge, versification, aniil inumugery, are of
great mlerit, the beauties of nattulre descrilbed by a caireful observer;
the English scene is placed ii happy contrast withl the Eastern, ansi
the dream  of romance pleasantly disturbeil by the cheerfulness  of
life.  But we Iiake but sorry  wvorkl at comnimenting on what the
reader must feel."
*       *       *        *       Zk *             k       *
"It has ibeen said that reliurioni can never be rmade a subtject of interest ill poetry.'l'The  osition is uia  llse one, refultedl by the close alliance between poetic inspiration and sacredl enthusitsml.  Irreligion
has certaimnly rno place in poetry.'l'hee 1mety h.ve vbeen Atheist philosiophers; an Atheist poet is in imlll)os:sibility.'The lloet iiiay doubt
and reason like  lahiiilet; iutt tthe lio(ille!!t lie:cqiieesces in 1lobelief,
there is an end to the n;laLuiC i(f lict'try.  Jltiglini;tiott can no hlnger
throw lively hues (;ver the creatil,n  the t'i:e;tso cae-:e to ble ih: unted
the sea, and the air, mlil th;e hmea.vens, to terei with life.  T'le high'-' —-'T —----------— ~___ _ _.I_____        _T  _________._ _.  _       _~~,= —L



140                (IRI'IICAL ANNOTATIO.NS ON
est interest, we think, attaches to Mrs. FIernans's Awritings, from  the
spirit of Christianity which pervtdes them.
"The poetry ofour author is tranquillizing in its character, calin and
serene.  We beg pardon of the lovers of excitement, but we are seriously led to take notice of' this qutality as of a lhigh merit.  A great deal
has been said of the sublimtiity of' directing the passions; we hold it
a much imore difficult and a much  smore elevateds task, to  restrain
themrl; it may he sublime  to ride on  the whirlwind, and direct the
storln; but it seems to its still more sullime to appease tile storm, and
still the whirlwind.  Virgil, no nle n ailthorit,  vwas of this opinion.
The French are reporte(l to be particulatrly fiond of effect and display;
b;t we remenmber to have reid, tha t even iin the splen(lid  days of Na
poleon, the simipflicity of' vocal lnusic sulrpsts (td in etiL'ct tile Igniftllcence of a nlllterous Il);tnl.    It was  s heal i:X, N',l,,vas cri ovneei
Emiperor in the  Cathedr;tl of N6tre D:llme.'Ie l'ri)si: ns xvishing
tos distinguishl the occasion by souse novel exhibhiion..  aind to produce
a gpreat effect, fillel the orchestra with eighty hairpl, which were all
struck together with une(lutliled sIkill.   lihe  fashioiable wosrld  was
in raptures.  Presently  the  Pope  entered., and. soInIe   thirty  of his
singers, who ciame with himt fison iRomtie, receive(d hiit with the powerfiil  Tu es Petrus of' tile  (ltd-ftashioned Scarltatti;  a;d  te  siilples
majesty of the air, assisted Lby no instruniitiets, annihilatedl  in a rioment the whole effect of the precedir;ng fi.ifironade    And in literattre the public taste scene s to its already weary of those  irotlductioli
which ailll at astonishingF anrd producintg,           gre;lt effect, anti there is
now  an opportunity of plea. ing bIy the serenity of conteillplative excellence.
"It is the high praise of llMrs. Hemans's poetry that it is feminine.
The sex may mwell be ltlec;sed vwith  her protluctions, for they  could
hardly have a better represe;lttttive in the career of letters.   All her
works seem  to comte  fronit the  he trt, to  be natural anst trite.'Ihe
poet can give us nothing but the fsrmll und(tIr which the objects he describes present themselves to ltis owsn aiss1id.  That formii imust be no
ble, or it is not worthy of our consilerationn:  it tmiust be consistent,
or it will fiil to be true.  Nowv, in the wsritings of Mrs.  lemtins, swe
are shown how  life  andi its coscerI1s  ilappear to woman, and hear a
mother entrusting to verse hler exslerience and  observ;tion.  So, in
The Hebrewe  JoMtlher,' te  sp)ring tide!i' natutre' swells high as she
parts from her son, on devostistg hill to thie service of the temple:"' Alas, my boy, thy genitle srasrp is on me,
The bright tears quiverl in t  ls pleadini  eyes;
A id now le nd t loulrlts ar ise,
And silver cords again tos earthl have won me;
And like a vile thu l  sltspest iv full heartHow shall I hence derpart I
"' And oh! the uonie whenlce thy ibrisht smile Ilath parted.l
Will it not seeirl a. i'lle sunny dayr'
Turin'd fromrn its door awav?
While through its chamblers wailderinl, weary-hearted,
lan'uish tor tliy voite,  liiich past mie still
"senit like a sitnilg rill?
"  I give tihee to ithy  Gos —the God that rsave thee,
A weilsprinii of tdeep  siad.less to iny heart!
Awl precious tt xllor art,
And pure as dcew oi HerHo:!, tie shalt have thee,
My owl, mry t-,eailrit' ul, imy  udllelel!
Asd tthu sialt be i   cis cltl.' Tllerefstre, farewell! — sro, mv soul may fail me,
As the hart piltthl tor tlhe w ater i)trooks,
Yearrlis fotr rtiy swr.et looks —
But thou, my fir.t-lornl, lir(,up l)t, lnor bewail me,
Thou inl the sh:tdlow (,  i the Itck sialt diwell,
The Rock oft S;reu.:'lu —-Farewe ll!'




1MISCELLANE, O'US  rPOi jI.                    311
"''The  same high  feeling of maternal duty and  love inspires  the
Ittle poerlm,'The Wreck,' which every onie has read.'The Lady of
the Castle,'' The Grave of Korner,'' Te Graves of a Household'
are all on donmestic subjects.  BRut cwhy dee we allude to poems which
are in every one's hands?   The mother's voice breaks out again in
the piece entitled' Elysium.'  Children, according to the  heathen
mythology, were banished to the infernal  regions, antd religious faith
had no consolation for a mourning parent.
"' Calr  on its leaf-strewn bier
Unlike a  ilft of nlatrre to dceay,
Too roselike still, too beaultitl, too dear,
The cleill at rest before its mothlerlay;
E'eo so to pass away,
With its briglht smile! —Elosiln! what wert thou,
To her wrtlo wept o'er thalt'oullllg si berer's brow t
"'Thou o adst no Ihome, greeu land!
For the fair creature Iroiri ler buo-onl ginle,
With life's first flowers just opeliil  inl er hand,
Andlall the lovely thourhits altd tllealils nlklown,
Whlich in its clear eye silone
Like the Springr's wakenlintr! But that light was past —
— Wlere went the devldrop, swept before the blast I
"'Not where thy soft winds play'd,
Not where thy waters lay il grlassy sieep --
Fade, with thll bowers, tehoue la1eel of visionis, fade!
Froin thee nio voice came o'er the gloomny deep,
Aned bade meran cease to weep!
Fade, with thie amnarantlh plaine, tle enyrtle grove,
Which could niot yield oene hope to sorrowiing love!
S For the most loved are they
Of whorre Farne speaks enot with her clarion voice
tie regal halls —the sihades o'erlalne'   thieir way,
The vale, witih its deep totiIntains, is their choice,
Aindl -enltle hearts rejoice
Arolnd their steps! till silenitly they die,
As a streaml shirinks ftorri stnirner's burniin  eye.
"' And the world knows not tlhenNot ttlen, nor ever, what pure tlhoulits are fled 
Yet these are they, that on the souls of ilell
Come back when ni telgt, her itldCli   veil hath spread,
The lotne rerrieireber'd clead.
But not with t7tee tieijlt aurehit save glorv dwellFade, fade away, thou slhore of Asptodel i'
And the same feelings of a woman and a mother dictated'The
Evening Prayer at a Girls' School,' a poemet  which  merits to be con
sidered in connexion with Gray's'Odt  on a Distant Prospect of Etnol
College.'
"  Oh! joyous creatures thalt will sinik to rest,
Lightly, wrire  those pure orisons are don,,
As lerdets with slumber's hioiney-dew oppeeb'cd,'Ml lst the dim folded  leaves, at set of sltl
Lift Utp y)our learts!-thloughl yet eno sorirow lites
Dark il the surmmer heavenl ot those clear eyes.'
"Of other spirited, and lively, andl pathetic short poeims of Mrs.
temans, twhich  fierm  some of the brightest ornamenlts of the lyric
poetry  of the language, we  take  no pearticular notice-for in what
part of the United states are they not known'?  So general has been
the attention  to  those of her pieces adapted  to the plrposes of ac
newspaper, wve hardly fear to assert, that thlro:ughouti     a great part eof
this country there is not a family of the tiddlii nge;r     class in wshichl
some of them   have  not been  reatd.  The  praise  which  was  not
sparingly bestowed upon her, when her shorter lrlductions first became generally known among us, has been often repleated on a care.
ful examination of her works; and could wSe hope that oullr remarks
might one day fall under her eye, we should  hiope she  would  not
ce indifferent to the good wishes which are offered her from  America,
29*




342              MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
but feel herself cheered and encouraged in her efforts, by the prospect of an enlarged and almost unlimited field of useful influence,
opened to her among the descendants of her country in an independent land. The ocean divides us from the fashions as well as
the Commotions of Europe. The voice of America, deciding on the
literature of England, resembles the voice of posterity more nearly
than any thing else, that is contetmporaneous, can do. We believe
that the general attention which has been given to Mrs. Hemans's
works among us, may be regarded as a pledge that they will not be
received with indifference by posterity."-PRoFEOsso   NORTON, in
JVorth AInmerican Revieaw.
IN a preceding page we gave the opinions of our most celebrated
Cisatlantic critics regarding the poetry of Airs. femlans, and we
think it but right il this to show the general estimate in which her
genius is held in Anmerica, as evidenced by the jV'orth.ISmerican Reiewo, the best-known and most widely-circulated of the Transatlantic periodicals.
Judging from the state of feeling in Anlerica-from the ideas of
practical philosophy entertained there-and froln the pervading utilitarian bias of its prose literature, we must confess that, had we
been asked to name any votary of the British muse inore likely than
another to be appreciated in that country, we should have had very
little hesitation in fixing upon Crabbe. And why. Because his
poetry is characterised by a stern adherence to the realties of life,
as contradistinguished fromn romnance, and because his characters and
situations are taken from existing aspects of society, appreciable by
all. In this theory it appears we are wrong; and Professor Norton
has here done his best to account for it. We are most given to admire what is least attainable; and so therefore it is that the spiritual
glow which Mrs. HeIerans has blent with human sentiment-the
imaginative beauty with which she has clothed' the shows of earth
and heaven,"-and the tone of romance which she has mingled up
with the communications of daily life, have, as lucus a non lucendo,
been the elements of, and not the impediments to, her American
popularity.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB,
NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY.*
"Yes! hide benea th the mouldering heap,
The undelighting, slighted thing;
There in the cold earth, buried deep,
In silence let it Bwait the spring."
hlIrs. TorIIE's Poem on the Lzly.
I STOOD where the lip of song lay low,
Where the dust had gather'd on Beauty's brow;
Where stillness hung on the heart o Love,
And a marble weeper kept watch above.
I stood in the silence of lonely thought,
Of deep affections that inly wrought,
* See the "Grave of a Poetess," in the " Records of Woman," on
the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the
scene.




EPITAPH.                      34
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fearThey knew themselves exiled spirits here!
Then didst thou pass me in radiance by
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly 
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings,
No burden of mortal sufferings.
Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb,
Over a blight world of joy and bloom;
NAd strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine,
The all that sever'd thy life and mine.
M ine, with its inborn mysterious things
Of love and grief, its unfathom'd springs;
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and sky,
With voices to question eternity!
Thine, in its reckless and joyous way,
Like an embodied breeze at play!
Child of the sunlight-thou wing'd and free!
One moment, one moment, I envied thee!
Thou art not lonely, though born to roam,
Thou hast no longings that pine for home;
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope detfrr'd:
In thy brief being no strife of mind,
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined;
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seerm'd infinity!
And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flow'd not her son firomn a heart that -wept?
-O  Love and Song! though of Heaven your Dowers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours.
Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,
Thou ever thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!
Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth,
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth,
Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!
EPITAPH.
FAREWELL, beloved and mourn'd! we miss awhile
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile,
And that bless'd gift of' Heaven, to cheer us lentThat thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent high,
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony;




144            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Yet from those very memories there is born
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn.
Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode,
To meet at last "the pure in heart" with God t
PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,
AS TRANSLATED FROIM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONE
D'AGUILAR, AND'ERFORnIMED AT TIlE THEATRE-ROYAL,
DUBLIN, I)ECEMIBEhR, 1832.
Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band,
The mighty nminstrels of' the Rhine's fair laId,
Majestic strains, but not for u:, had sung,Moulding to melody a str:tnger tongue.
Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of power,
As a true sword bounds flrth ill battle's hour;
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the inmpassion'd lays,
In loving telirs, nlore eloquent than praise 
While we, far distant, knew not, dretnl'd not aught
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.
But let the bmrriers of the sea give way,
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's sway!
And let the Rhine divide high souls no snore
From mlingllhng on its old heroic shore,
Which, e'en liTe ours, brave deeds through many an age
Have made the Poet's own fi-ee heritarge!
To us, though faintly mlay a wandering tone
Of the far mIinstrelsy at last be known;
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangersliere.
And if by one, more used on march andt heath
To the shrill bugle than the, muse's breath,
With a wann heart the oifering hath been brought,
And in a trusting loyalty of thought
So let it be received!-a soldier's hand
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime,
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,
Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame,
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,
The joy, the power, of' kindred song to spread,
Where once that harp" the soul of music shed!"
TO GIULIO REGONDI.
TIIE BOY GUITARIST.
BLESSING and love be round thee still, fair boy!
Never may suffering wake a deeper tone,




() YE IOURS. —TtlE FREEl) BIRD,          345
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy,
Calls forth exulting from the chords which own
Thy fairy touch! Oh! mIay'st thou ne'er be taught
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!
For in the light of those confiding eyes,
Anid on the ingenuous cd-lm of that clear brow,
A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies,
A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow!
God, who hath gr;aced thee thus, oh, gentle child,
Keep'midst the world thy brightness undefiled!
O YE HOURS.
O YE hours! ye sunny hours!
Floating lightly by,
Are ve come with birds and flowers,
Odors and blue sky?
"Yes, we come, again we come,
Through the wo;dpati;s free;
Brinring many a wanderer home,
With the bird and bee."
O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Are ye waiting song'!
Doth wild music stream in showers.
All the groves among?
"Yes, the nightingale is there
While the starlight reigns,
Making young leaves and sweet air
Tremble with her strains.
O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
In your silent flow,
Ye are mighty, mighty lowers!
Bring ye bliss or woe.
"Ask not this —-oh! seek not this!
Yield your hearts awhile
To the soft wind's balmy kiss,
And the heavens' bright smile,
"Throw not shades of anxious thought
O'er the glowing flowers!
We are come with sunshine fraught,
Question not the hours!"
THE FREED BIRD.
RETruRN, return, my bird!
I have dress'd thy cage with flowers,




348            MITSCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Tis lovely as a violet bankil
In the heart of forest bowers.
I am free, I am free —I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er;
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high.
The sky is around me-the blue bright sky!
"The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer
I see the waves flash on the sunny shoreI am filee, I am free-I leturn no more!"
Alas, alas! my bird!
Why seek'st thou to be free?
Wert thou not bless'd in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed nought but glee?
"Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee!
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
-Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!
"From a dream of the forest that music sprang,
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;
And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best,
Sigh'd for wild-flowers and a leafy nest."
Was it with thee thus, my bird?
Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright;
I have seen thle glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.
"It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place!
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soarWoo me not back-I return no more!
" My home is high, amidst rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and the breeze,
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play,
And the odors that wander afar away!"
Farewell-farewell, then, bird!
I have call'd on spirits gone,
And it may be they joy'd, like thee, to partLike thee, that wert all my own!
"If they were captives, and pined like me,
Though love may guard them, they joy'd to be free 
They sprang from the earth with a burst of'power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's huear!
"Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven!
Farewell!-with my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies-I am earth's no more!"




() YE  IOURS. —TIlE F'REI;I) BIRD.        345
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy,
Calls forth exulting from the chords which own
Thy fairy touch! Oh! im-ay'st thou ne'er be taught
Tlhe power wlrise fountain is in troubled thought!
For in the light of those confiding eyes,
Anrd on the ingenuous c'idm of that clear brow,
A dower, mlore precious e'en than genius iies,
A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow!
God, whl-o hath glrced thee thus, oil, gentle child,
Keep'midst the world thy brightness undefiled!
O YE HOURS.
O 0YE hours! ve sunny hours!
Floating lightly by,
Are ye come with birds and flowers,
Odors and blue sky?
"Yes, we come, again we come,
Through the wo;dpati;s free;
Bringring many a wanderer home,
With the bird and bee."
O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Are ye waiting song'!
Doth wild music stream in showers.
All the groves anmong?
"Yes, t}he nightingale is there
While the starlight reigns,
Making young leaves and sweet air
Tremble with her strains.
O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
In your silent flow,
Ye are mighty, mighty uowers!
Bring ye bliss or woe.
"Ask not this —-oh! seek not this!
Yield your hearts awhile
To the soft wind's ballny kiss,
And the heavens' bright smile,
"Throw not shades of anxious thought
O'er the glowing flowers!
We are come with sunshine fraught,
Question not the hours!"
THE FREED BIRD.
RETrURN, return, my bird!
I have dress'd thy cage with flowers,
_~~~r~~~ —-~~~~~-L —---- ~ ~ ~ ~ ~    7-.




MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.                   347
MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.*
THE Moslem spears were gleaming
Round Damietta's towers,
Though a Christian banner from her wall
Waved free its lily-flowers.
Aye, proudly did the banner wave,
As queen of earth and air;
But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds,
In anguish and despair.
Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon
Their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field
Their knighthood's best array.'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,
The wine-cup round to send,
For each that touch'd it silently,
Then miss'd a gallant friend!
And mournful was their vigil
On the beleaguer'd wall,
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams
Of slow defeat and fall.
Yet a few hearts of chivalry
Rose high to breast the storm,
And one-of all the loftiest thereThrill'd inl a woman's form.
A woman, meekly bending
O'er the slumber of her child,
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother's mild.
Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe,'Midst the clash of spear and lance,
And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen.
Fair Marguerite of France!
A dark and vaulted chamber,
Like a scene for wizard-spell,
Deep in the Saracenic gloom
Of the warrior citadel;
And there'midst arms the couch was spread,
And with banners curtain'd o'er,
* Queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the T'lrks in Damietta, during the captivity of the king her husband, she there gave birth
to a son, whom she named Tristan, in conmrmelmoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to her that the knights intrusted
with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had
them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words, so
wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the
Cross to the last extremity.




348            MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
For the daughter of the minstrel-land,
The gay Provensal shore!
For the bright queen of St. Louis,
The star of court and hall -
But the deep strength of the gentle heart,
Wakes to the tempest's call!
Her lord was in the Paynim's hold,
His soul with grief oppress'd,
Yet camly lay the desolate,
With her young babe on her breast!
There were voices in the city,
Voices of wrath and fear"The walls grow weak, the strife is vain,
We will not perish here!
Yield! yield! and let the crescent gleam
O'er tower and bastion high!
Our distant homes are beautifulWe stay not here to die!"
They bore those fearful tidings
To the sad queen where she layThey told a tale of wavering hearts,
Of treason and dismay:
The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek,
The sparkle to her eye"Now call me hither those recreant knights
From the bands of Italy!"*
Then through the vaulted chambers
Stern iron footsteps rang;
And heavily the sounding floor
Gave back the sabre's clang.
They stood around her-steel-clad men,
Moulded for storm and fight,
But they quail'd befbre the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.
Yes-as before the falcon shrinks
The bird of weaner wing,
So shrank they from th' imperial glance
Of her-that firagile thing!
And her flute-like voice rose clear and high,
Through the din of arms around,
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,
As a silver clarion's sound.
"The honor of the Lily
Is in your hands to keep,
And the banner of the Cross, fobr Him
Who died on Calvary's steep:
* The proposal to capitulate is attributed Iy the French historia!
to the Knights of Pisa,




TO CAROLINE.                   349
And the city which for Christian prayer
Hath heard the holy bellAnd is it these your hearts would yield
To the godless infidel?
"Then bring me here a breastplate
And a helm, before ye fly,
And I will gird my woman's form,
And on tle ramparts die.!
And the boy whom I have borne for woe,
But never for-disgrace,
Shall go within mine arms to death
Meet for his royal race.
"Look on him as he slumbers
In the shadow of' the lance!
Then go, and with the Cross forsake
The princely babe of France!
But tell your homes ye left one heart
To perish undefiled;
A woman and a queen, to guard
Her honor and her child!'
Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves
When winds are in the wood;
And a deepening nurmnaur told of men
Roused to a loftier mood.
And her babe awoke to flashing swords,
Unsheath'd in many a hand,
As they gather'd round the helpless One
Again a noble band!
"We are thy warriors, lady!
True to the Cross and thee!
The spirit of' thy kindling words
On every sword shall be!
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast,
Rest-we will guard thee well!
St. Dennis for the Lily-flower,
And the Christian citadel!"
TO CAROLINE.
WHEN thy bounding step I hear,
And thy soft voice, low and clear
When thy glancilng eyes I meet,
In their su(lddn nlaughter sweetThou, I dreamn, wert surely born
For a path by care unworn
Thou must be a sheiter'd flower,
With but sunsnhine for tliv dower.
Vo fe.-,




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Ah! fair child, not e'en for thee
May this lot of brightness be;
Yet, if grief must add a tone
To thine accents now unknown;
If within that cloudless eye
Sadder thought must one day lie,
Still, I trust the signs which tell
On thy life a light shall dwell,
Light-thy gentle spirit's own,
From within around thee thrown.
THE WANDERER.
TRANSLATED FROaM TIIE GERMAN Or SCHMIDT VON LUBZEC
" Ich koinme voin Gebirge, herr," &c.
I COME down from the hills alone,
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan!
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing-where?
The sunshine round seenls dim and cold,
And flowers are pale, and life is old,
And words fall soulless on my ear-Oh! I am still a stranger here.
Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own?
Still sought for, lorg'd for, never known?
The land, the land of hope, of' light,
Where glow my roses freshly bright,
And where my friends; the green paths tread,
And where in beauty rise my dead;
The land that speaks my native speech,
The blessed land I may not reach!
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sigrhig —l here?
And spirit-sounds come answeringf this
-" There, where thou art not, there is bliss i"
THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.
" Who does not recollect the exultation of Vaillant over a flower
In the torrid wastes of Africa? The attfcting mention of the influ
ence of a flower upon the mind, t)y Mungo Park, in a time of suffering
and despondency, in the heart of the sanue savage country, is familiar
to every one." —lowIVTT'S Book of the Seasons.
WHY art thou thus in thy beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower:
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd
From human hearth or bower?




MISCELLANEOUS POE.,IS
A  shiver'd spear, a cloven stield,
A  helm  with its white plume torn,
And a blood-stain'd turf on the fatal field,
Where a chief to his rest was borne.
He lies not where his fathers sleep,
But who hath a tomb nlore proud?
For the Syrian wilds his record keep
And a banner is his shroud.
SCENES AND PASSAGES FRO)  TEIE "TASSO" OF
GOET'IE.*
TuE dramatic poem  of "Tasso," though presenting no changeful
pageants of nmany-colored life-no combination of stirring incidents,
nor conflict of tempestuous passions-is yet rich in interest for those
who findThe still small music of ht:manity
*     *      *   of ample power
To chasten and subdue."
It is a picture of the struggle betwveen elements which never can
assimilate-powers whose dloninion is over spheres essentially adverse; between the spirit of poetry;and  the spirit of the world.Why is it that this collision is allleost invariably fittal to the gentler
and the holier nature?  Some mInster-mninds htave, indeed, winged
their way through  the tumrults of crosxded life, like the sea-bird
cleaving the storm  froim  which its pinions comlle tbrth unstained; but
there needs a celestieal ptnoply, with which feew indeed are gifted, to
bear the heirs ef geenius nlot only uinwvournded, but unsoiled, through
the battle; anti too frequently the restelt of the poet's lingering afar
from  his better honme hais been  etleentl degrradation and untimely
death.  Let tus not be understood as requiring for his well-being all
absolute seclu.;ion. frols the i;eorldl and its interests.  His nature, if
the abiding-pl:tce of the trlte light be iideed vwithin himss, is endowed
above all others with the tteederest tandt  ost widely-emnbracing sy-llpathies.  Not (ilone fioll i "tile things of the everlasting hills," from
the stornis or the silence of  midtligihtt skies, will he seek the grandteur
and the beauty wllieth h1ave their centreal residence in a tier isiore mal
jestic temple.  Moueieletirilts and rivers, Landl eiigihty wvoods, thte cathedreals of nature-tihese w-ill hlave their part in his pictures; but their
coloring and shladows will olet be wholly the gift of rising or departing suns, nor of the nigtlt s ith all her stars; it will be a varyillg suffusion from  the life wvithin, frolln tlie gloving clouds of thougiht and
feeling, which mantle with  thieir changeful drapery all external
creation.
We receive beut what we give,
Ande il our life aloue e does laature live."
Let the poet bear into the recesses of woods and shadowy hills a
heart full-fraught vith the syspel)lthies whvich will have been fostered
by intercourse vwith his kindl —ta  seemory covered with the secret inscliptiesis which joy aswd seorror ftil lnot indleliblly to write —tlen t  vill
the voice of every strernlm respondi to himl inl tones of' glaldness or melancholy, accsord:lnt with those of his onvile stel; alnd he himnseli;  by
the msight of feelings intensely hunesaLn, slmay breathe  the living spirit
The first of a series of papers, to be enitledl  Germanl Stludies,' which the
Altholur hal proposed to lerse,f'  teo write. Tiee unlfilishle( fin'ertrbl );. whlel this is
followed, was te. coineratlle alenle t of it paper in c)etinluatioes oi tle samne series.
i) ----..- ~~-'.~.~ —.  _; —~ -  -` —-~-~-            --— ~ —------— "             c`




SCENES, ETC. FROM GOETHE'S "TASSC  _353
of the oracle into the resounding cavern or the whispering oak.  VWe
thus admit it essential to his high office, thtat the chambers of imagery
in the heart of the poet imust be filled with materials mioulded from
the sorrows, the affections, the fiery tria.ls, and immortal longings ot
the  human  soul.  Where  love,;and  ftith, and  anguisl   meet
and contend; where the tones of prayer are  wrung  floin  the
suffering spirit-there lie his veins of trettsure; there are the sweet
waters ready to flow from  the stricken rock.  But lhe will not seek
them through the gaLudy ani( hurry-in  nll sque of artificial life; he
will not be the fettered Samiwson to lniake sport for the sons and
daughters of fatshion.  Whilst he shuns nio brotherly  coltonmlnion
with his kind, he will ever reserve to his neature the power of sclfcornmunion, silent hours for"The harvest of the l!fiet eye
That broods and sleeps onl his owu helrt.s "
and inviolate retreats in the (leptlj. (*i iio!wineg-fountains lne and
still, upon which only the eye sof leivein shiies tidoun iin itshillowed
serenity.  So h:ive thoseo s-lho  m  s  n'    "e r.s of' truth andl freedom
by inmmortal lays," ever preserved( the (tliii intellectual ether in
wvhich they live:and Inove froml the talint of wsorldly infection; and
it appears the object of Goethe, in tle svork beftre us, to make the
gifted spirit sadder and wiser by the conteniplttion of one, which
having sold its birthright, and stooped fromn its "privacy of glotious
light," is forced into perpetual cont:ict wvith thingFs essentially of the
earth earthy.  Dante h:ts spoken of wli:it the Italian poets must
have learned but too feelinglv under tlieir protecting princes-the
bitter taste of another's Ireadti, the sve:irv stepA by which the stairs
of another's house tire ascendeld; but it is suti-ring  of a more spiritklal nature *which is here portrtayed.  Motild th'at the courtly patronage, at the shrine of w-hich the Itlilitn miu:te li:s so often w;tved her
censer, had itrposed no severer tasks upon its vot:t.ries th;tn the filshioning of the snowv statue which it rlqutiredl from  the genius of Mlichael Angelo! The story of'l'tsso is fr ughlt wsith yet deelier mneaninig
though it is not froits the period of his itol:t agonizing trials that the
materials of Goethe'-; wosrk are driawn.  The poet is here introduced
to us as a youth at the court of Ferrara; visiona;ry, enthusiastic,
keenly alive to the splendor of the gorgeous world around him,
throwing himself p:Lssionately upon the current of every newly-excited feeling; a creature of suddten lirghts and slhadows, of restlesss
strivings after ideal  irlfection, of exult ttionls and of agonies.  Why
is it that the beinig thlus exhibited as endowetd -with all these tritmnbling cap'acities for joy and pain —witli no)ble aspirations and fervitl
eloquence, fails to excite a llore reverential interest, a, more tentder
adniration?  He is snstitin in dignity, in the suistaining consciousness of his owni high mlission; he has nlo city of refuge owithin him
3elf, and thuss Every little livil, Inerve,
That fronm bitter wortls dtoth swVerv0e,"
has the power to shake his whole sotil firiti its pride of place.  lie
is thus borne dowvn byv the coldi triumphant  w -orldlliness of the cotir
tier Antonio-, fromi the collision with  ho:ll(t, and the mristoken endeavor of Tasso's friendls to reconcile natilre;s dissintilar as tile svlph
and gnome of fanciful creations, the coitflictinig eletients of the piece
are chiefly derived. There are ilipressive lesisons to be dlrawn  from
the contemplation of these scenes, thiil.h. perhaps, it is not quite
thus that we could have wisleld  imt dcelineated who "potred his
spirit over Patlestine;" asnd it is occasiiton;lly    almlost too paintifll to
beholdl the high-titindled Tatsso, recog:ised by hi:s co:ntry as superior
with the:woord and the pen to all metn, strtrirgling in so igntoble an arena
and finally tverlupowere! ity so unworthy an an tagonist.  This world
— ~-~l~ —L' —--—' —c`~ —'if V<_-~




3M4              MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
i s indeed "too much with us," and but too powerful is often its
withering breath upon the ethereal naitures of love, devotion, and
enthusiasm, which, in other regions" May bear bright golden flowers, but not in this soil."
Yet who has not known victorious moments, in which the lightlyarmed genii of ridicule have quailed!-the conventional forms of
life have shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel touch of
soine generous feeling, some high and overshadowing passion suddenly aroused frotm the innlost recesses of the folded soul, and striking the electric chain which mysteriously connects all humanity 1
VWe could have wished that some such thrilling moment had been
here introduced by theijnighty master of Gernmany; something to relieve the too continuousinmpression of inherent weakness in the cause
of the vanquished; something of t transmuting power in the soul of
rasso, to glorify the clouds which accumulate around it-to turn
thenm into "contingencies of pomirp" by the interpenetration of its
own celestial light. Yet se apiroach  with reverence the work of a
noble lhand; and, whilst entering upon our task of translation, we
acknowiedge, in humility, the feebleness of a.ll endeavor to pour into
the vase of another language the exqulisitely subtle spirit of Goethe's
poetry-to transplant and naturalize the delicate felicities of thought
nd expression by which this piece is so eminently (listinguished.
The visionary rapture whlich takes possession of Tasso upon betng crowned with laurel by the Princess Leonora d'Este, the object
of an affection which the youthful poet has scarcely yet acknowtedged to himself, is titus portrayed in one of the earlier scenes:"Let me then bear the burden of my bliss
To some deep grove, that oft hath veil'd my grief;
There let me roam in solitude: no eye
Shall then recall the triumph undeserved.
And if some shining fountain suddenly
On its clear mirror to my sight should give
The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown'd,
Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven
As it streams down through rocks and parted trees,
Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave
I see Elysium pictured! I will ask,
Trho is the bless'd departed one?-the youth
From  long-past ages witl his glorious wreath?
Who shah reveal his namie?-who speak his worth'?
Oh! that another and another there
Might press, with him to hold bright communing!
Might I boit see, the minstrels and the chiefs
Of the old time on that pure fountain-side
For evermore inseparably linlk'd
As they were link'd in life! Not steel to steel
Is bound more closely by the magnet's power
Than the same striving after lofty things
Doth bind the bard and warrior.  Homer's life
Was self-forgetfulness: he pour'd it forth,
One rich libation to another's fame;
And Alexander through th' Elysian grove
To seek Achilles and his poet flies.
Might I beh olld their meeting,"




SCENES, ETC., FROM GOETHE'S "TASSO."                 355
But he is a reed shaken with the wind. Antonio reaches the
Court of Ferrara at this crisis, in all the importance of a successful
negotiation with the Vatican. He strikes down the wing of the
poet's delicate imagination with the arrows of a careless irony; and
Tasso is for a time completely dazzled and overpowered by the
worldly science of the skilful diplomatist. The deeper wisdom of
his own simplicity.s yet veiled from his eyes. Life seents to pass
before him, as portrayed by the discourse of Antonio. like a mighty
triumphal procession, in the exulting movements and clarion sounds
of which he alone has no share; and, at last, the forms of beauty
peopling his own spiritual world, seem to dissolve into clouds, even
into faint shadows of clouds. hlefore the strong glare of the external
world, leaving his imagination as a desolate house, whence light
and music have departed.  Hle thus pours forth, when alone with
the Princess Leonora, the impressions produced upon him by Antonio's descriptions:"They still disturb my heart —
Still do they crowd my soul tumultouslyThe troubling images of that vast world,
Which-living, restless, fearful as it isYet at the bidding of' one master-mind,
E'en as commanded by a demi-god,
Seems to fulfil its course.  With eagerness,
Yea, with a strange delighllt, my soul drank in
The strong words of the experienced; but, alas!
The more 1 listen'd still the more I sank
In mine own eyes; I scem'd to die away
As into some faint echo of the rocksA shadowy sound-a nothing!"
There is something of a very touching beauty in the character of
the Princess Leonora d'Este. She does not, indeed, resemble some
of the lovely beings delineated ly Shakspeare-the females, " graceful without design, and unfioreseeing,' in whom, even under the
pressure of heaviest calamlity, it is easy to discern the existence of
the sunny and gladsome nature which would spring up with fawnlike buoyancy, were but the crushing weight withdrawn. The spirit
of Leonora has been at once elevated and subdued by early trial;
high thoughts, like messengers fronm heaven, have been its visitants
in the solitude of the sick-chamber: and looking upon life and crea
tion, as it were, through the softening veil of remembered suffering,
it has settled into such majestic loveliness as the It-lian painters     1
deiight to shadow forth on the calln brow of their Maldonna  Its very
tenderness is self resignation; its inner existence serene yet sad-" a
being breathing thoughtful breath."  She is worshipped by the poet
as his tutelary angel, and her secret affection for hint might almost
become that character. It has all the deep devete(lness of a wvonian's
heart, with the still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no part in   1
the passionate dreams of earthly hatppiness. She feels his genius
with a reverential appreciation; she watches over it with a religious
tenderness, for ever interposing to screen its untilding powers from
every ruder breath. Site rejoices in his presence as a flower filling
its cup with gladness from  the morning light; yet, preferring his
wellbeing to all earthly things, she would meekly offer up, for the
Knowledge of his distant happiness, even the fullness of that only
and unutterable joy. A deep feeling of woman's lot on earth- the         I
Iot of endurance and of sacrifice-seems ever present to her soul, and
ii




350             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
speaks lyharacteristically in these lines, with which she replies to a
wish of Tasso's for the return of the golden age:"When earth has men to reverence female hearts,
To know the treasure of rich truth and love,
Set deep within a high-soul'd woman's breast;
When the remembrance of our summer prime
Keeps brightly in man's heart a holy place;
When the keen glance that pierces through so much
Looks also tenderly through that dim veiri
By time or sickness hung round drooping forms;
When the possession, Istling every wish,
Draws not desire away to other wealthA brighter dayspring then for us may dawn,
Then may we solernnize our golden age."
A character thus meditative, affectionate, anti self-secluding,
would naturally be peculiarly sensitive to the secret intimations of
coming sorrow: forbodings of evil arise in her mind from the antipathy so apparent between Tasso and Antonio; and after learning that
the cold keen irony of the latter has irritated the poet almost te
frenzy. she thus, to her friend Leonora (le Sanvitale, reproaches herself for not having listened to the monitory whispers of her soul:"Alas! that we so slowly learn to heed
The secret signs and omens of the breast!
An oracle speaks low within our hearts,
Low, still, yet clear, its prophet voice forewarns
What to pursue, what shun.
Yes, my whole soul misgave me silently
When he and Tasso met."
She admits to her friend the necessity for his departure from Felrara; but thius reverts, with fondly clinging remembrance, to the
time when he first became known to her:"Oh! mark'd and singled was the hour when first
He met mine eve!-Sickness and grief just then
Had pass'd away; from long, long suffering freed,
I lifted up my brow, and silently
Gazed upon life again.-The sunny day,
The sweet looks of' my kindred, made a light
Of gladness round me, and my freshen'd heart
Drank the rich healing balm of hope once more.
Then onward. through the glowing world I dared
To send my glance, and many a kind bright shape
There beckonud fiomn afar. Then first the youth,
Led by a sister's hand, before me stood,
And my soul clung to him e'en then, 0 friend!
To cling for evermore.
Leo.               Lament it not,
My princess!-to have known heaven's gifted one,
Is to have gather'd into the falil soal
Inalienable wealth!,,: 




SCENES, ETC., FRo)M. GET'IE'S "TASSO."           357
Prin.             Oh! precious things —
The richly graced, the exquisite, are thilngs
To foar, to love with trenbling! —hteautitul
Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines,
When in the friendly torch it gives thee light,
How gracious and how calm!-but, once u. chain'd,
Lo! ruin sweeps along its fatal path!"
She then annollnces her determination to imake the sacrifice of his
society, ill which alone her being seeins to find its full completion
" Alas! dear fiiend, my soul indeed is fixedLet him depart! —yet cannot I but feel
Even now the sadness of long days to come;
Tl'he cold void lct nIle by a lost delight!
No more shall sunrise froom my openingr eye
Chase his bright image glorified in dreams:
Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir
With joyous flutterings lmy scarce-waken'd soul;
And vainly, vainly, through yon gcrden bowers,
Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look
Shall seek his form! How blissfidl was the thought
With him to share each golden evening's peace!
Hlow grew the longinlg, hour by hounr, to read
His spirit yet more deeply! Day by day
How my own being, tuned to happiness,
Gave forth a voice of finer harmony!Now is the twilight gloom around me fallen:
The festal day, the sun's magnificence,
All riches of this many-color'd world,
What are they now?-dim, sfoulless, desolate!
Veil'd in the cloud that sinks upon my heart.Once was each day a life!-each care was mute,
Even the low boding hush'd within the soul,
And the smooth waters of a gliditng stream,
Without the rudder's aid, bore ligthtly on
Our fairy balk of joy!"
Her conipanion endeavors, but in vain to console her.
Leo. If the kind words of friendship cannot sooth,
The still sweet influences of this fair world
Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace.
Prin. Yes, beautiful it is! the glowing world!
So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro,
In all its paths, and ever, ever sr ems
One step. but one-rernoved —tiii our fond thirst
For the still fading fountain, step by step,
Lures to the grave!-so seldt;ml o we find
What seenl'd by Nuature -lioulded for our love,
And fl)r our bliss endow'd-or, if ve find,
So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold!
That which once Ireely ilmade itself our own
Bursts from us!- that wh.ich eagerly we press'd
iI  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __




358               MIISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
We coldly loose! A treasure may be ours,
Only we know it not, or know, perchance,
Unconscions of its worth'"
But the dark clouds are gathering within the spirit of Tasso itself
and the devotedlress of affection voltld in vain avert their lightnings
by the sacrifice of all its own l)lure enjoVinllets.  tn the solitary confinernent to which the Duke has sentenced himl, as a punishment for
his duel with Antonio, his jealoius imliagination, iike that of the selftorturing Rousseau, pictures the wh,- le worll as arrayed in one conspiracy against him, and h-e doulhts even of hce truth and gentleness
whose watching thoughts are all for his welf.re. Th'le fillowing
passages affectingly iiark tie progress of the (lark lespondency which
iinally overwhelnms hilmi, though the concludinrg lines of the last are
brightened by a ray of those irimmortal hol)es, the light of which we
could have dlesired to recognise mnore frequently in this deeply
tisoughtful  work:PESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN.
"Alas! too well I feel, too true a voice
Within mne whispers, that the -Miglhty Power
Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy,
Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast
Mine to the earth-will rend me utterly!I must awNay!"
ON A FRIEND'S DECLARING HERSELF IUNABLE TO RECOGNISE HIY
"Rightly thou speak'st —   am myself no more;
And yet in worthi not less than I have been.
Seems this a (lark, strange riddle?  Yet,'tis none!
The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night,
Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly
Winnirin  with beams of love-mark! how it floats
Through the day's glare, a pale anld powerless cloud!
I am o'ercome by tlhe full blaze of noon
Ye know me, and 1 know mllyself no more!"
ON BEING ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COMIP(SITION
"Vainly, too vainly,'gainst the power I strive,
Which, night arld day, colmes rushing through my soul 
Withou that pouring ftrth of thought aild song
My life is life no more!
WVil thou fbrbid the silkworm to spin on,
When hourly, with the labor'd line, he draws
Nearer to death?-in vain! —thl costly web
Mlust from his iniuost being- still be wroughlt,
Till he lies wraplp)d ill his consutlniate shroud.
Oh! that a nnacious (t,(;d to us iltay give
The lot of' t]h:t bless'd vorut!-to spread free wings
And burst exultingly on brighlter life,
In a new realni of su:shine.'
He is at last recease(d, and admllitted into the presence of the Princess Leosnora, to take his leave *f her before colmmnencing a distant
journey. NotwithsItat (ling hi: I previous doilbts of her interest in him,
he is overcoome by the pityillg tendernless of' her imanner, and breaks
into a strain of passionate gratitude and( enthusia:



SCENES, ETC., FRi(t )M (JOETH1E'S "T ASSO."    350
"Thou art the same pure anrgel, as when first
Thy radiance cross'd my path. Forgive, forgive,
If for a moment, in his blind despair,
The mortal's troubled glance hath read thee wrong!
Once more he knows thee! His expanding soul
Flows forth to worship thee for evermore,
And his full heart dissolves in tenderness:
l   *         *             *
Is it false light which draws nme on to thee.
Is it delirium? —Is it thoughit inspired,
And graspingsfirst high truth divinely clear?
Yes!'tis even so-the feeling r which alone
Can make me bless'd on eariTl!
The vs ildeus. of his ecstacy at last terrifies his gentle protectress
from him; he is forsaken by all as a being lost in hopeless delusion,
and, being left alone to the insullting pity of Antonio, his strength of
heart is utterly snddtled; he passionately bewails his weakness, and
even casts rdown his spirit almnost in wondering admiration before the
calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who himself seems at last al
most melted by the extremity of the poet's desolation, as thus poured
forth:"Can I then image no high-hearted man
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass'd mine own,
That my vex'd soul might win sustaining power
From thoughts of' him?-I cannot!-all is lost!
One thing alone remains-one mournful boonNature on us, her suffering children, showers
The gift of tears-the impassion'd cry of grief,
When man can bear no more;-and with my woe,
With mine above all others, hath been link'd
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour
All, all its fulness forth! To me a God
Hath given strong utterance for mine agony,
When others, in their deep despair, are mute!
*      *      *      *       *      *
Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man!
[ seem before thee as the troubled wave:
But oh! be'thoughtful! —in thy lofty strength
Exult thou not! By nature's might alike
That rock was fix'd, that quivering wave was made
The sensitive of storm! She sen s her blasts,The living water flies-it quakes and swells,
And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam;
Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back
In caln transparence-once the gentle stars
Lay still upon its undulating breast!
Now the sweet peace is gone-the glory now
Departed from the wave   I know myself
No more in these dark perils, and no more
I blush to lose that knowledge. Front the bark
Is wrench'd the rudder, and through all its frame
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet




360                MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The rocking earth gives way-to thee I ciingI grasp thee with mine arms.  In wild despair
So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock
Whereon he perishes!"
And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, the catastrophe
being that of tile spiritual wreck within, uinringled with the terrors
dlra'n from onutward circumsstarces and change   The nrajestic lines
in which Byron has elmbodied the thougrlts of the capti e Tasso,
will fi)rm a fine contrast and relief to the music of despuair with
which Goethe's work is closed: —
"All this hath somewhat worn mie, and mnay near
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair,
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overlyv
The narrow  circus of my dungeon w-1ll;
And fieed the holy sepulchre from  thrall; 
And revetl'd among men and thingrs divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honor of the sacred war for Him,
The God who was on earth and is in heaven;
For He hath strengthenied me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have empToy'd my penance to record
How  Salicm's shrine was won, and how adored."
ON THE "IPHIGENIA" OF GOETHE.
AN UNFINISIIED FRAOAMENT.
THERE is a charm of antique grace, of the mlijesticrepoce, resulting from a faultless symmnetry, abolt the whole of this conmpo'ition,
which inclines us to ranlk it as atinong the msost consulmate  works of
art ei er achieved by the mnaster-lmlintd of its author.  I'hie peritction
of its desigsl and finish is analogous to that of at (recian templie, seen
as the crown of sontie oltl classic height, with all its puire oiitlinesall the delicate proportions of its airy pillars-brought into bold relief by the golden sunshine, and against the uanclosuded blhe of its
native heavens.  Cosmplete within itself the harnlonloius edifice is
thus also to the mind and eye of' the beholder; they are filled, and
desire no mnore-they even feel that more would bl  buit inclunbrance
upon the fine adjustmrent of the svell-orderedt parts constituting the
gracefill whole.  It sends no vwglue drealrls to  tanllder throulrh infinity, such as are excited! by  a Gothic Iminster, where thle slight pinuscles striving upwardl, like the free  llut still biafled thoeight of the
architect-the clustering pillirs ansod hiMlh arcihes  iiitating the bold
cI cobinations of mysterious lrest;s-tle i: inv-liras(hingr cells, and
long visionary aisles, of wlhich wavinlltorchlliTlt t o(r Lsunceritain glimpses of the mioon seemr the fittest illutlination-ever su!igiest idea;s of
soulse conception in the origis;illy mIuldlilug iiin(l, fir mllre vstst than
the uresn is;tllotedt to h slsln   u:i cc(rIls l   ishllles t —of:truglg' oing e!idcver,
and l psi isslly submitted l vill.  \ki to tso te sl)irit of such creat ils is
tht t ol the ssw il! t)ut irregiulasr iFtust.;lult'ther works- or Goetile, in
vhich tlhe resties qullestionin s!. thfe l()i'tv si ti S, cilid (dark lliSgiv.
ngs of the lhun:an,solll, asire trleti:ls    c lletd iup t,) " cosle like sl::




FRAGMENTS FROM THE IPHIGENIA.                  361
lows, so depart," across the stormy splendors of the scene; and the
mind is engaged in ceaseless conflict with the intermiintable mysteries
of life. It is otherwise with the work before us: overshadowed, as
it were, by the dark Awings of the inflexible destiny which hovers
above the children of Tantalus, the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well as of the reader, here moves acqltiescertlyy within the
prescribed circle of events, and is seldom tempted beyond, to plunige
iito the abyss of general speculations upon the lot of Ilualnality
FRAGMENTS FROM THE IPHIGENIA.
I.
JOY OF PYLADES ON IIEARING HIS NATIVE LANGUAGE.
On, sweetest voice! Oh, bless'd familiar sound
Of mother-words heard in the strangel's land!
I see the blue hills of my native shoie,
The far blue hills again! those cordial tones
Before the captive bid them fieshly ri,-e
For ever welcome! Oh, by this deep joy,
Know the true son of Greece!
II.
EXCI,AMATIONS OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEING tIER BROTHER.
Oh hear me, look upon ne! how my heart,
After long desolation now unfolds
Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head,
Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth!
To clasp thee with mny arms, which were but thrown
On the void winds before! Oh give me way,
Give my soul's rapture say! The eternal fount
Leaps not more brightly forth firom cliff to cliff
Of high Parnassus down the golden vale
Than the strong joy bursts gushing front my heart,
And swells around me to a flood of blissOrestes — oh, nly brother!
IIIT.
LOT OF MAN AND WOMIAN COMPARED BY IPHIGENIA.
Man by the battle's hour imlmortalized
May fall yet leave his laname to living song;
But of fbrsaken woman's countless tears,
What recks the after-world? the poet's voice
Tells nought of all the slow, sad, wicary days,
And long, long nights, throug' h which the lonely soul
Pour'd itself forth, consuni ditself away,
In passionate adjurins, vain desires,
And ceaseless weepings for the ea'ly lost,
The loved and vanished!
IV.
LONGING OF ORESTIES FOR REPOSE.
One draught fronm Letllc's floodtl reachl mee one draught,
One last cool goblet fiil'd wtili dewy peace!
VoL. II.-31




31i2           IlMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Soon will the spasm of life departing leave
My bosom free! Soon shall my spirit flow
Along the deep waves of forgetfulness,
Calmly and silently! away to you,
Ye dead! Ye dwellers of the eternal cloud,
Take home the son of earth, and let him steep
His o'erworn senses in your din repose
For evermore.
v.
CONTINUATION OF ORESTES' SOTLOQU Y.
fHark! in the trernbling leaves
Mysterious whispers: hark a rushing sound
Sweeps through yon twilight depth! e'en now they come,
They throng to greet their guest! and who are they
Rejoicing each with each in stately joy,
As a king's children gather'd for the hour
Of some high festival! Exultingly,
And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass,
The glorious wandering shapes! aged and young
Proud men and royal women! Lo my race,
My sire's ancestral race!
THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL.
I STAND upon the threshold stone
Of mine ancestral hall;
I hear my native river moan;
I see the night o'er my old forests fall.
I look round on the d'lrk'ning vale
That saw my childhood's plays:
The low wind in its rising wail
Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.
But I must rule my swelling breast:
A sign is in the sky 
Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle nest
Shines forth a warning star-it bids me fly.
My father's sword is in my hand,
His deep voice haunts mine ear;
He tells me of the noble band
Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.
He bids their offspring guard from stain
Their pure and lofty haith;
And yield up all things, to maintain
The cause for which they girt themselves to death.
And I obey.-I leave their towers
Unto the stranrger's tread;
Unto the creeping grass and flowers;
UInto the fading pictures of the dead.
___________             _____           _______________________________________




t ile  EINGLISH BOY.
I leave their shields to slow decay,
Their banners to the dust;
I go, and only bear away
Their old majestic name-a solemn trust.
I go up to the ancient hills,
Where chains may never be,
Where leap in joy the torrent rills,
Where manl may worship God, alone and free
There shall an altar and a camp
Impregnably arise
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp,
To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.
And song shall'midst the rocks be heard,
And fearless prayer ascend 
While thrilling to God's holy word,
The mountain pines in adoration bend.
And there the burning heart no more
Its deep thought shall suppress
But the long-buried truth shall pour
Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness.
Then hare thee well my mother's bower,
Farewed, my father's hearth;
Perish my home! where lawless power
Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.
Perish! let deathlike silence fall
Upon the lone abode:
Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall;Ii go up to the mountains with my God.
THE ENGLISH BOY.
"Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt
I'hey owe their ancestors; and snake them swear
ro pay it, by transmitting down entire
rThose sacred rights to whichl themselves were born".qkenside
LOOK from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!
Thy country's fields around tnee gleam
In sunlight and in joy.
Ages have roll'd since fo-rman s march
Pass'd o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To f'eedomn and to God!
Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind




364           1MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind!
There, in the shadow of old Time
The halls beneath thee lie,
Which pollr'd forth to the fields of yore
Our England's chivalry.
How bravely and how solemnly
They stand,'midst oak and yew!
Whience Cressy's yeomen haply framed
The bow, in battle true.
And round their walls the good swords hang
Whose faith knew no alloy,
And shields of knighthood, pure from stainGaze on, my English boy!
Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,
Or where the minster lifts the crens
High through the air's blue realm.
Martyrs have shower'd their free heart's blood
That England's prayer might rise,
From those grey tlltes of thoughtful years,
Unfetter'd to the skies.
Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth's most glorious dust,
Once fired with valor, wisdom, song,
Is laid in holy trust.
Gaze on-g-aze fiarther, farther yetMy gallant English boy!
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,
IThe billows' pride and joy!
Those waves in many a fight have closed
Above her faithful dead;
That red-cross flag victoriously
Hath floated o'er their bed.
They perish'd-this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstain'd 
These knightliy halls inviolate,
Those churhees unprofaned
And high and clear, their memory's light
Along our shore is set,
And many an answering beacon-fire
Shall there be kindled yet!
Lift up thy heart, my English boy!
And play, like thorn to stand,
Should Go)d so summon thee, to guard
The altars of the land.




ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.:;
ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.
BY the blue waters —the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their nlany-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping fbr my lost one!
I pine for thee through all the joyless dayThrough the long night I pine: the golden sun
Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the Spring
Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved?
Night after night, in fi)nd hope vigilant,
By the old temple on the breezy cliff,
These hands have heap'd the watch-fire, till it stream'd
Red o'er the shining columns-darkly redAlong the crested billows! but in vain;
Thy white sail comes not fioro  the distant islesYet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep
Hath shut above thy head-that graceful head;
The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks;
The white sail never will bring back the loved!
By the blue waters-the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
Where art thou? —where?-had I but lingering prest
On thy cold lips the last long kiss; but smooth'd
The parted ringlets of thy shining hair
With love's fond touch nty heart's cry had been still'd
Into a voiceless grief; I would have strew'd
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woodsWhite violets, and the mournful hyacinth,
And frail anemone, thy marble brow,
In slumber beautifil! —I would have heap'd
Sweet boughs and precious odors on thy pyre,
And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn,
And nmany a garland of the pallid rose.
But thou liest far away! No funeral chant
Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine:
No pyre-save, haply, some long-buried wreck;
Thou that wert fairest-thou that wert most loved!
By the blue wa:crs-the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges.
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night,
And speak to me!-E'en though thy voice be changed,
My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me,
And say if vet, in some dim, far-off world,
Which knows not how the festal sunshine burnsO yet, in sa)nin pale mlead of' Asphodel,
We two shall moet again! Oilh, I would quit




366            MISCELLANEOUS POEMiS.
The day, rejoicingly-the rosy lightAll the rich flowers and fountains musical,
And sweet familiar melodies of earth,
To dwell with thee below!-Thou answerest not!
The powers whom I have call'd upon are mute:
The voices buried in old whispery caves,
And by lone river-sources, and amidst
The gloom and myst'ry of dark prophet-oaks,
The wood-gods' haunt —they give mne no reply!
All silent-heaven and earth! —for evermore
From the deserted mountains thou art goneFor ever fiom the melancholy groves,
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound!And I-I pine through all the joyous day,
Through the long night I pine-as fondly pines
The night's own biri, dissolving her lorn life
To song in mnoonlight woods. Thou hear'st me not!
The heavens are pitiless of human tears:
The deep sea-darkness is about thy head;
The white sail never will bring back the loved!
By the blue waters-the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
TO TEIE BLUE ANEMONE.
FLOwER of starry clearness bright,
Quivering urn of color'd light,
tHast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye
From the intenseness of the sky?
From a long, lonlr fervent gaze
Through the year's first golden days,
Up that blue and silent deep,
Where, like things of sculptured sleep,
Alabaster clouds repose,
With the sunshine on their snows?
Thither was thy heart's love turning,
Like a censer ever burning,
Till the purple heavens in thee
Set their smile, Anemone?
Or can those warm tints be caught
Each from some quick glow of thought!
So much of bright soul there seems
In thy bendings and thy gleams,
So much thv sweet life resembles
That which feels, and weeps, and trembles,
I could deem thee spirit-fill'd,
As a reed by music thrill'd,
When thy being 1 behold'To each lotving breath unfold,




THE SONG OF PENITENCE.                367
Or like woman's willowy form,
Shrink before the gathering storm;
I could ask a voice from thee,
Delicate Anemone!
Flower! thou seem'st not born to die
With thy radiant purity,
But to melt in air away,
Mingling with the soft Spring-day,
When the crystal heavens are still,
And faint azure veils each hill,
And the lime-leaf doth not move,
Save to songs that stir the grove,
And earth all glorified is seen,
As imaged in some lake serene;
-Then thy vanishing should be,
Pure and meek Anemone!
Flower! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor's head;
And the rose in beauty's hair
Still its festal glory wear;
And the willow leaves droop o'er
Brows which love sustains no more:
But by living rays refined,
Thou, the trembler of' the wind,
Thou, the spiritual flower
Sentient of each breeze and shower.
Thou, rejoicing in the skies,
And transpierced with all their dyes;
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing,
Thou the poet's type shall be.
Flower of soul, Anemone!
THE SONG OF PENITENCE.*
UNFINISHED.
HE pass'd from earth
Without his fame,-the calm, pure, starry fame
He might have won, to guide on radiantly
Full many a noble soul,-he sought it not;
And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd
The wayward child of genius. And the songs
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,
Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean waves
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed,
They died before him;-they were winged seed,
Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock
Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone,
* Suggested by the late Mrs. Fletcher's Story of The Lost Life,
published in the A.mulet for 1839.




368             MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted.  In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That s;ng of' tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,
Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,
Is murrnur'd to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently;'twas his last.
I come alone, and faint I come,
To nature's arms I flee;
The green woods take their wanderer home,
But Thou, O Father? may I turn to thee?
The earliest odor of the flower,
The bird's first song is thine;
Father in heaven! my dayspring's hour
Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine.
Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;
Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?
It is, it is-but Thou art gone,
Or if the trembling shade
Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd.
*      *      *      *       *      *
NATIONAL LYRICS.
THE THEMIES OF SONG.
"Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, tnal hioI,.
And melancholy fear subdued by faittl." — ti'orls tort&r
W ERE sha11ll the minstrel find a thcmnu?
-Where'er, for fieedom shed,
Brave blood hath dyed s nme ancient strenam,
Amidst the motuntains, red,
Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove,
Bears record to the faith
Of love-deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor o'er fear and death.
Where'er a chieftain's crested brow
Too soon hath been struck down,
Or a bright virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth's first crown.




RHINE SONG.                        369
Where'er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling, that all around have striven
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer.
Where'er a blessed home hath been,
That now is home no nlore:
A place of ivy, darkly green,
Where laughter's light is o'er.
Where'er, by some forsaken grave,
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing a wild-flower wave,
A star its vigil keep.
Or where a yearning heart of old,
A dream of shepherd men,
With forms of more than early mould
Hath peopled grot or glen.
Th.ere may the bard's high themes be found,
We die, we pass away:
But faith, love, pity-these are bound
To earth without decay.
The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,
The tear from hidden springs,
The thorn and glory of the roseThese are undying things.
Wave after wave of mighty stream
To the deep sea hathl gone:
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream,
The exhaustless flood rolls on.
RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN  SOLDIERS AFTER
VICTORY.
TO THE AIR " AMI RIIEIN, AM RIIEIN."'
"I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious
sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his!-the crrossing
of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators
on their victorious return from France.' At the first gleam of the
river,' he said,' they all burst forth into the national chant,.Jm
Rhein!.in Rhein!' They were two days passing over; and the
rocks antl the castle were ringing to the song the whole time-for
each band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossacks,
with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy warmusic, catching the enthusitasm of the scene, swelled forth the
chorus,' Jm RItein! Atm Rhein! "-M-.Ianuscript Letter. j
SINGLE VOICE.
IT is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving,
I see the bri(rht flood sGhine, I see the bright flood shine!
Sing on the march, with every btlnner wavingSing, brothers,'tis the Rhire! Sing. brothers,'tis the Rhitne!




370                  NATIONAL LYRICS.
CHORUS.
The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river!
Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track!
We left thy shores, to die or to deliverWe bear thee freedom back, we bear thee freedom back!
SINGLE VOICE.
Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water,
Even as my mother's song; even as mymother's song;
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter,   [strong!
And heart and arm grew strong! And heart and arm grew
CHORUS.
Roll proudly on!-brave blood is with thee sweeping.
Pour'd out bv sons of thine, pour'd out by sons of' thine,
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping,
Like thee, victorious Rhine! Like thee, victorious Rhine!
SINGLE VOICE.
Home!-home!-thy glad wave hath a tone of' greeting,
Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home:
Even now my children count the hours till meeting,
0 ransom'd ones, I come! 0 ransom'd ones, I come!
CHORUS.
Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never,    [shrine!
Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by hearth and
Sing through the hill that thou art free for everLift up thy voice, 0 Rhine! Lift tip thy voice, 0 Rhine.
A SONG OF DELOS.
[The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by
the ancients, that they did no(t allow it to be desecrated by the
events of birth or death. In the fillowing poem, a young priestess
of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during th,
last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her vouth
farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.]
6 Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature,
Je vous dois une larme aux bordS de mone tombeau;
L'air est si pearfume  la lumiere est si pure'
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!" —Lamartine.
A SONG was heard of old-a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos; from that isle,
The sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle-yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!-bbut for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,
And of soft Grecian skies-oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flish'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Color'd with loving light-she gazed her last,




ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICT()RY.             371
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward-as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like formt still to the shore beloved.
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O'er dancing Xwaves:-" Oh! linger yet," she cried,
"Oh! linger, linger on the oar,
Oh! pause upon the deep!
That I may gaze yet once, once more,
Where floats the golden day o'ar fane and steep;
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore,
-Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!
"I see the laurels fling back showers
Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of' flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gle aming line;
T hear a sound of flutes-a swell of song —'li'ne is too low to reach that joyous throng!
"Oh linger, linger on the oar
Beneath my native sky!
Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimsont-gazing let me die!
Thou bark glide slowly!-s!owly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.
"A fatal gift hath been tihy dower,
Lord of' the Lyre! to mie 
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like younig Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.
"Now, wasted by the inborn fire,
1 sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre,
Leaves unto death its temnple in any brea st.
-O  sunshine, skies, rich flvowers! too soon I go,
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!
"Bright isle! miioht but thine echoes keep
A tone of my Farewell,
One tender accent, low and deep,
Shrined'midst thy founts arind haunted rocks to dwell.
Might my last breath send music to thy shore!
-Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!"
ANCIENT GREEK CtHANT OF VICTORY.
"Fill high th-e bow-l Nvith Saintn wine,
Our virgins dtane b;eneath the shade."-Byron.
lo! they come, they come!
Garlands for every shrine!




372              L'NATIONAL LYRICS
Strike lyres to greet them home!
Bring roses, pour ye wine!
Swell, swell the Dorian flute
Through the blue, triumphant sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
The sons of victory.
With the offering of bright blood
They have ransom'd hearth and tombl,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;lo! they come, they come!
Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's graveSing, sing the land is free I
Mark ye the flashing oars,
And the spears that light the deep!
How the festal sunshine pours
Where the lords of battle sweep!
Each hath brought back his shield
Maid greet thy lover home.
Mother, from that proud field,
lo! thy son is come!
Who murmur'd of the dead?
Hush, bodina voice! We know
That many a s-ining head
Lies in its glory low.
Breathe not those names to-day!
They shall have their praise erelong,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song
But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrineIo. they come, they come!
NAPLES.
A SONG OF TIHE SYREN.
" Then gentle winds arose,
With many a mingled close
Of wild JEolian sound and mnountain odor keen
Where the clear Baian ocean
Welters with air-like motion
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.' - ShellU
STrLL is the Syren warblingf on thy shore,
Bright city of the waves!-her magic song




TI'lE FALI, OF D'ASSAS.              373
Still with a dreamy sense of ecstasy
Fills thy soft Summer air:-and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing.
"Thine is the glad wave's flashing play,
Thine is the laugh of the golden day,
The golden day, and the glorious night,
And the vine with its clusters all bthed in light!
-Forget, ibrget, that thou art ntot free!
Queen of the Sunmmer sea.
"Favor'd and crown'd of the earth and sky!
Thine are all voices of melody,
Wandering in moonlight through fine and tower.
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower
Hark! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea;
-Forget that thou art not free!
"Let the wine flow in thv marble halls!
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls!
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough,
And cover with roses thy glowing brow!
Queen of the day and the summer sea,
Forget that thou art not free!"
So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully,
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore
Take up the cadence of her strain alone,
Murmuring-" Thou art noot free!"
THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.
A BALLAD OF FRANCE.
(The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French 1ecius, fell nobly whilst
reconnoitering a wood, near Closterkailmp, by night. He had left
his regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was snlddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened
him with instant death if he nmade the least sign cf their vicinity.
WVith their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice and, calling
aloud "A moi, Auvergne! ces sont les ennemnis!" fell, pierced
with mortal blows.]
ALONE through gloomy forest-shades
A soldier went by night;
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades,
No star shed guiding light.
Yet on his vigil's midnight round
The youth all cheerly pass'd;
Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound
That mutter'd in the blast.
VOL. II.-32




374                NATION AL'LYRICS.
Where were his thoughts that lonely hour I
-In his far home, perchance;
His father's hall, his mother's bower,'Midst the gay vines of France:
Wandering from battles lost and won,
To hear and bless again
The rolling of tie wide Garonne,
Or murmur of the Seine.
-Hush! hark!-did stealing steps go by,
Came not faint whispers near.                          i
No! the wild wind hath many a sigh,
Amidst the foliage sere.
Hark, yet again!-and from his hand,
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade?
-Oh! single'midst a hostile band,
Young soldier! thou'rt betray'd!
"Silence!" in under-tones they cry"No whisper-not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh
Shall sentence thee to death.'" 
-Still, at the bayonet's point he stood,
And strong to meet the blow;
And shouted,'midst his rushing blood,
"Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!"
The stir, the tramp, the bugle-callHe heard their tumults grow;
And sent his dying voice through all"Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!"
THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM  TIlE CONQUEROR.
AT CAEN IN NORMANDY-1087.
r' At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince Henry, his
third son, the Norman prelates, and a nmultitude of clergy and peo.
pie, assembled in the Church of St. Stephen, which the conqueror
had founded. The mass had been performed, the corpse was
place' on the bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the
panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd exclaimed,-' He whom you have praised was a robber. The very land on
which you stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father;
and, in the name of God, I forbid you to bumry him in it.' The
speaker was Asceline Fitz Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly,
sought reparation from the justice of William. After some debate,
the prelates called him to therm, paid him sixty shillings for the
grave, and promnised that he should receive the full value of his
land. The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the
king deposited in a coffin of stone."]-Lingard, vol. ii. p. 98.
LOWrLY upon his bier
The royal conqueror lay;




THE BURIAL OF \WILLIAMI THE CONQUEROR  375
Baron and chief stood near,
Silent in war-array.
Down the long minster's aisle
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd,
Altar and tomb the while
Through mists of incense gleam'd.
And by the torches' blaze,
The stately pricst had said
High words of power and praise
To the glory of the dead.
They lower'd him, with the sound
Of requiems, to repose;
When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose:"Forbear! forbear.!" it cried,
"In the holiest name forbear!
He hath conquered regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there 
"By the violated hearth
Which made way for yon proud shrine
By the harvest which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;
"By the house e'en here o'erthrown,
On my brethren's native spot;
Hence! with his dark renown,
Cumber our birthplace not!
"Will my sire's uniransom'd field,
O'er which your censers wave,
To the buried spoiler yield
Soft slumbers in the grave?
"The tree before him fell
Which we cherished many a year,
But its deep root yet shall swell,
And heave against his bier.
"The land that I have till'd
Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home's white ashes fill'd,
And it shall not give him rest!
"Each pillar's massy bed
Hath been wet by weeping eyesAway! bestow your dead
Where no wrong against him cries."
-Shame glow'd on each dark face
Of those proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust e'en then.




376                NATIONAL LYRICS.
A little earth for him
Whose banner flew so far!
And a peasant's tale could dim
The name, a nation's star!
One deep voice thus arose
From a heart which wrongs had riven:
Oh! who shall number those
That were but heard in heaven?
LYRICS.
SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
I.-NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR TIIEE!*
NEAR thee, still near thee!-o'er thy pathway gliding,
Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh;
Life's veil enfold's thee still, our eyes divi(ling,
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently!
Not'midst the festal throne
In halls of' mirth an-d song;
But when thy thoughts are deepest,
When holy tears thou weepest,
Know then that love is nigh!
When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings creeping,
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore,
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping,
Sla:ll mnove thy trembling spirit to adore;
When every thought and prayer
We loved to breathe and share,
On thy full heart returning,
Shall wake its voiceless yearning
Then feel me near once more!
Near thee, still near thee!-trust thy soul's deep dreaming
-Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die!
Even when I soar wMhere fiery stars are beaming,
Thine image wanders with nce through the sky.
The fields of air arl-e free
Yet lonely, wvanting thee 
But when thy chains are falling,
When heaven its own is calling,
Know then thy guide is nigh!
* This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty by
John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of tre author's
songs were written.




SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.               377
1I.-OH! DROOP THOU N(TI
"Thev sin who tell us love can die
With life all other passions fly;
All others are but vanity..n heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell.
Earthly these passions, as of earthThey perish where they drew their birth.
But love is indestructible!
Its holy flame for ever burneth;
Froml heaven it came, to heaven returneth."
Southcey
OA! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love!
Mine still to be!
I bore through death, to brighter lands above
My thoughts of thee.
Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears,
Our mingled prayer,
Our suffering love, through long devoted years,
Went with nie there.
It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried —
It was not vain!
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side,
I watch again!
From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers,
I am not gone;
In the deep calmn of Midnight's whispering hours,
Thou art not lone:
Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest,
That stream whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest,
We two have known:
Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking
Of days long past,
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking,
Silent and fast:
Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning
Thy dreamy glance,
Thou seek'st umy home, where solemn stars are burning,
O'er night's expanse.
My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee,
Where'er thou art;'rhough still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee,
Doubt not thy heart!
Hear its low voice, not deem thyself forsakenLet faith be given
To the still tones which oft our being waken —
They are of heaven!
32*




378                      LYRICS3.
MIGNON'S SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE
M" Mignon, a Ioung and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of
Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away in early childhood, from
Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home,
with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually
haunting her, and at times break forth iry'o the following song
The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend
of Goethe."]
"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?"
KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the citron bowers,
Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove?
High waves the laurerthere, the myrtle flowers,
And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove.
Know'st thou it well?
-There, there, with thee,
O friend! 0 loved one! fain my steps would flee.
Know'st thou the d-welling?-there the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of mnarble seem with pitying eyes
To say —" Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?"
Know'st thou it well?
There, there with thee,
O my protector! homewards might I flee!
Know'st thou the mountain?-high its bridge is hung,
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way;
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among,
O'er beetling rocks there foalms the torrent spray.
Know'st thou it well?
With thee, with thee,
There lies my path, 0 father! let us flee!
THE SISTERS.*
A BALLAD.
"I GO, sweet sister; yet my heart would linger with thee fain,
And unto every parting gaft some deep remembrance chain:
Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to
wear,
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair!
Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent cell."
* This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly
accomplished sisters.
_________________    -___________  ________________________




THE SISTERS.                     379'Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love?
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone-my steps no
more shall move!
fow could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless thronsg?
L should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone o song;
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of
thine."
"Oh, would'st thou strive a wounded bird fromn shelter to detain?
Or would'st thou call a spirit freed, to weary life again?Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have worn so long,
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and
wrong.
It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign
Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press'd to
thine!"
"Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother's gift to
thee,
It would but of this parting hour, a bitter token be;
With funeral splendor to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer Inine!
Oh sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress'd,
Where would'st thou pour it forth so well, as on my faithful
breast 7"
"Urge me no more! a blight hath fallen upon my summer
years!
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears;
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for nmy sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory
wake!                                      [hymn,
Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own sweet vesper
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dinl."
"Yes, I will take the silvery lute-and I will singr to thee
A song we heard in childhood's days, even fromn our father'
knee.
Oh, sister, sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the,;traiu,
K.nd sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain i"
SONG.
"Leave us not, leave us not!
Say not adieu!
Have we not been to thee
Tender and true?
"Take not thy sunny smile
Far from our hearth!
With that sweet light will fade
Summer and mirth.




380                     LYRICS.
K Leave us not, leave us not!
Can thy heart roam?
Wilt thou not pine to hear
Voices from home?
"Too sad our love would be,
If thou wert gone!
Turn to us, leave us not!
Thou art our own!"
"Oh! sister, hush that thrilling lute, oh! cease that haunting
lay,                                           [stay;
Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes-yet, yet I cannot
For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper'd call
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall.
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell
Where the world's voice can reach no more!-oh calm thee!
Fare thee well!"
THE LAST SONG OF SAPPIIO.
[Suggested by a beautiftl sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea,
with her lyre cast at her feet. Their is a desolate grace about the
whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter
abandonmnent.]
SoUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry-" Alone, alone!"
Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease!
Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?
Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts-and will the wave reply?
Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride!
I ask not, alien wolld, fromn thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.
And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things?
-Was it for this the death wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?
-Let them lie silent at my feet!
Since broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away




DIRGE.                      381
Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-leaf is mine-With a lone heart, a weary frameO restless deep! I come to make them thine!
Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.
Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, th' unsought unwatch'd-for-I too come!
I, with this winged nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thoughtAlone I come-oh! give me peace, dark sea!
DIRGE.
WHERE shall we make her grave?
-Oh! where the wild-flowers wave
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird'Midst the young leaves are heardThere-lay her there!
Harsh was the world to herNow may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:
Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!
Murmur, glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,
Storms beat no more!
What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-railh
Plays the soft wind'.
Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.
Therefore let song and dew
Thence, in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow!
And o'er that h -lv Carth




382                       IYRICS.
Scents of the violet's birth
Still come and go!
Oh! then where wild-flowers wave,
Make ye her mossy grave
In the fi'ee air'!
Where shower and singing-bird'Midst the young leaves are heard —
There, lay her there!
A SONG OF THIE ROSE.
"Cosi fior diverrati  he non soggiace
All'acqua, al gelo, at vento ed allo scherno
D' una stagion volut)ile   flugace;
E a piu fido Cuiltor posto in governo,
Unir potrai nella tranquillv pace,
Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno." —P/etro Metastasio
ROSE! what dost thou here I
Bridal, royal rose?
How,'midst grief and fear,
Canst thou thus disclose
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows?
Rose! too much array'd
For triumphal hours,
Look'st thou through the shade
Of these naortal bowers,
Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all flowers!
As an eagle soaring
Through a sunny sky,
As a clarion pouring
Notes of victory,
So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high.
Thoughts of rapture, flushing
Youthful poet's cheek;
Thoughts of glory, rashing
Forth in song to break,
But finding the spring-tide of' rapid song too weak.
Yet oh, festal rose!
I have seen thee lying
In thy bright repose
Pillow'dwith the (lying,
Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood was flying.
Summer, hope, and love,
O'er that bed of pain,
Met in thee, set wove
Too, too frail a chain
In its embracing links the lovely to detain.
Smilest thou, gorgeous flower?
-— Oh! within the spells




NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.
Of thy beauty's power,
Something dimly dwells,
At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.
All the soul forth flowing
In that rich perfume,
All the proud life glowing
In that radiant bloom,Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb t
Crown'st thou but the daughters
Of our tearful race?
-Heaven's own purest waters
Well might wear the trace
Of thy consummate fbrm, melting to softer grace.
Will that clime enfold thee
With immortal air?
Shall we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there?
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more fair?
Yes! my fancy sees thee
In that light disclose,
And its dream thus fiees thee
From the mist of woes,
Darkening thine earthly bowers, 0 bridal, royal rose!
NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.
CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied;
0 dedicated flowers!
Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
-So doth love's dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought which glows.
With its pure life entwined.
Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odors with the faint soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, whep all is still.




384                     LYRICS.
So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.
THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT FLOWERS.
CALL back your odors, lovely flowers,
From the night winds call them back;
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours
Come forth in the sunbeam's track!
The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest,
And the honey bee is gone,
And all bright things are away to rest,
Why watch ye here alone?
Is not your world a mournfiul one,
When your sisters close their eyes,
And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone
Of' song in the starry skies?
Take ye no joy in the dayspring's birth
When it kindles the sparks of dew?
And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth,
Shall they gladden all but you?
Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes. out
On the snnny turf to play,
And the woodland child with a fairy shout
Goes dancing on its way!
"Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom
When the stars give quiet light,
And let us ofi r our faint perfume
On the silent shrine of night.
"Call it not wasted, the scent we lend
I'o the breeze, when no step is nigh;
Oh thus for ever the earth should send
Her grateful breath on high!
"And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers,
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours
Looking alone to heaven!"
ECHO-SONG
IN thy cavern-hall,
Echo! art thou sleeping?
By the fountain's fll
Dreamy silence keeping?




THE MUFFLED DRUM.                 383
Yet one soft note borne
From the shepherd's horn,
Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping!
-Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping.
Then the woods rejoice,
Then glad sounds are swelling
From each sister-voice
Round thy rocky dwelling;
And their sweetness fills
All the hollow hills,
With a thousand notes, of one life telling!
-Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.
Echo! in my heart
Thus deep thoughts are lying,
Silent and apart,
Buried, yet undying.
Till some gentle tone
Wakening haply one,
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying!
-Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.*
THE MUFFLED DRUM.t
THE muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier's burial rite.
But it told them not how dear,
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior youth laid low that hour,
By a mountain-stream of Spain.
The oaks of England waved
O'er the slumbers of his race,
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above his lst lone place;
When the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound
Which call'd strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial rite.
Brief was the sorowing there,
By the stream from battle red,
And tossing on its wave the plumes
Of many a stately head:
* This song is in the possession of Mr. Power.
t Set to beautiful imusic by John Lodge, Esq.
Vor,. iI.-33




38U                     LYRICS.
But a mother-soon to die,
And a sister-long to weep,
Even then were breathing prayers for him,
In that home beyond the deep;
While the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
And the dark pines mourn'd round,
O'er the soldier's burial rite.
THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK
"Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill side; and now'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades,"-Keats.
"Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."-Shdlet
MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out through shadowy grass and thick wild flowers
Dim alabaster gleams —a lonely swan
Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet
Even painfully-as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the poet's thought
This was their language.
"Summer, I depart!
0 light and laughing summer, fare thee well!
No song the less through thy rich woods swell,
For one, one broken heart.
"And fare ye well, young flowers!
Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odor still,
And wave in glory, coloring every rill,
Know to my youth's fresh hours.
"And ye, bright founts, that lie
Far in the whispering orests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleepSweet waters! I must die.
"Will ye not send one tone
Of sorrow through the pines?-one murmur low?
~~~-=-~~~~~~~=iC==ZL-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~e-~~~~~_~~~~-~~~~~.... 




THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.               38?
Shall not the green leaves firom your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?
"No, ever glad and free!
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell,
Waves joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.
"But thou, sweet boon, too late
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song!
Why comest thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong,
In the dark hour of fate 1
"Only to wake the sighs
Of echo -voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say-O sunshine and blue skies!
O life and love, farewell! "
Thus flow'd the death-chant on; while mournfully
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy,
WVoke to respond: and all the air was fill'd
With that one sighing sound-" Farewell, Farewell!"
-Fill'd with that sound? high in the calm blue heaven
Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds
Where floating round him all transpierced with light,
And'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings
Quiver'd with song:-such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not,-as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below-and thus that strain
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly.
"The summer is come; she hath said,' Rejoice!'
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice;
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high;
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!
"There is joy in the mountains; the bright waves leapo
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along-Let the heavens ring with song!
"There is joy in the forests; the bird of night
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But mine is the glory to sunshine givenSing, sing through the echoing heaven!
Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high-Sing, sing through the echoing sky!"
So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush




388                     LYRICUS.
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heartAy, and within one hour of that strange worldThou call'st their Inusic forth, with all its tones
To startle and to pierce!-the dying swan's,
And the glad skylark's-triumph and despair!"
SONGS OF SPAIN.*
I.-ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.
FLING forth the proud banner of Leon again!
Let the high word " Castile i" go resounding through Spain!
And thou, free Asturias, encamped on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!
The voices are mighty that swell from the past,
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,
Their pines murmur song where bright blood had been shed.
-Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again,
And shout ye " Castile! to the rescue for Spain!"
II.-THE ZEGRI MAID.
[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Theu
exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Abencerrages,
form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.]
THE summer leaves were sighing
Around the Zegri maid,
To her low sad song replying
As it fill'd the olive shade.
"Alas! for her that loveth
Her land's, her kindred's foe!
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri's spirit go?
" From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress'd,
* Written for a set of airs, entitled Per, insular.Melodies, selected by
Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs. Goulding and D'Alnaine,
who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume




THlE RIO VERDE SONG.                  389
And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast."
-Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.
" And for all this heart's wealth wasted,
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,
Should I win back aught but scorn?
By aught but daily dying
Would my lone truth be repaid?"
-Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.
III.-THE RIO VERDE SONG.
(The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad
romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring to this stream in
Percy's Reliques,, Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo! thy streams are stain'd with gore."
will be rembered by many readers.]
Frow, Rio Verde!
In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth
To slumber from woe;
Bid thy wave's music
Roll through her dreams,
Grief ever loveth
The kind voice of streams.
Bear her lone spirit
Aftr on the sound
Back to her childhood,
Her life's fairy ground;
Pass like the whisper
Of' love that is goneFlow, Rio Verde! 
Softly flow on!
Dark glassy water
So crimnson'd of yore!
Love, death, and sorrow
Know thy green shore.
Thou sbould'st have echoes
For grief's deepest toneFlow, Rio Verde,
Softly flow on!
33*




390                     LYRICS.
IV.-SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.
SEEK by the silvery Darro,
Where jasmine flowers have blown;
There hath she left no footsteps?
-Weep, weep, the maid is gone!
Seek where our lady's image
Smiles o'er the pine-huncg steep;
Hear ye not there her vespers?
— Weep for the parted, weep!
Seek in the porch where vine-leaves
O'ershade her father's head?
-Are his grey hairs left lonely?
-Weep! her bright soul is fled.
V.-SPANISH EVENING HYMN.
AVE! now let prayer and music
Meet in love on earth and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
Turn from this cold world to thee!
From the wide and restless waters
Hear the sailor's hymn arise;
From his watch-fire'midst the mountains,
Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!
Yet, when thus full hearts find voices,
If' o'erburden'd souls there be,
Dark and silent in their anguish,
Aid those captives set them free! 
Touch them, every fount unsealing,
Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,
Aid, oh.! aid to pray and weep!
VI.-BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE
BIRD, that art singing on Ebro's side!
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,
Doth sorrow dwell'midst the leaves with thee?
Doth song avail thy full heart to free?
-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of' thy melody.
Bird! is it blighted affection's pain,
Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?
And is the wound of' that arrow still'd,
When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd?
-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.




MOORISH GATHERING SONG.-ETC.-ETC.    39,
VI1.-MOORISH GATHERING SONG,
zoRZIco.*
CHAINS on the cities! gloom in the air!
Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there.
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers!
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.
Come from the Darro!-changed is its tone;
Come where the streams no bondage have known;
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap,
Singing of freedom from.steep to steep.
Come from Alhambra! garden and grove
Now may not shelter beauty or love.
Blood on the waters, death'midst the flowers!
— Only the spear and the rock are ours.
VIII.-THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.
WE heard thy name, O Mina!
Far through our hills it rang;
A sound more strong than tempests,
More keen than armor's clang.
The peasant left his vintage,
The shepherd grasp'd the spear-We heard thy name, 0 Mina!
The mountain bands are here.
As eagles to the dayspring,
As torrents to the sea,
From every dark sierra
So rush'd our hearts to thee.
Thy spirit is our banner,
Thine eye our beacon-sign,
Thy name our trumpet, Mina!
-The mountain bands are thine.
IX.-MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.
A CANCION.
MOTHER! oh, sing me to rest
As in my bright days departed:
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted,
Songs for a spirit oppress'd.
La y this tired head on thy breast!
FloXiEelr fr:;ln the night-dow are closing
- Tit. %Zrzio:r i..s t' t,mt::'l"v  il!l v ttl.%v i tt'i lar ant ique Moorish
_ _e i _,_ __           _




399                    LYRICS.
Pilgrims and mourners reposing-Mothei, oh, sing mIne'to rest!
Take back thy bird to its nest!
Weary is young life when blighted,
Heavy this love unrequited;-Mother, oh! sing me to rest!
X.-THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLE,
THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles,
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore;
There are murmurs-but not of the torrent,
Nor the wind, nor the pine-fbrest's roar.'Tis a day of the spear and the banner,
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards;
Or start from your old battle-dells.
There are streams of' unconquer'd Asturias,
That have roll'd with your father's free blood;
Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty,
Proud marks where their children have stood!
THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
HARE! from the dim church tower,
The deep slow curfew's chime!
-A  heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!
Sadly'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.
Sternly and sadly heard,
As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,
Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word
And the red wine's foaming flow 
Uutil that sullen boding knell
Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.
Woe for the pilgrim then,
In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide himn, as a star.
And woe fbr him whosc  wakefill soul,
With lone aspirinm s fill'd,
Would havve lived o'er some irnmmortal scroll,
While the sou-tds of eart.l were still'd!




THE CALL TO BATTLE.                   393
And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!
Darkness in chieftain's hall!
Darkness in peasant's cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.
Oh! the fire-side's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.
Heap the yule-fagirots high,
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home's own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!
THE CALL TO BATTLE.
"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne'er might be repeated."-Byron.
THE vesper-bell, from church and tower,
Had sent its dying sound
And the household, in the hush of eve,
Were met, their porch around.
A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet's
power-                              [thering hour"We rise on all our hills! come forth!'tis thy country's gaThere's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each old battledell-                                        [well!
Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and proud fareThen the father gave his son the sword,
Which a hundred fight. had seen"Away! and. bear it back, iny boy!
All that it still hath been!




394                     LYRICS.' Haste! haste! the hunters of the foe are up, ana who shall
stand
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the
clarion's blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages past."
Then the mother kiss'd her son with tears
That o'er his dark locks fell:
"I bless, 1 bless thee o'er and o'er,
Yet I stay thee not-Farewell!"
"One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or
word!
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's neart is stirr'd.
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in file fight,
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might."
And a maiden's fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
"In the vigil in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!"
"Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter's
chain is burst!
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursedThe night is past, the silence o'er-on all our hills we riseWe wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of bat
tle cries."
There were sad hearts in a darken'd home,
When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.
SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.
I.-AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.
I A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd youths
and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected
with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription-" Et in dlrcadia ego."J
TrEY have wander'd in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;
They have climb'd o'er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks.




TIE MWANDERING WIND.                 39S
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every browWhat hath.staid the wand'rers now?
Lo! a grey and rustic tomb,
Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
-" I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."
There is many a summer sound
That pale sepulchre around;
Through the shade young birds are glancing,.nasect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;
Glimpses of blue festal skies
Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o'er the turf below
Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own
O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something, dimly from those old words felt,
~-" I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."
Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus? that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?
-No! from that bright band of morn,
Not cne link hath yet been torn;'Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer-bloom,
O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;'Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from thlat house of death,
Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,
"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."
II.-THE WANDERING WIND.
TttE Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves



396                    LYRICS.
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?
Or is it from the voices
Of all in one combined,
That it wins the tone of mastery?
The Wind, the wandering Wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low.
They are not of the waters,
Nor of the cavern'd hill:'Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill,
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the Wind, the wandering Wind!
III. —YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.
YE are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot;
There falls the dew, its fairy favors shedding,
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.
Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water,
0 lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone 
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.
And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is rovingr
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd;
Cradled ye were, fair flowers!'midst all things loving,
A joy to all-yet, yet, ye are not miss'd!
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say-earth's human flowers not more are miss'd.
IV.-WILLOW SONG.
WILLOWV! in thy breezy moan,
I can hear a deeper tone;




.   7
i
"A
I I,
-       i








LEAVE ME NOT YET.-'JIIE ORANGE BOUGH.  397
Through thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long, ago.
Willow, sighing willow!
Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow, sighing wiliow!
Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent:
Willow, sighing willow!
Therefore, wave and murmur on!
Sign for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, willow!
V.-LEAVE ME NOT YET.
LEAVE me not yet-through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!
Not yet!- oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise 
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies:
Leave me not yet!
My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love!
By day shut up in their own still recess,
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness:
Leave me not yet!
VI.-THE ORANGE BOUGH.
OH! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odors I must breathe no more;
Vot. II.-34




398                    LYRICS.
The grove where every scented ftree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.
On! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaPs light whisper hath a tone,
My faint heart, even in death, would own.
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed
Life s parting sweetness round my head,
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.
VII.-THE STREAM  SET FRFF.
FLOW on, rejoice, make music,
Bright living stream set free.
The troubled haunts of care and strifie
Were not for thee!
The woodland is thy country,
Thou art all its own again -;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.
Flow on, rejoice, make music
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds
And golden eves.
Once more the holy starlight
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man's unrest.
Flow, and let freeborn music
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.
And the green reeds quivering o'er thee,
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.
Yet,'midst thy song's glad changes,
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.
One sound, of all the deepest,
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes
The meek and true.




THE SUMMER'S CALL.
Then, then, rejoice, make music,
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!
VII1.-THE SUMMER'S CALL.
COME away! the sunny hours
Woo thee far to founts and bowers.
O'er the very waters now,
In their play,
Flowers are shedding beauty's glowCome away!
Where the lily's tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing streamCome away!
All the air is filled with sound,
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray 
Faint winds whisper as they passCome away;
Where the bee's deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells —
Come away!
In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day
Floats with leafy scents alongCome away!
Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloomCome away!
In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night
Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, greenly brightCome away!
Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!
Now each tree by summer crown'd,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Glancing there fiom sun to shade,
Bright wings play;




400                     LYRICS.
There the deer its couch hath madeCome away!
Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-tireCome away-away!
IX.-OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.
OH! Skylark, for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven's empyreal height!
With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreath me,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!'ree, free from earth-born fear,
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures,
As I wander'd on thy wing.
But oh! the silver chords,
That around the heart are spun,
From gentle tones and words,
And kind eyes that make our sun!
To some low sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring,
There, there the dews of morning,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!
GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.
"That voice re-measures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of nature utter: birds or trees,
Or where the tall grass'mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmnur and music thin of sudden breeze."-Coleridge.
I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones-though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of' human prayer.
-At times the passion-kindled melody




GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.                401
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;-at times the strain
Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre -yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant;-" Leave mie not!" was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled worl o
Hath ever breathed to Love.
They crown me with the glistening crown
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renownO Love! forsake me not I
Mine were a lone dark lot
Bereft of thee!
They tell me tnat my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes
It gives to flower and skies,
A bright new birth!
Thence gleams the path ofmorning.
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone 
Thence to its heart of' hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own!
Thence every wood-recess
Is filled with lovelinss,
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known
I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th' alloy
Of fear'midst quivering joy,
Yet must I perish if' the gift departLeave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee;
The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul-a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal'd would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst tree!
Like a shrine'midst rocks forsalken,
Whence the oracle hlath fled;
34*




4OJ                    tLYRICS.
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,
Such would my spirit be -;
So mute, so void, so shatter'd,
Bereft of thee!
Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
Yield not fobr thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers-" Come."'
Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse,
With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love.
MUSIC AT A DEATHBED'Music! why thy power employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal, or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb de;pair!"
WARTON from EuriPid&s.
BRING music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!
A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of' day,
O'er blue transparent seas!
Oh no! not such that lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,
And passed the gates of' strife.
Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!
But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Fill'd with the soul of prayer!
Let a life's conflict fear and pain,
And'trembling hope be there.




MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.                   403
Deeper, yet deepel! in my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely firaught
With pleading more profound:
A passion unto music given,
A sweet yet piercing cry:
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!
Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?
Away! and hush the feeble song,
And let the chord be still'd!
For in another Iand erelong
My dream shall be fulfillS.
MARSHAL SCHWIWERIN'S GRAVE.'1 came upon the tomb of MIarshal  Schwerl'in-a plLin quiet cello
taph, erected in the mid(lle of a wid(e c(rn-field, on the very spot
where he closed a long, faithiful, and glorious career in arms. Ie
fell here at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment,
the standard of it waving in his lhand. His seat was in the leathern saddle —iis foot in the iron stirrup-his fingers reined the
young war-horse to the last."-.-Notes and Reflections duritg a
Ramble int GermanLy.]
THiou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest iiom thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Many had fallen by thy side old chief!
Brothers and fiiends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high
And thy voice the war-horse knew:
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou the bold and true.
Now may'st thou slumber-thy work is doneThou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:




404                     LYRICS.
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!
A quiet home from the noonday's glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast —
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair,
To win thee but this at last
THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.
OH, joy of' the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time,
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen'd our grey forefathers
From the noontide's glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch'd with nm-onlignt gleams,
Lay our early poets,
Wrapt in fairy dreams.
O tree of our fathers! 0 hallow'd tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.
Where shall now the weary
Rest throug'h summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate
Of thy fi'agrant breast?
But the sons or the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee.
These may yet find coverts
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odor and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gatherd
Round another tree?
Oh pride of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!
SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.
INTRODUCTION.
ONE hour for distant homes to weep'Midst Afric's burning sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.




THE BROT-IER'S DIRGE. —T IIE ALPINE HORN.  405
They say beneath a lonely palm.
In the garden's of their lord;
And mingling with the fountain s tune,
Their songs of' exile pour'd..
And strangely, sadly, did those lays,
Of Alp and ocean sound,
With A/ric's wild red skies aoove,
And solelnn wastes around
Broken with tears were oft their tones,
And most when most they tried
To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.
So met the sons of many lands,
Parted by mount and r:im:i
So did they sing in brotierLi,,d,l
Made kindred by the chain.
1.-THE BROTHER'S DIRGE
IN the proud old fanes of England
My warrior-fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but tho2t, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.
In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled
For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy lifo-drops flow'd for meWould I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea.
In a.helter'd home of England
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone,
She little dreams, my brother!
Of the wild fate we have found;
I,'midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.
II.-THE ALPINE HORN.
Trm Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,




406                    LYRICS.
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more-but once-and die!
Yet, no!'midst breezy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of deathO joyous Alpine horn!
But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!
Haunt me no more! for slavery's air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despaic
Be hush'd thou Alpine horn!
III.-O YE VOICES.
O YE voices round my own hearth singing! 
As the winds of Way to memory sweet,
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?
Never, never, Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again?
Or if still around my heart ye linger,
Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come;
Years have quell'd the free soul of' the singer,
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home,
NTe'er again!
IV.-I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.
I DREAM of' all things free!
Of a gallant, gallant bark.
That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills —
Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing,




FAR O'ER THE SEA                  47
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver-I dream of all things free?
Of a happy fbrest child,
With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an indian'midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way:
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer's greenwood tree:My heart in chains is bleeding,
And ILdream of all thlogs free 
V.-FAR O'ER THE SEA.
WHERE are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee!
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,
Where doth my birthplace lie!
-Far o'er the sea.
Where floats the myrtle-scent
O'er vale and lea,
When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee?
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
-Far o'er the sea?
Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me?
Where o'er the cabin roof
Waves the green tree?
Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?
-Far o'er the sea!
Dance on ye vintage bands,
Fearless and free!
Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father's tree!
Still smile, ye kind blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o'er the sea!
VI.-THE INVOCATION.
OH! art thou still on earth, my love?
My only love!
2~ —-C-               -----— l         --                       ----




v40                    LYRICS.
Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?
Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love?
Thy light step gone?
And art thou not in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?
I see thee with thy gleaming hair,
In midnight dreams!
But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.
Peace in thy saddest hour, my love!
Dwelt on thy brow;
But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!
And silent ever is thy lip,
And pale thy cheek -
Oh! art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's,
Speak to me, speak!
VII.-THE SONG OF HOPE.
DRooP not, my brothers! I hear a glad strainWe shall burst forth like streams from the winter night's chain;
A flag is unfurl'd a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches-we yet shall be free!
Where the pines wave, where the light chaniois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps:
Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam.
Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the seaDroop not, my Brothers we yet shall be free!
THE BIRD AT SEA.
BIRD of'the greenwood!
Oh! why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
Far hence are at playBird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Where the mast quivers,
Thy place will not be,




THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS                 409
As'midst the waving
Of wild rose and tree.
How should'st thou battle
With storm and with spray? 
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind
Vine leaves are fann'd l'Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
"Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark;
A heart that hath cherish'd
Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!"
THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.
"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth,
to know wheth-r, indeed, such things I shall see no more?-whether
they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which iny future
home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only
wroughlt in a more wonlrous and delightful mould."
Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill hea!ut.
BEAR them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds,
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!
Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is free
And the many-whispering tree.
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.
Spread themn not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the color'd earth!
Voeil. tt. —35




410                    JLYRICS.
With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth-of spring-time evesMusic-beauty-all she leaves!
Hush!'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.
Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove'Leaf and flower hath gushed her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.
Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!
Therefore, in the lily's leaf,
She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not-Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.
Therefore once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain,
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose.
THE IVY-SONG.*
OH! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Ville?
Ivy! thy home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more.
Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.
The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
+ This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with
in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely
temoddled/ by Mrs. Henmans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its
re-insertion here.




THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.               411
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victor's tent:
Though shining there in deathless green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's graveUrn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.
The cold halls of the regal dead,
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest treadIvy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine,
Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine,
-The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!
High from the fields of air look downThose eyries of a vanished race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have passed, and left no trace.
But thou art there!-serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread
O'er classic plains through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,
-Days pass —thou Ivy never sere,*
And thou shalt have thy dower.
All are thine, or must be thineTemple, pillar, shrine!
THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.'I'e choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost un
rivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill.'I'he majestic harmony of effect thus produced, is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself; which though small,
yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and
old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by
the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to
recognize it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old;-a place
*"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas.




412                      LYRICS.
to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral
march at the burial of some warlike king.]
"All the choir
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas. "-Milton.
AGAIN! oh, send that anthem peal again
Through the arch'd-roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!
Such sounds the warrior awe struck might have heard,
While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown:
Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr'o,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!
Those notes once more! they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay,
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.
All is of Heaven!-Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source?
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course.
Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
-Oh! is it not that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?
KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.
[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish
Keenes. many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos
end other characteristics analogous to those of the national music I
DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son.
Silent and dark!
There is blood upon the threshold
Whence thy step went forth at morn,
Like a dancer's in its fleetness,
Oh, my bright first-born!
At the glad sound of that footstep,
Mny heart within me smiled;
-Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier my child!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
I thought to see thy children
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow's voice is lonely
Where my life's flower lies




FAR AWVAY  THE LYRE AND FLOWER               413
I shall go to sit beside thee,
Thy kindred's graves among;
I shall hear the tall grass whisper —
I shall hear it not long!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
And I too shall find slumber
With my lost one, in the earth;
-Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!
Let the roof go down!-let silence
On the home for ever fall,
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother's call!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
FAR AWAY.
FAR away!-my home is far away.
Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more.
Far away!
Far away! my dreams are far away,
When at midnight, stars and shadows reign;
"Gentle child," my mother seems to say,
" Follow me where home shall smile again!"
Far away!
Far away! my hope is far away,
Where love's voice young gladness may restore;
-O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!
THE LYRE AND FLOWER.
A LYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd
Forth on the wild wind's track;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord.
But gave no music back.
-Oh, child of' song!
Bear hence to herlven thy fire!
What hopest thou fi'ol the reckless throng
Be not lile tlihat l!,t lyre!
Not like tliat lyr!
35*




414,YRICS.
A flower its leaves and odors cast
On a swift rolling wave;
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd,
And back no treasure gave.
-Oh! heart of' love!
Waste not thy precious dower
Turn to thine only home above,
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower!
SISTER! SINCE I MET THEEF LAST.
SISTER! since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
-Genile sister, thou hast loved!
Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art follow'd by a dream:
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore thll thy tears like rain?
-Sister, thou hast loved in vain!
Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not fborth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest.
-Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!
THE LONELY BIRD.
FRoM a ruin thou art singing,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing
By thy summer music stirr'd;
But all is dark and cold beneath,.
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird?
Thff song flows richly swelling,
no a triumph of glad sounds,




DIRGE AT SEA.-ETC.                 413
As from its cavern dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench'd and the feasting done,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
How can that flood of gladness
Rush through that fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness
From the bosom of decay?
While dirge-notes on the breeze's moan,
Through the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
There's many a heart, wild singer,
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,
Where love hath left his bower:
And there's many a spirit e'en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr'd,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
DIRGE AT SEA.
SLEEP!-we give the to the wave,
Red with life-blood from the brave,
Thou shalt find a noble grave.
Fare thee well!
Sleep thy billowy field is won,
Proudly may the funeral gun,
Midst the hush at set of sun,
Boom thy knell!
Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
Never there may flower be shed,
Marble rear'd or brother's head
Bow'd to weep.
Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the recd-cross flag shall be.
Sleep! oh, sleep!
PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR
0 SOFT star of the west!
Gleaming far,
Thou'rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
-- ___________ I-I —--------- ___________._. -.. -_. _I___ ________ ___________




416                      IYRICS.
Thou bring'st from rock and wave,
The sea-bird to her nest,
The hunter from the hills,
The fisher back to rest,
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west,
Blessed star!
No bowery roof is mine,
No hearth of love and rest,
Yet guide me to my shrine,
0 soft star of the west!
There, there my home shall be
Heaven's dew shall cool my breast,
When prayer and tear gush iree,
o soft star of the west!
O soft star of the west,
Gleanilin  far!
Thou'rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Shine from thy rosy heaven,
Pour joy on earth and sea!
Shine onl, though no sweet eyes
Look forth to watch for me!
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
"lWe take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words
and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments; and then days, imonths, years intervene, and we see and
know nothing of each other."- Washington Irving.
Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had still'd the tide;
A few bright days of sumniner glee
There found them side by side.
And voices of the ftir and brave
Rose mingling thence, in mirth;
And sweetly floated o'er the wave
The melodies of earth.
Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.
And hands were link'd, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown.




COME AWAY.-ETC..17
A little while such joy was cast
Over the deep's repose,
Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet music rose.
And proudly, freely on their way
The parting vessels bore;
In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet-oh, never more!
Never to blend in victory's cheer,
To aid in hours of woe;
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are formed below.
COME AWAY.
COME away!-the child where flowers are springing,
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope,
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing,
Like the skylark's with its tone of hope;
Come away!
Bounding on, with sunny lands before him,
All the wealth of glowing life outspread,
Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him,
By that strain the youth in joy is led;
Come away!
Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling
O'er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win:
Come away!
Come away!-the heart, at last forsaken,
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue,
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
Though to other shores far hence they woo:
Come away!
In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing,
In the low sweet sounds of early spring,
Still their music wanders —till the dying
Hears tiem pass, as on a spirit's wing:
Come away!
FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.' Fair Helen of Kirconnel," as she is called in the Scottish MinFtrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival
By whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died
in the arms of the former.]
E10LD me upon thy faithful heart,
Keep back my flitting breath;




418                    LYRICS.'Tis early, early to depart,
Beloved!-yet this is death!
Look on me still:-let that kind eye
Be the last light I see!
Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!
For thee, my own! thy stately head
Was never thus to bowGive tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know'st it now!
Oh the free streams look'd bright, where'r
We in our gladness roved;
And the blue skies were very fairO friend! because we loved.
Farewell!-I bless thee-live thou on,
When this young heart is low!
Surely my blood thy life hath wonClasp me once more-I go!
MUSIC FROM SHORE.
A SOUND comes on the rising breeze,
A sweet and lovely sound!
Piercing the tumult of the seas
That wildly dash around.
From land, from sunny land it comes,
From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy homeThat sweet sound on the breeze.
Why should its faint and passing sigh
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
No part in earth's glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.
Yet blessing, blessing on the spot
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine there beat and glow.
And blessing, from the bark that roams
O'er solitary seas,
To those that fir in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!
LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
Truth in their dark transparence lies;




IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER.           4
Their sweetness gives me back the tears,
And the free trust of early yearsMy gentle child!
The spirit of my infant prayer
Shines in the depths of quiet there;
And home and love once more are mine,
Found in that dewy calm divine,
My gentle child!
Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams,
Its light by day around thee glkams:
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies;
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
My gentle child!
IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER.
" O cast thou not
Affection from thee! In this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast;
Watch-guard it-suffer not a breath to dim
The bright gem's purity!"
IF thou hast crush'd a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench'd a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted:
But on thy harp or on thy lute,
The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!
If thou hast loosed a bird
Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still he may be won
From the skies to warble near thee:
But if upon the troubled sea
Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave will bring
The treasure back when needed.
If thou hast bruised a vine,
The summer's breath is healing,
And its clusters yet may glow
Through the leaves their bloom revealing:
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown
With a bright draught fill'd-oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth
To cool thy parch'd lip's fever!
The heart is like that cup,
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;




420                   LYRICS.
And like that string of harp or lute
Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd:
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shatter'd.
BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.
BRIGHTLY, brightly hast thou fled,
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,
Brightly did'st thou part!
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,
With thy bounding heart.
Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere with dust o'erspread:
Lilies ne'er by tempest blowni
White rose which no stain hath known,
Be about thee shed!
So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth
O'er thy gentle head;
Thou, that like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
Brightly thus hast fled!
THE BED OF HEATH.
SOLDIER, awake! the night is past;
Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast.
Feel'st thou not the dayspring's breath? 
Rouse thee from thy bed of heath!
Arm, thou bold and strong!
Soldier, what deep spell hath bound thee?
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee;
Banners to the fresh wind play,Rise, and arm;'tis day,'tis day!
And thou hast slumber'd long.
"Brother, on the heathery lea
Longer yet my sleep must be;
Though the morn of battle rise,
Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes.
Brother, this is death!
a Call me not whm bugles sound,
Call me not when wine flows round;
Name me but amidst the brave;
Give me but a soldier's graveBult mny bed of heath!"




FAIRY SONG.-WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND. 421
FAIRY SONG.
HAVE ye left the greenwood lone?
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,
From your dim and distant shore,
Never more?
Shall the pilgrim never hear
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?
"Mortal! ne'er shall bowers of earth
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow'd steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.
"Ne'er on earthborn lily's stem
Will we hang the dewdrop's gem;
Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's lCead
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore,
Never more!"
WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.
WHAT woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way
Along the Nile's green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning's fire,
But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm,
This, this awoke the lyre.
What wins the heart's deep chords to pour
Thus music fbrth on life?.
Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er
The truant sounds of strife.-! not the conflict'midst the throng,
Not e'en the trumpet's hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong,
To wake that music's powerr
VOL. II-36




LYRICS.
OH! IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINE HEART
OH! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back mine own to me,*
Or bid thine image thence depart,
And leave me lone, but free
Yet no! this mournful love of mine,
I would not from me cast!
Let me but dream'twill win me thine
By its deep truth at last.
Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
Oh if thine heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!
LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.
IT is thy pity makes me weep,
My soul was strong before;
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep
From vainly gushing o'er!
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyesIn this fbnd gaze my spirit dies.
Look on me thus no more!
Too late that softness comes to bless,
My heart's glad life is o'er;
It will but break with tenderness,
Which cannot now restore!
The lyre-strings have been jarr'd too long,
Winter hath touch'd the source of song!
Look on me thus no more!
SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!
SING to me, Gondolier!
Sing words from Tasso's lay
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recallingSing to me Gondolier!
"Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
* The first two lines of this song are literally translated from the
German.




O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.-ET'C.           43
Gone are the noble hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!"
O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS
O'ER the far blue mountains,
O'er the white sea foam,
Come, thou long parted one,
Back to thine home!
When the bright fire shineth,
Sad looks thy- place,
While the true heart pineth
Missing thy face.
Music is sorrowful
Since thou art gone,
Sisters are mourning thee,
Come to thine own!
Hark! the home voices call
Back to thy rest,
Come to thy fither's hall,
Thy mother's breast!
O'er the far blue mountains,
O'er the white sea foam,
Come, thou long parted one,
Back to thine home!
O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!
O T0ou breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying
Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!
O'er long buried flowers
Passing not in vain,
Odors in soft showers
Thou hast brought again.
-Let the primrose greet thee,
TIet the violet pour
Incense forth to meet thee —
Wake my heart no more!
No more!
_________________________________________      _________________________.1~-l- -   -  -     I   - ~.-   -




424                    LYRICS.
From a funeral urn
Bowerld in leafy gloom,
Even thy soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
There, 0 breeze of spring,
No more!
COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN.
CoME to me, dreams of heaven!
My fainting spirit bear
On your bright wings, by morning given,
TUp to celestial air.
Away, far, far away,
From bowers by tempests riven,
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!
Come but for one brief hour,
Sweet dreams! and yet again,
O'er burning thought and memory shower
Your soft effacing rain!
Waft me where gaFes divine,
With dark clouds ne'er have striven,
Where living founts for ever shineO blessed dreams of heaven!
GOOD-NIGHT.
DAY is past!
Stars have set their watch at fast,
Founts that through the deep woods flow
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now,
Flowers have shut with fading lightGood-night!
Go to rest!
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast!
If within that secret cell
One dark form of memory dwell,
Be it mantled from thy sightGood-night!
Joy be thine!
Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine!
Go, and in the spirit-land
Meet thy home's long parted band,
Be their eyes all love and lightGood-night




LET HER DEPART.-ETC.
Peace to all!
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o'er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain streams;
Bard! away to worlds more brightGood-night!
LET HER DEPART.
HER home is far, oh! far away!
The clear light in her eyes
Hath nought to do with earthly day'Tis kindled from the skies.
Let her depart!
She looks upon the things of earth,
Even as some gentle star
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth,
How softly, yet how far!
Let her depart!
Her spirit's hope-her bosom's loveOh! could they mount and fly!
She never sees a wandering dove,
But for its wings to sigh.
Let her depart!
She never hears a soft wind bear
Low music on its way,
But deems it sent from heavenly air,
For her who cannot stay.
Let her depart!
Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams,
She breathes and moves alone,
Pining for those bright bowers and streams
Where her beloved is gone.
Let her depart!
HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.
How can that love so deep, so lone,
So faithful unto death,
Thus fitfully in laughing tone,
In airy word, find breath?
Nay, ask how on the dark wave's breast,
The lily's cup may gleam,
Though many a mournful secret rest,
Low in the unfathom'd stream.
That stream is like my hidden love,
In its deep cavern's power,
36*




436                    LYRICS.
And like the play of words above,
That lily's trembling flower.
WATER-LILIES.
A FAIRY SONG.
COME away, elves! while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Kpow that the lilies have spread their bells
O'er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water's breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
— Come away! under arching boughs we'll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat 
We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be,
And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow,
As if'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh,
Or water drops train'd into melody.
-Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be- long
THE BROKEN FLOWER.
OH! wear it on thy heart, my love!
Still, still a little while!
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves,
Though faded be their smile.
Yet, for the sake of what hath been,
Oh, cast it not away!'Twas born to grace a summer scene,
A long, bright, golden day,
My love!
A long, bright, golden day!
A little while around thee, love!
Its fragrance yet shall cling,
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain,
A fair, though faded thing.
But not even that warm heart hath power
To win it back from fate:
-Oh! I am like thy broken flower,
Cherish'd too late, too late,
My love!
Cherish'd alas! too late!




I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN. —ETC.   427
I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.
1 WOULD we had not met again!
I had a dream of thee,
Lovely, though sad, on desert plain,
Mournful on midnight sea.
What though it haunted me by night
And troubled through the day?
It touched all earth with spirit-light,
It glorified my way!
Oh! what shall now my faith restore
In holy things and fair?
We met-I saw thy soul once moreThe world's breath had been there!
Yes! it was sad on desert-plain,
Mournful on midnight sea,
Yet would I buy with life again
That one deep dream of thee!
FAIRIES' RECALL.
WHILE the blue is richest
In the starry sky,
While the softest shadows
On the greensward lie,
While. the moonlight slumbers
In the lily's urn,
Bright elves of the wild wood!
Oh! return, return!
Round the forest fountain,
On the river shore,
Let your silvery laughter
Echo yet once more 
While the joyous bounding
Of your dewy feet
Rings to that old chorus:
"The daisy is so sweet!"*
Oberon, Titania,
Did your starlight mirth.
With the song of Avon,
Quit this work-day earth?
Yet while green leaves glisten,
And while bright stars burs,
B3.y that magic memory,
Oh, return, return!
* See the chorus of Fa:iries in tile * Flower and the Leaf" of
Chaucer




LYRICS.
THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.
OH! tell me not the woods are fair,
Now Spring is on her way;
Well, well I know how brightly there
In joy the young leaves play;
How sweet on winds of morn or eve
The violet's breath may be;Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
My lone rock by the sea.
The wild wave's thunder on the shore,
The curlew's restless cries,
Unto my watching heart are more
Than all earth's melodies.
Come back my ocean rover! come.
There's but one place for me.
Till I can greet thy swift sail homeMy lone rock by the sea!
O YE VOICES GONE.
OH! ye voices gone,
Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
Melt me not to tears!
All around forget,
All who loved you well,
Yet, sweet voices, yet
O'er my soul ye swell.
With the winds of spring,
With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
Thoughts of vanish'd hours.
Hence your music take,
Oh! ye voices gone!
This lone heart ye make
But more deeply lone.
BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.
BY a mountain stream at rest,
We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
A banner clasp'd in dying:
Dark and still
Was every hill,
And the winds of night were sighing.




IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.-ETC.         429
Last of his noble race
To a lonely bed we bore him;'Twas a green, still, solemn place,
Where the mountain-heath waves o'er him.
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.
Yet, from festive hall and lay
Our sad thoughts oft are flying,
To those dark hills far away
Where in death we found him lying;
On his breast
A banner press'd,
And the night-wind o'er him sighing.
IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.
Is there some spirit sighing
With sorrow in the air,
Can weary hearts be dying,
Vain love repining there?
If not, then how can that wild wail,
0 sad lEolian lyre!
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale,
From thy deep thrilling wire?
No, no!-thou dost not borrow
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow
In thee, O harp! enshrined;
But in our own hearts deeply set
Lies the true quivering lyre,
Whence love, and memory, and regret,
Wake answers from thy wire.
THE NAME OF ENGLAND.
THE trumpet of the battle
Hath a high and thrilling tone;
And the first deep gun of an ocean fight
Dread masic all its own.
But a mightier power, my England!
Is in that name of thine,
To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner'd line.
Proudly it woke the spirits
Of yore, the brave and true,
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,
And the yeoman's arrow flew.




430                      LYRICS.
And proudly hath it floated
Through the battles of the sea,
When the srd-cross flag o'er smoke wreaths play'd,
Like -Ie lightning in its glee.
On rock, on wave, on bastion,
Its echoes have been known,
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low,
They have answer'd to its tone.
A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirr'd;
-Sound on, and on, for evermore,
0 thou victorious word!
OLD NORWAY.
A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.
"To a Norwegian the words Gamtl JXVorge (Old Norway) have a
spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted.
Gamle Jorgh is heard, in an instant, repeated by every voice; the
glasses are filled, raised, and drained; not a drop is left; and then
bursts forth the simultaneous chorus'For JVorgh!' the national
song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other
instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression Gamle
JV'org&. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one
might suppose for the moment, that-the party was a party of patriots
assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom." —DERWENT CONWAY'S Personal JVarrative of a Journey
through JNorway and Sweden.
The following words were written to the national air, as con
tanned in the work above cited.]
ARISE! old Norway sends the word
Of battle on the blast;
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd,
As if a storm went past;
Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.
Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,
The kingly chase of foes;'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race,
Whose trampling shakes the snows;
Arm, arm!'tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.
Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed -
Heap there the rocks for f'uneral piles,
Above the invader's head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!




THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.                   431
COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP.
CoME to me, gentle sleep!
I pine, I pine for thee;
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
And set my spirit free!
Each lonely, burning thought,
In twilight languor steepCome to the full heart, long o'erwrought,
O gentle, gentle sleep!
Come with thine urn of dew,
Sleep, gentle sleep! yet bring
No voice, love's yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!
Come, as to folding flowers,
To birds in forests deep;
-Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle sleep!
THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; OR, THE MEETING ON TH]E
FIELD OF GRUTLI.*
ADVERTISEMENT.
(IT was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the tyranny of
the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of Austria. The field
called the Grutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed upon by three spirited
yeomen, Walter Furst, (the father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of
meeting to deliberate on the accomplishment of their projects.
" Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret paths over the
heights, and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of the Four
Cantons. On the night preceding the 11 th of November 1307, they
met here, each with ten associates, men of approved worth; and
while at this solemn hour they were wrapt in the contemplation
that on their success depended the fate of their whole posterity,
Werner, Walter, and Arnold, held up their hands to Heaven, and
in the name of the Almighty, who has created man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that
freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath with awe; and
with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all his saints, that
they were firmly bent on offering up their lives for the defence of
their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on their future
proceedings, and for the present each returned to his hamlet."LANTA'S History of the Helvetic Confederacy.
On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throwing off
the Austrian yoke, and " it is well attested," says the same author,
" that not one drop of blood was shed on this memorable occasion,
nor had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a privilege, or
an inch of land. The Swiss met on the succeeding Sabbath, and
once more confirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly
named it) their perpetual league.")
* In point of chronology, this poem should have followed "The
Vespers of Palermo" and "Songs of the Cid." Having been inad



432           THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.
I.'TWAS night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild horn,1
Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone,
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone,
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd,
And the rock-eagle couch'd high on his cloudy nest.
II.
Did the land sleep?-the woodman's axe had ceased
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane;
The grapes were gather'd in; the vintage feast
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain.
Hush'd by the streams; the year was in its wane
The night in its mid-watch; it was a time
E'en mark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign,
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime,
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.
III.
For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread
High and unmark'd by mortal footstep lay;
And there, where torrents,'mid the ice-caves fed,
Burst in their joy of light and sound away;
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,
Had hung man's dwellings'midst the realms of air,
O'er cliffs the very birth-place of the dayOh! who would dream that tyranny could dare
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works e'en there 1
IV.
Yet thus it was-amidst the fleet streams gushing
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell,
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell,
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet bell
Recall'd such life as Eastern patriarch's led:
There peasant men their free thoughts might not tell
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread,
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull stealthy tread.
V.
But in a land of happy shepherd homes,
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,
With their bright hearth-fires'midst the twilight glooms,
From bowery lattice through the firlwoods shiningA land of legends, and wild songs entwining
vertently omitted in its proper place, it is here inserted between the
Siongs for Music" and the " Scenes and Hymns oc life," in order
nore strikingly to exhibit the changes in style and habits of thought
apparent between the earlier and later compositions of Mrs Hemans




THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.                433
Their memory with all memories loved and blestIn such a land there dwells a power, combining
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast;
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!
VI.
A sound went up-the wave's dark sleep was broken —
On Uri's lake. was heard a midnight oarOf man's brief course a troubled moment's token
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore;
And then their gloom a flashing image wore
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood,
And the wild-falcon's wing was heard to soar
In startled haste-and by that moonlight flood,
A. band of patriot men on Grutli's verdure stood.
VII.
They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow
Had waged their war on things of mountain race;
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
-Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place
Of secret council.-Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face;To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.
VIii.
O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide
Of years have flow'd, and still, from sire to son,
Their names and records on the green earth died,
As cottage-lamps, expiring one by one
In the dimrn glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound.-But silent on its height,
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,
(ill some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.
IX.
Sc were they roused-th' invading step had pass'd
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's blast,'
Could bar Oppression from their homes no more,
Why, what had she to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur's impress?-In the storm's free way,
How dared she lift her pageant crest before
Th' enduring and magnificent array
Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with the day I
x.
This might not long be borne-the tameless hills
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and fbr ever telling
That He hath made man free! and they whose dwelling
VoL. TI.-37




434          THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling.
They rose-the forester the mountaineerOh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant-spear?
xi.
Sacred be Grutli's field-their vigil keeping
Through many a blue and starry summer night,
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,
Had those brave Switzers met, and in the sight
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might
To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep tioughts way
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight,
With lovely images of homes that lay
Bower'd'midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.
XII.
Now had endurance reach'd its bounds!-They canle
With courage set in each bright earnest eye,
The day, the signal, and the hour to name,
When they should gather on their hills to die,
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry
For the land's freedom.-'Twas a scene combining
All glory in itself-the solemn sky,
The stars, the waves their soften'd light enshrining,
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature shining.
XIII.
Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low
As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet flow,
Had temper'd in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E'en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.
XIV.
And three, that seem'd as chieftains of the band,
Were gather'd in the'midst on that lone shore
By Uri' lake-a father of the land,3
One on his brow the silent record wore
Of many days, whose shadows had pass'd o'er
His path among the hills, and quench'd the dreams
Of youth with sorrow.-Yet from memory's lore
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams,
For he had walk'd with God, beside the mountain streams.
xv.
And his grey hairs, in happier times, might well
To their last pillow silently have gone,
As melts a wreath of snow.-But who shall tell
How life may task the spirit?-He was one,
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done,




THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.                4
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press'd,
Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of' sun,
He bow'd not to his years, for on the breast
Of a still chainless land he deem'd it much to rest.
XVI.
But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure!-By that pale elder's side,
Stood one that seenm'd a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride,
Werner,4 the brave and true!-If men have died.
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such.-The voice that cried
Within his breast, "Arise! " came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in moonlight sleep.
XVII.
It was a home to die for!-As it rose
Through its vine-foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round;
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o'er his soul its melodies went by
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.
XVIII.
But who was he, that on his hunting-spear
Lean'd with a prouder and more fiery bearing 7
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow o' its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame-a soul declaring
War against earth's oppressors. Midst that throng,
Of other mould he seem'd, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike songXIx.
A memory on the mountains!-one to stand,
When the hills echo'd with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array her peasant-children to repel
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains;
Ay, one to fobld around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile-for through his veins
The joy of danger flow'd, as torrents to the plains.
xx.
There was at times a wildness in the light
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something, born
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright,
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!
It well might be!-Young Erni's step had worn 




436          THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps,
And track'd the lynx above the clouds of morn,
And follow'd where the flying chamois leaps
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathom'd glacier deeps.
XXI.
He was a creature of the Alpine sky,
A being whose bright spirit had been fed'Midst the crown'd heights of joy and liberty,
And thoughts of power. He knew each path which lea
To the rock's treasure-caves, whose crystal shed
Soft light o'er secret fountains At the tone
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer had spread    
A startled wing; for oft that peal had blown
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound alone.
XXII.
His step had track'd the waste, his soul had stirr'd
The ancient solitudes-his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down Heaven.7  That tale was heard
In Hasli's dales, and where the shepherds' fobld
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day's last footstep bathes in burning gold
Great Righi's clifls; and where Mount Pilate's height
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.
XXIII.
Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass'd
And, from the bosom of the wilderness,
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast
The weight of bondage down-and bright and fats,
As the clear waters, joyously and free,
Burst from the desert-rock, it rush'd at last,
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three
Thus with their brethern stood, beside the Forest Sea. 8
XXIV.
They link'd their hands, they pledged their stainless fiith,
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven,
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,
With the severe and solemn transport given
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew,
And call'd upon their God, whose arm had riven
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew,
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might o'erthrew
xxv.
They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,




THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.-NOTES.              437
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains bornSo far was heard the blast of freedom's echoing horn!
xxvI.
The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending
The frozen stillness which around them hung;
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending,
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollow rung;
And the flame-signals throtuih the midnight sprung
From the Surennen rocks, li&e banners streaming
To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung
On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming,
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendor seeming.
xxvII.
And the winds toss'd each summit's blazing crest,
As a host's plumage; and the giant pines,
Fell'd where they waved o'er crag and eaale's nest,
Heap'd up the flames. The clouds grew very signs,
As o'er a citv's burning towers and shrines,
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown'd and bright,
In Werner's dwelling flow'd; through leafless vines
From Walter's hearth stream'd fbrth the festive light,
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.
XXVIII.
Then on the silence of the snows there lay
A. Sabbath's quiet sunshine-and its bell
Fill'd the hush'd air awhile, with lonely sway;
For the stream's voice was chain'd by Winter's spell,
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell
Rung forth, erelong, when strains of jubilee
Peal'd from the mountain-churches, with a swell
Of praise to Him who stills the raging seaFor now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!
1N OTES.
Note 1, page 432, line 1.
The Senn's wild horn.
Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss Alps.
Note 2, page 433, line 34.
--.gainst the Fohnwind's blast.
Fohnwind, the south-east-wind, which frequently lays waste the
country before it.
Note 3, page 434, line 34.
--     father of the land.
Walter Furst, the father-in-law of Tell.
37*




438          SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE.
Note 4, page 435, line 9.
Werner, the brave and true, &ce.
Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife to rouse and
and unite his countrymen for the deliverance of Switzerland.
Note 5, page 435, last line.
-     Young Fani's step had worn, 4-c.
Erni, Arnold Melchthal.
Note 6, page 436, line 11.
- The Lammer-Geyer had spread, &c.
The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle.
Note 7, page 436, line 16.
Of wrongs to call down Heaven, r-c.
The eyes of his aged father had been put out by the orders of the
Austrian Governor.
Note 8, page 436, line 31.
Beside the Forest Sea.
Forest-Sea-the Lake of the Four Cantons is frequently so called.
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE; WITH OTIJER RELIGIOUS
POEMS.
I TRUST I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavor
which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the sphere of
Religious Poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of
daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed
circle.
It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its
meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying of
which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict,
though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a mountain
watch-fire, borne down by tempest showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds.
I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of
the prison and the deathbed, bearing " healing on its wings" to the
agony of parting love-strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for
"perils in the wilderness "-gladdening the domestic walk through
field and woodland-and springing to life in the soul of childhood,
along with its earliest rejoicing preceptions of natural beauty.
Circumstances not altogether under my own control, have, for the
present, interfered to prevent the fuller development of a plan which
l yet hope more worthily to mature; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be




THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.                 439
more impressively taught to human powers, than by their reverential application to things divine.
THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.
A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
"Thy face
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate."    Wilson.
Scene in a Prison.
EDITH alone.
Edith. MORN once again! Morn in the lone dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream,
And morn on all the green rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner's home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird
That in the lime's transparent fbliage sings,
Close to my cottage lattice-he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees,
Through the dim starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise
As if new-born. Bright -world! and I am here!
And thou, 0 thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!-where art thou?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul's companion!
[GOMEZ, a Spanish.Priest enters,
Gom.                     Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.
Ed.            Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate'er thy lips announce.
Gom. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to Heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray'd for life? and would'st thou not
Once more be free?
Ed.            Have I not pray'd for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! thou know'st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free.  I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!




440            THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!
Gom.                      Rejoice, rejoice!
Our Queen hath pity, maiden, on thy youth;
She wills not thou should'st perish.-I am come
To loose thy bonds.,Ed.            And shall I see his face,
And shall I listen to his voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness?  Will this be? -
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem'd thee stern-say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too lonf in sunshine rear'dToo long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush'd
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father, speak!
Herbert-is he too free?
Gom.                His freedom lies
In his own choice-a boon like thine.
Ed.                           Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing me.
Let all be told.
Gon        I The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.
Ed.                Oh! unlike to Him,
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed him not!
Gom. (laying a paper before her.) Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here.
Sign but these words for liberty and life.
Ed. (examining and then throwing it from her.)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not,
"Be but a traitor to God's light within?"Cruel, oh, cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom's hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home farewell!
And thou —now leave me with my God alone!
Gom. Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy?
Ed.                  Heaven's! doth Heaven
Woo the free spirit for dishonor'd breath
/To sell its birthright? doth Heaven set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!




THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.                 441
God hath been with me'midst the holiness
Of England's mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander'd with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of his word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.-Shall I quail?Shall England's daughter sink?-No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake his child!
Gom. (turning from her.) Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!
Ed. (suddenly throwing herself at his feet.)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm'd thy breastGom.                       Away-away!
I know not love.
Ed.          Yet hear! if thou hast known
The tender sweetness of a mother's voiceIf the true vigil of affection's eye
Hath watch'd thy childhood-if fond tears have e'er
Been shower'd upon thy head-if parting words
E'er pierced thy spirit with their tendernessLet me but look upon his face once more,
Let me but say-farewell, my soul's beloved!
And I will bless thee still!
Gom. (aside.)        Her soul may yield,
Beholding him in fetters; woman's faith
Will bend to woman's loveThy prayer is heard;
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.
Ed. Oh! stormy hour of agony and joy!
But I shall see him-I shall hear his voice!    [They go out,
SCENE II.-Another Part of the Prison.
HERBERT-EDITH.
Ed. Herbert, my Herbert! is it thus we meet?
Her. The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy
Light up this place of Jeath? And do I feel
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek,
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair,
My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed!
My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made
For the kind fostering of sweet summer airs,
How hath the storm been with thee!-Lay thy head
On this true breast again, my gentle one!
And tell me all.
Ed.         Yes, take me to thy heart,




442            THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.
For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart!
The kind, the brave, the tender!-how my soul
Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm
Of rest on that warm heart! —full, deep repose!
One draught of dewy stillness after storm!
And God hath pitied me, and I am hereYet once befbre I die!
Her.              They cannot slay
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou,
My broken lily! Surely the long days
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee!
Oh! that thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head
Yet in calm sunshine
Ed.               Herbert! I have cast
The snare of proffer'd mercy from my soul,
This very hour. God to the weak hath given
Victory o'er life and death!-The tempter's price
Hath been rejected-Herbert, I must die.
Her. 0 Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first
From the old path wherein thy fathers trodI, that received it as an angel's task,
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul,
Which drank it as a sunflower-I have been
Thy guide to death!
uide  to death! To heaven! my guide to heaven,
My noble and my bless'd! Oh! look up,
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee,
How could my spirit have sprung up to God,
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision hung,
The night of fear and error?-thy dear hand
First raised that veil, and show'd the glorious world
My heritage beyond.-Friend! love, and friend!
It was as if thou gav'st me mine own soul
In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven,
And a new sense for all their splendors born,
These were thy gifts! and shall I not rejoice
To die, upholding their immortal worth,
Even for thy sake 1 Yes, fill'd with nobler life
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth,
Lay me upon the altar of thy God,
The first fruits of thy ministry below;
Thy work, thine own!
Her.             My love, my sainted love!
Oh! I can almost yield thee unto heaven;.Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart,
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts
Untainted by a breath! And yet, alas!
Edith! what dreams of holy happiness,
Even for this world, were ours!-the low, sweet home,
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch,
And lattice glearming through the leaves-and thou,
My life's companion!-Thou, beside my hearth,




THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.               443
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step,
In the green meadow-path, or by my side
Kneeling-thy calm uplifted face to mine,
In the sweet hush of prayer! and now-oh! nowHow have we loved-how fervently, how long!
And this to be the close!
Ed.                  Oh! bear me up,
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God! in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise
To dwell with thee —even thence the oppressor's hand
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country, where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.
Her.              Oh! the peace
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears,
Lighting those blue still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for Heaven!
Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert! in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might!
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection's deepest music speak
T'o thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman's peace
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so pure
Reposed before.-Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek —forgive, firgive!
I should not melt -thy noble strength away
In such an hour.




444           THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.
Her Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more; God bears me up through thee,
And; by thy words, and by the heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th' all-pitying One, to aid.              [They kneel.
O, look on us,
Father above! in tender mercy look
On us, thy children! through th' o'ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aidSave or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth,
But we are weak-we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts,
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not,
Holiest! from thee; oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial, take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link'd for ever. Hear, through Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares;
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.   [T.iey rise.
Is thy soul strengthen'd, my beloved one?
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days-the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?  [She sings.
He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd,
When but his Father's eye
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of All above, beneath,
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.
The sun set in a fearful hour,
The stars might well grow dim,
When this mortality had power
So to o'ershadow HIM!
That he who gave man's breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.
He proved them all!-the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,




FLOWERS AND MUSIC, ETC.               441
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All gathered round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to prayYet pass'd it not, that cup, away!
It pass'd not-though the stormy wave
Hiad sunk beneath his tread;
It pass'd not-though to him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on high
A gift of strength for man to die.
And was the sinless thus beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark narrow way?
Through Him-through Rim, that path who trodSave, or we perish, Son of God!
Hark, hark! the parting signal.
[Prison attendants enter.
Fare-thee-well!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
Her.                  One last embrace.
On earth the last!-We have eternity
For love's communion yet!-Farewell-farewell!
[She is led out.'Tis o'er-the bitterness of death is past!
FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.
"Once when I look'd along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid far.ewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be."           Wilson.
Apartment in an English Country-House.-LILLIAN reclining, as sleeping on a couch.  Her Mother watching beside
her. Her Sister enters with flowers.
Mother. Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps,
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!,
And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them henceDost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
Vol._ II. —38
__________ —-`-~                                              -j___ _




446             FLOWERS AND MUSIC
These leaves and odors with strange influence wake
In hex fast-kindled soul?
Jessy.              Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.
Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice?
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers 
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness,,i5y thoughtful mother!-In her chasten'd soul
T'he passion-color'd images of life,
Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away:
And night is there-still, solemn, holy night,
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of' many fountains low and musical,
By day unheard.
Mother. And wherefore night, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,
And walk forth with the dayspring,
Lilian.                      Hope it not!
Dream it no more, my mother!-there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels his thrilling summons.
But my words
Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy? Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This tbam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook,
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first' 
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar boughs?
Jessy.                All, all is there
Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness'midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament




IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.               447
In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairt throne
Of richest moss.
Lilian      Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly,
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials; —strew them o'er my couch
Till it grow like a forest bank in spring,
All flush'd with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly,
As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness!-I know
How its long light festoons o'erarching hung
From the grey rock, that rises altar-like,
With its high waving crown of mountain ash'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak
Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue crystal firmament.
The ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down'Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautifull is all this fair free world
Under God's open sky!
Mother.           Thou art o'erwrought
Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
O husfi, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.
Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone(For I must go)-then the remember'd words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Held there with life and love. And weep not thus
Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now I weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit's eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophesies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewell"
On the rich petals traced: No —in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read"Look up, look heavenward!"




44a             FLOWERS AND MUSIC
Blessed God of Love
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn!
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower,
In the serene and never-mloaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts
A record of lost love?
/Alother.         My Lilian! thou
Surely in thy bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!
Lilian.                 Oh! little yet,
For thou hast been my shield; But had it been
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown
Without thy love-O mother! there are hearts
So perilously fashion'd, that for them
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music'? Something in their hues
All melting into color'd harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away.-O, bring thy harp,
Sister! a gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd mine eyelids; sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
Jessy. What would'st thou hear? The Italian peasant's lay
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With " Roma, Roma?" or the madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of SicilyJr
Or the old ditty left by Troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?
Lilian.            Oh, no! not these.
Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city. or those notes
Born of' the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
Even unto death'
Lilian.       No, sister, nor yet theseToo much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies;-They would but woo me back
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds



IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.               449
And vainly, vainly-No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music! -Something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway'd by gusts of' earth: something all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it nowNow it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush
All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice
That said of old-" Be still!"-Sing me that strain,
"The Saviour's dying hour."    [JEssY sings to the Harp
0 Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death;
All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for thee,
Holy one! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer!
E'en this cup was thine!
Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en'midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour!,E'en on thine awful'way to victory,
Wildly they call'd thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart's deep core,
Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil
Sufferer! thou Son of Man!
Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom,
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lainHe a pale sad watcherMet with looks of anguish,
All the anguish in thy last meek glanceDying Son of Man!
38*




45W               CATHEDRAL HYMN
Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love,
Thou that didst weep and dieThou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!
CATHEDRAL HYMN.
"They dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here."- Wordswori
A DIM and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!-the very light
Streams with a coloring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years — and the rich fretted roof;
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured roseThe tenderest image of mortalityBinding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves-all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honor be with the dead!- the people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs.-The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd crowns
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes.-Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.-Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee-Lo! the blessed cross!




CATHEDRAL HYMN.                    4
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of' immortal hope,
Gather'd before their God!-Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!-a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster-forest-like itselfWith its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes.-Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorinogs-be they not in vain!
Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer,
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
Let, then, thy spirit brood
Over the. multitudeBe thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal'd in each close bosom cell.
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond aching love,
Thy minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.




452               CATHEDRAL HYMN.
And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Yes! here before thy throne
Many-yet each aloneTo thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake
How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly fobr mortal sight:
Where shall the guilt flee?
Over that far off sea.
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light t
Not to the cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield
The hope-the stay-the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee?
Be thou, be thou his aid!
O let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought;
There let the living stone
Be cleft-the seed be sownThe song of fountains from the silence brought!
So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image-Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fitl'd
With hues of Heaven instill'd
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
And if, amidst the throng
Link'd by the ascending song,
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man's early dower,
Thus, e'en'midst tears, can fervently adore!
Thanks fobr each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.




WOOD WALK AND HYMN.                  453
WOOD WALK AND HYMN.
" Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods." —JFordswortk
FATHER-CHILD.
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!
Father.          Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's lecend of that quivering tree?
Child. No, fatther; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
father.          Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
Child. (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?
Father. Nay, my child,
We walk in clearer light, But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which wori us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies torth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them-far, far too fast!-away
As worthless weeds:-Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come-let us search for violets.
Child.                   Know you not
More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers!
Father.                 Wilt thou know more I
Bring then tile folding leaf, with dark-brown stains,




454            WOOD WALK AND HYMN
There-by the mossy roots of yon old beecn,'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips-see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight.
Child. The Arum leaf?
Father.              Yes, these deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness)
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A. heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen
The passion-flower?-It grows not in the woods,
But'midst the bright things brought from other climes.
Child. What, the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks
And light green tendrils?
Father.             Thou hast mark'd it well.
Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits!-To mine eye
Those faint wan petals-colorless-and yet
Not white, but shadowy-with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapor-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!-and the Christian's thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs,
Set by God's hand-The coronal of thornsThe cross-the wounds-with other meanings deep,
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath,
The Saviour's holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
Of the old wood.-How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom!-Scarte doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth,'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm color'd light.
Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,




WOOD WALK AND HYMN.                  455
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain:-but we, my child, are here
With Go&, our God, a Spirit; who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge-deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and h allow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!'Tis love, not fear whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance-and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and blight,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late-'twas made for such a scene.
[Child speake.
WOOD HYMN.
Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o'er the pools all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd;
And something of' a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers all divinely nursed.
Wakes there some spirit here?
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices-each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
Yes, lightly, softly move!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being, that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sodThou, thou art here my God!




456       PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.
And if with awe we tread
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane,
And'midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?-where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple twilight of the gloom pr5ound,
The dew cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd —
All, all with thee are fill'd!
Oh! purify mine eyes,
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought!
And'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
And sanctify my heart
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to ownJoy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.
Let me not know the change
O'er nature thrown by guilt!-the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous'and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.
" So 1l of our souls! and safeguard of the world'
Sustain-Thou only canst-the sick at heart,
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine1,
Wordsworth.
NIGHT-holy night-the time
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime!
Night!-when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul,
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strange joy of immortality!
Now hath strong sadness wrapp'd mne-strange and deepAnd my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er themn roll,
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plurned, to sweep
Far beyond earth's control.




PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.             457
Wherefore is this?-I see the stars returning,
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burningFast shine they forth-my spirit friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;
They shine-but faintly, through a quivering hazeOh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays?
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning-a love intenseThey, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight,
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall Ithey shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to me?
Am 1 a thing forsaken,
And is the gladness taken
From the bright pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
And now an alien!-Wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns- of radiance, welling free?
Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,
My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of powerA fearful and a dazzling solitude!And therefore from that haughty summit's crown,
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'dShine on him through the cloud!
Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still'd by that o'ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten'd sight
Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove,
My thoughts go forth and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love,
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolateVoL. II.-39




458       THE TRAVEL1,ER'S EVENING SONG
Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!-I am vow'd
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone,
Unto the altar-stone,
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred solitary way?
Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!-Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright selftoffering, earnest, child-like, lone,
For mounting to thy throne I
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner mom,
Find, in illumined secresy, the sense
Of that bless'd work, its own high recompense.
The dimness melts away
That on your glory lay,
Oh ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes,
And, if that splendor to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive lightSomething, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught,
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace
On heaven's unshadow'd faceBe it e'en so!-be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart;
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless'd will
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.*
THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.
FATHER, guide me!. Day declines.
Hollow winds are in the pines;
* Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy
delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir Williamn Hamilton, royal
astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November, 1832.
-~      -                                             ----       -,.




THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG,            459
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountain bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim
Be my stay!
In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father! through the storm and shade
O'er the wild,
Oh! be Thou the lone one's aidSave thy child!
Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast,
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things hasteGod cimight!
Shield the homeless'midst the waste,
Be his light!
In his distant cradle nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams,
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.Father, guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!
Darker, wilder, grows the night,
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern old forest made.




460                 BURIAL OF AN
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that bless'd head
Shelter gaveFather! through the time of dread,
Save-oh, save!
BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.
ScEln. —The banks of a solitary river in an American forest.
A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. AGNEs sitting
before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping.
Agnes Surely'tis all a dream —a fever-dream!
The deso. ation and the agonyThe strange red sunrise-and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad lonely river! all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come,
Through the wreath'd sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
(Shudderingly.) The strange damp thrilling touch!
The marble chill! Now, nowait rushes backNow I know all -dead-dead!-a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep loving eyes —he's gone-he's gone!
rHer HUSBAND enters
Husband. Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last
On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is comeThe couch made ready for his last repose.
Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet;
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time, to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now —oh! now,
Never again the laughter of his eye
Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soulNever on earth again. Yet, yet delay!
Thou canst not take him from me.
Husband,                    My beloved!
Is it not God hath taken him? the God




EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.           461
That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say,
"His will be done!"
Agnes,         Oh! that near household grave,
Urkder the turf of England, seem'd not halfNot half so much to part me from my child
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home,
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;
And rcould dress its greensward with fresh flowersFamiliar, meadow flowers. O'er thee my babe,
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister's side,
We lay'midst England's valleys!
Husband.                    Dost thou grieve
Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.
Agnes.           Forgive, forgive!
My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wildForget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country! there my head shall rest,
And throb no more. - Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!
[Kneeling with the child in her arms.
And thou, my God!
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness,
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!
If nature hath rebell'd,
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away,
Making a midnight of her agony,
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand-oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice —
Father say, " Peace, be still!"
[Giving the child to her husband.
Farewell, my babe:
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!
Husband.              Now, my wife,




462               BURIAL OF, ETC.
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to reposeWith a calm, trustful heart.
Agnes.                My Edmund! whereWhere wilt thou lay him?
Husband.              See'st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?-there-o'er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the grey mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn-a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o'er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.
Agnes.               My gentle son!
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joyEdmund, rememberest thou?-with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to.his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind youthful breast! Oh! now no more,
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
(Bending over the child.) Once more farewell!
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How c it be sustain'd? Away, away!
[,After a short pause.
Edmund, my woman's nature still is weakI cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.
Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer!
Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!
We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.
He goes out with the child.-AGNEs kneels in prayer.-Af.
ter a time, voices without are heard singing.
THE FUNERAL HYMN.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England's field flowers may not deck his grave.
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave.




EASTER DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.  463
Woods unknown receive him,'Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
Though his eye hath brighten'd
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten'd
Half our hearts' dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven.
And to her who bore him,
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall Heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and r a-ice again
Through her soul will shine, andim'a by pain.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
From the exile's sorrow,
From the wanderer's dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled:
Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.
Now let thought behold him
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast,
When his voice their tender meekness blest.
Turn thee now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!
EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD
THERE is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills,)
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn




464                EASTER-DAY IN
By all the embosom'd woods-a silvery green,
Made up of Spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
And lo! where floating through a glory, sings
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler jdy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,
By this glad morning's birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Then music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.
Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye,
O'er nature's face the coloring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes.
Lay hush'd in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!'
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the - ind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sc mnd! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded-and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past.
And you ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,
Girt with. the slumber of the hamlet's dead,
Time with a soft and reconciling hand
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O'er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head
Hath,'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love!
E'n on this greensward; night hath heard thy cry,
Heart stricken one! thy precious dust above,
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!




A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.                46
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality's thick gloom
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
By thee, sad Love, and-by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To veil that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,
And, where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.
But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead,
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch hath spread,
And, settling oft on some grey letter'd stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
Here,'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep,
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these vallies lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought —nor needs their fresh bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Christ hath arisen!-O mountain peak! attest,
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave,
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory-tell how oft the brave
To camp'midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne.
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-dayAy, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone,
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! the pure high snows have known
A coloring not their own,
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.
Those days are past-the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendor of the martyr's blood,
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E'en though the faiithful stood,




466        THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.
A noble army, in the exulting sight
Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right'
But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower,
Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether layhis love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness.-Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!
THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.
"A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle to waylay.
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death." — Wordsworth
I SAW him at his sport erewhile,
The bright exulting boy,
Like Summer's lightning came the smile
0r his young spirit's joy;
A flash that wheresoe'r it broke,
-To life undreamt-of beauty woke.
His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-color'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide!
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.
He twined him wreaths of all Spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet's dew;
He flung them o'er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem'd more pure, or bright or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.
To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem'd as it ne'er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steel o'er the dawn of such clear day? 
I saw once more that aspect brightThe boy's meek head was bow'd




THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.              467
In silence o'er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloudThe still cloud of a pictured skyHis locks droop'd round it lovingly.
And if my heart had deem'd him fair,
When in the fountain glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play'd;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being's brow!
The being born to toil, to die,
To break forth from the tomb,
Unto far nobler destiny
Than waits the skylark's plume!
I saw him in that thoughtful hour,
Win-the first knowledge of his dower.
The soul, the awakening soul I saw,
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe,
Sweeping o'er that fair face;
As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight:
Lovely, but solemn it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
The red-leaved tablets,* undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought()h! little dream'd the brooding child,
Of what within me wrought,
While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd,
And quiver'd to the eternal word.
And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of his gaze;
A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;
To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.
It seem'd as if a temple rose
Before me brightly there,
And in the depths of its repose
My soul o'erflow'd with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nighThe power of infant sanctity r
* "All this, and inore than this, is now engraved upon the red'eawec tablets of my heart." —Haywood.




"46            A POET'S DYING HYMN.
O Father! mould my heart once more,
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E'en with that pure one's faith;
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!
A POET'S DYING HYMN.
"Be mute who will, who can,
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship here and every where."- Wordsworth.
TrH  blue, deep, glorious heavens!-I lift mine eye
And bless thee, 0 my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!-that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded fiom my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee O my God!
That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, 0 my God.
That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,
In the earth's garden-'midst the mountains o'd
A;',d the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sound of waters uncontrollu' —
And upon many a desert plain and shoreNo solitude-for there I felt thee more:
I bless thee, 0 my God!
And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the'unseal'd eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart-if I have kept it free
And pure-a consecration unto thee:
1 bless thee, 0 my God!
If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power-if thou hast made
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
Tbless thee, O my God!




A POET'S DYING HYMN.                 469
Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne
Or but one hope, one prayer:-for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
That I have loved-that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a coloring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links fbr intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, 0 my God!
That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream. to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine:
I bless thee, 0 my God!
That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calm, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed:
rhat passing storms have only fann'd the fire,
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, 0 my God!
Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, 0 my God!
And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes-'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:I bless thee, O my God!
And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!
VoIJ. 11.-40




470  THE FUNERAL DAY OF S[R WALTER SCOTT.
Yes! the young vernal voices in the skies
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no moreLet me too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, 0 my God!
Now aid, sustain me still!-to thee I come,
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!
THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
" Many'an eye
May wail the dimming of our shining star."-Shakspeare
A GLORIOUS voice hath ceased!Mournfully, reverently-the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more AEolian melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us backThough allher songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!-They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mindThey bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by loveAnd he is silent!-Past the living stream
They beat him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hea —
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they moveAnd he is silent!-he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and ftrn-clad height,
In glowing life unsprang:-Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantoms of color'd thought,




THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.  41l
Surviving him who raised.-O eloquence!
0 power, whose breathings thus colld wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou thei e-to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?-The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!-Sing reverently
The funeral chant!-The mighty is borne homeAnd who shall be his mourners?-Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic-love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each;
Yes-the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:-from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the veil'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.-The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch'midst ruins  meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sn ng reverently the chant
Over the honor'd grave!-the grave — oh, say
Rather the shrine!-An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn-a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things —where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain,
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid —
The crown'd of men?
A lowly, lowly song
Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!
8 hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!
A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:
Now call'st thou back thine ownHence is that radiance flownTo earth but lent.




7 IHE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.
Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.
How hath he pass'd!-the lord
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
0 Infinite!
So from his harvest home,
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal d
To thee, All Just!
The sword of many a fightWhat then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wingWhat shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
0 Father! in that hour
When earth all succoring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast downSustain us, Thou!
By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass awayAid us, 0 God!
Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save.
Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
Keep us, in life and death,
Thine, only thine!
THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERRiESS.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO l.
IN the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,
40*




THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.             473
With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone:-she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer-the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.
Father of Spirits, hear!
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd 
Hear, Father! hear, and aid!
If I have loved too well, if I have shed
in my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.
If I have sought to live
But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,
Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!
-Chasten'd and school'd at last,
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wildworship turnsWhat have I said?-the deep dream is not past'
Yet hear!-if still I love,
Oh! still too fondly-if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.
If still a voice is near,
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear.
O Father! draw to thee
My lost affelctions back!-the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist-sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!
I must love on, 0 God!
This bosom must love on i-but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death,
Bearing it up to heaven-love's own abode!
Ages and ages past, the wilderness,
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odor, up to God!




474         PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.
PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.
A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*
"From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own."- Wordsworth.
SCENE-Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the
Reign of Terror.
D'ArBIGNE, an aged Royalist-BLANCHE, his daughter, a
young girl.
Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour,
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair.
Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?
D'Aubigne.          Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.
Blanche.         Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,
And the grey turrent of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?-But how is this?Father, thy glance is clouded-on thy brow
There sits no joy!
D'Aubigne.   Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian, who receives,
And recognises, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.
Blanche.              Thou dost not meanNo, no! it cannot be!-Didst thou not say
They sent us home?
D'Aubigne.      Where is the spirit's home?Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,
Where should it be-but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's powerWhere, but in Heaven?
Blanche.            My father!
D'Aubigne.                     Wye must die.
We must look up to God, and calmly die.* The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and
La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her
Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung to
gether in a low and restrained voice,




PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.             475
Come to my heart, and weep there!-for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!
Do I not know thee?-Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche 
Blanche. (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child!-Hide, hide me in thine armsFather!
DYAubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to goYoung, and so fair! —Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
TL:e loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,
And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away.-For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rojoicing to depart.-The soil is steep'd
In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.-Why, who would live I
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dislsnor'd soil,
The burden'd air?-Our God upon the crossOur king upon the scaffold* —let us think
Of these-and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!
Blanche.     A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear honor'd head!
Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!-whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon!-Speak yet againSay, will they part us?
D'Aubigne.        No, my Blanche; in death
We shall not be divided.
Blanche.            Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me-I shall see
His light before me to the last.-And whenO pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!When shall the hour befall?
D'Aiubgne.                  Oh! swiftly now,
And sudenly, with brief dread interval
Comes down the mortal stroke.-But of that laltUr
As yet I know not.-Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!
Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand
* A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and het ring some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations,
turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:-My friend,
whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the
cross —your king upon the scaffold-and he who now speaks to you
has'had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes
a man."




476         PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.
)'Aubigne.    If I may speak through tears!Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!-thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house,
There springing up-with soft light round thee shedFor immortality! —Meek child of God!
I bless thee-He will bless thee!-In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast!-And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived-my duteous, holy Blanche!
in trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.
Blanche, (rising.)       Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit.-I can rise
And say, " Thy will be done!"
D'Aubigne, (pointing upwards.) See'st thou; my child,
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating!-Mournfully
It'seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced the strain'-No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more!-And we will sleepYes —calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
[They sing together.
PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN
We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, 0 God! the sunset dies;
How every color'd hill and wood
Seems'melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.
We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All just
And bless thee stih with free and boundless trust!




HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS,               477
We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the'faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot lastAnd by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow darkWe trust thee!-As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.
We know thou reign'st-All holy one, all just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.
We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer-and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly onBy his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonmentAnd by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woesWe know that Thou may'st wound, may'st break
The Spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to Thee we turn!
To whom but Thee!-All merciful, all just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!
YMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF
PERSECUT'ION
"Thanks be to God for the mountains."-Howitt.
FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of' refuge
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
We are watchers of a beacon
Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield fourits of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;
___________________________________ 




478             THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
For the dark resounding caverns,
Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stir'd:
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad:
For the strength of the hills we bless thee.
Our God, our fathers' God!
The royal eagle darteth
On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,
Have sought the mountain sod 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
The banner of the chieftain,
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
For the shadow of thy presence,
Round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle,
Bearing record of our dead;
For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial-sod -;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.
SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.*
"But by my wrongs and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!"
Indian Song in " Ge-trude of Wyoming,."
~tENE.-The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A
solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and
* Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded,
a re recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Green-'and, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.




THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.                479
sycamore trees. HERRMANN, the missionary, seated alone
before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.
Ierrmann. Was that the light from some lone swift canoe
Shooting across the waters?-No, a flash
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of'cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster'd faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd!-Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
ihe offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound-'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.
[He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior amned
Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.
Enqnio.     My father speaks my name.
Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase returned?
The night-fires lit?  Why is my son abroad?
Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey
Than elk or deer. N ow let my father leave
The lone path free.
Herrmann. The forest way is long
From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak
Of these things further.




48C            THE IxDIAN'S REVENGI1
Enonio.           Tell me not of rest!
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift —
I must begone.
Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must stay!
The Mighty one hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words —and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because
Within its dark foblds thou hast mantled up
Some burning thought of ill?Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest?-.
Last night the spirit of my brother came,
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,
And said, "Avenge me! "-In the clouds this morn
I saw the frowning color of his bloodAnd that, too, had a voice.-I lay at noon
Alone beside the sounding waterfall,
And through its thunder-music spake a tone —
A low tone piercing all the roll of'wavesAnd said " Avenge me! "-Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,
That I may send the shadow from my couch,
And take the strange sound from the cataract
And sleep once more.
Herrmann.        A better path, my son,
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,
My hand in peace can guide thee-e'en the way
Thy dying brother trod.-Say, didst thou love
That lost one well?
Enonio.       Know'st thou not we grew up
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness.
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path;
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe; we lay
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand
Was still beneath my head; my brother's robe
Cover'd my bosom from the chill night air.
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love
Until he turn'd him from his fathers' gods,
And then my soul fell from him-then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes,
And wheresoe'er I wander'd, then it seem'd
That all the woods were silent.-I went forthI journey'd with my lonely heart, afar,
And so return'd-and where was he?-the earth
Own'd him no more.
Herrmann.          But thou thyself, since then
Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe,
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee
To the one God.
Enonio.      Yes, I have learn'd to pray
With my white father's words, yet all the more




THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.                481
My heart, that shut against my brother's love,
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire,
Burning my sleep away.-In the night hush,'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things
Of the great forests, I have call'd aloud,
"Brother! forgive, forgive!"-EIe answer'd notHis deep voice, rising from the land of souls,
Cries but ".Avenge me! "-and 1 go forth now
To slay.his murderer, that when next his eyes
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore,
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say.
" I have avenged thee."
Herrmann.          Oh! that human love
Should be the root of this dread bitterness,
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours
Transmuting balsam!-Stay, Enonio, stay!
Thy brother calls thee not!-The spirit world
Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil.-'Tis the might
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice
Unto the forest and the cataract,
The angry color to the clouds of' morn,
Tile shadow to the moonlight.-Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch,
When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died,
[ knelt and pray'd; he named his Saviour's name,
Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee
In pity and in love.'nonio, (hurriedly.) Did he not say
My arrow should avenge him?
Herrmann.                His last words
Were all forgiveness.
Enonio.         What! and shall the man
Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery,
Walk fearless forth in joy T
Herrmann.             Was he not once
Thy brother's fiiend?-Oh! trust me, not in joy
HIe walks the frewning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows-and shall he escape?
Enonio, dream it not!-Our God, the All Just,
Unto himself reserves this royaltyThe secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him!-Yet make it not thy hoperFor that strong heart of thine-Oh! listen yetMust, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish
For death or torture to the guilty one
Ere it can sleep again.
Enonio.           My father speaks
VoL i1.-41




48f2           THE INADIAN'S REVENGE.
Of change, for man too mighty.
Ierrmann.               I but speak
Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou would'st join thy brother, in the life
Of the bright country, where, I well believe,
His soul rejoices.-He had known such change.
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart,
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words
Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to heaven —
" Forgive them, for they know not what they do,
Father, forgive! "-And o'er the eternal bounds
Of' that celestial kingdom, undefiled,
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem,
Hath to his Master pass'd.-He waits thee thereFor love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness.-He calls
His brother to the land of golden light
And ever-livinog fountains-could'st thou hear
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say,
"My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again."
Enonio, (hesitatingly.) Can I return
Unto my tribe, and unavenged?
Herrmann.                To Him,
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps
Have wander'd far and long!-Return, my son,
To thy Redeemer!-Died he not in loveThe sinless, the divine, the Son of GodBreathing fbrgiveness'midst all agonies,
And we, dare we be ruthless?  By his aid
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place'Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears
Be o'er them shower'd.-Ay, weep thou Indian chief!
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold
Thy proud lip's working-weep, relieve thy soul!
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour
Of its great conflict.                        [the bow,
Enonio, (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) Father, take
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call
Forth to the chase once more.-And let me dwell
A little while my father! by thy side,
That I may hear the blessed words againLike water brooks amidst the summer hillsFrom thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart
The music and the memory of their sound
Too-long have died away.
Herrmann.            O, welcome back,
Friend, rescued one!-Yes, thou shalt be my guest,
And we will pray beneath my sycamore
t;, i: 1______________________________




PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.             483
Together, morn and eve; and I will spread
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last-.
After the visiting of holy thoughtsWith dewy wing shall sink upon thine eyes!Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!
[They go into the cabin together.-HERRMANN, lingering for
a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies
Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds
Now look'st on us, thy children! make this hour
Blessed for ever! May it see the birth
Of thine own image in the unfathom'd deep
Of an immortal soul; —a thing to name
With reverential thought, a solermnl world!
To Thee more precious than those thousand stars
Burning on high in thy majestic Heaven!
PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.
"The land shall never rue,
So England to herself do prove but true."
Shakspeare.
THROUGIG evening's bright repose
A voice of prayer arose,
When the sea-fight was done:
The sons of England knelt,
With hearts that now could melt,
For on the wave her battle had been won.
Round their tall ship, the main
Heaved with a dark red stain,
Caught not from sunset's cloud;
While with the tide swept past
Pennon and shiver'd mast,
Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bow'd.
But free n'da fair on high
A native (~ the sky,
Her streamer met the breeze;
It flow'd o'er fearless men,
Though hush'd and child-like then,
Before their God they gather'd on the seas.
Oh! did not thoughts of home
O'er each bold spirit come
As, from the land, sweet gales?
In every word of prayer
Had not some hearth a share,
Some bower, inviolate'midst England's vales?
Yes! bright green spots that lay
In beauty far away,
Hearing no billows roar;
Safer from touch of spoil,




484     EVENING -SONG OF TIlE W'/EARY.-ETC.
For that day's fiery toil,
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'4e
A solemn scene and dread!
The victors and the dead,
The breathless burning sky!
And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory I
A stern, yet holy scene!
Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;
And words, that breathe the sense
Of God's omnipotence,
Making a minster of that silent deep.
Borne through such hours afar,
Thy flag hath been a star,
Where eagle's wing ne'er flew;England! the unprofaned,
Thou of the hearths unstain'd,
Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!
EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.
FATHER of heaven and earth!
I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!
The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and. light!
Now, far in glade and dell,
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlarks's nest —
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied, and o'erwrought,
Bless thee, 0 God! 0 father of fheeppress'd.
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
Yes, e'er I sink to rest,
By the fire's dying light,
Thou Lord of earth and heaven!
I bless thee, who hast given
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night,
The soft still, holy night!
THE DAY OF FLOWERS.
A MOTIIER'S WALK WITH HER CIMILD.
" One spirit-His
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brown,




THIE DAY OF FLOWERS.                 M
Rules universal nature.-Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. Heinspires
Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with hirm!" —Cowper.
COME to the woods, my boy!
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice * fitfill songs of joy
Float in with each soft current of the air;
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel'midst fiee nature's wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal extasy of childhood back:
Come to the woods, my boy!
What! wouldst thou lead already to the path
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a dhild, a blessed child,
Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life
It fills the shadowy dingle!-now the wing
Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of' crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line
Of' gossamer, so tremulously hung
Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not-a bridge for fiiry' shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!
Yes, my boy!
Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein
Our woodland guide, for IHe who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,
Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,
As'twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
41'




486             THE DAY OF FLOWERS.
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step
My merry wanderer! let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E'en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of' sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd
The river deities or fountain nymphs,
For the cool breeze, and fobr the freshening shade,
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower'd the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer oil earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower scent as a boon fiom Him,
Each bird-note, quivering'midst light summer leaves
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of' morn and eve,
Kindle and melt away!
And now, in love,
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy,
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thoughtNo coloring from the past. This way our path
Winds through the hazels;-mark how brighty s[  tas
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of'life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, 0 thine!
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest
My heart o'erflow with summer!
Hast thou twined
Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously
Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse and through yon broken avenue,




THE DAY OF FLOWERS.                  4
Shadow'd by drooping walnut foliage, reach
The ruin's glade.
And, lo! before us fair,
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of' silence! wedded now
To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower scent
From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! The bee alone
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward fbotstep. See! unbound
From the oh! fri'tte]: stone-work, what thick wreaths
Of jasliie, borne by waste exuberance down,
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load
The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks
Of life gone hence! and the faint southern breath
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of' youth and joy, free nature's joy,
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here,
With the low thime and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gum-cistus o'er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down!-Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets,
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss rose-tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic,'midst dark grass,
Bedded like jewels.
He hath bounded on,
Wild with delight!-the crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup!-bright moss rose!
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish'd! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-oflrings, which o'er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.
Yet shall there still be joy,
Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the voice
Of human love shall still be heard in praise
Over his glorious gifts!-O Father, Lord!
The all-beneficent! I bless thy name,
That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers,




408    HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD.
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled,
Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of' Thee! back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!-Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven ascending-thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss;-the old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendor; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boonls,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
Return, my boy,
With all thy chaplets and bright bands return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd
And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dew drops, e'er we reach
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O'er one rich day of flowers.
HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS
RETURN,
IN THE OLDEN TIME.
JoY! the lost one is restored!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old




HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD.   13
Of the diamond and red gold:
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands!
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden silent death;
He hath reach'd his home again,
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!
Mightiest! unto Thee he turn'd,
When the noon-day fiercest burn d;
When the fountain springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell'd upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto Thee he cried! and Thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto Thee again
Joy shall sing,
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!
Thou wert with him on the main,
And the snowy mountain chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide,
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees:
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto thee a blessing strain,
God our King!
Thou to his lone watching wife
Hast brought back the light of life!
Thou hast spared his loving child
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown,
He is living, and our own!Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armor, on the wallWhile this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to Thee the exulting strain,
God our King!




400        A  PR&YER OF AFFECT'ION.-ETC
A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.
BLESSINGS, O Father! shower,
Father of Mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour
And the pure visions of his midnight bed.
Blessings be shed!
Father! I pray Thee not
For earthly treasure to that most beloved,
Fame, fortune, power:-oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will!
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of' Thee,
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom guest inalienbly be,
That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien
May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams
Remember'd faintly, gleams,
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown!
So let him walk with Thee,
Made by Thy spirit free;
And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,
That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven
His Saviour's face
THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.*
"Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship justOh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage my pangs when I aml laid in dust!"
Campbel.
b Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake
which is beautifully related by Allan Cunninghdsm.




THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.               1919
The Scene is an English Cottage. The Lattice opens on a
Lanscape at sunset.
EUGENE-TERESA.
Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes that make the dayspring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more!-Wilt thou look forth?
Now, while the sunset with low streaming lightThe light thou lovest-hath made the elm-wood stems
All burning bronze, the river molten gold!
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds?
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With our own evening hymn?
Eugene.                  Not now, dear love,
My soul is wakeful-lingering to look forth,
Not on the sun, but thee!-Doth the light sleep
On the stream tenderly? and are the stems
Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy,
So richly changed? and is the sweetbrier scent
Floating around?-But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa!-not to thee;
Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile
IJnto the spirit of' mine art, which flows
Back on my soul in mastery.-One last work!
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts,
Clinging aflections, and undying hopes,
All, all in that memorial!
Teresa.              O, what dream
Is this, mine own Eugene?-Waste thou not thus
Thy scarce returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts
For happier days! they will not melt away
Like passing music from the lute-dear friend!
Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will
The glorious visions.
Eugene.          Yes! the unseen land
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice,
To call me hence.-Oh! be thou not deceived!
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa!
I must, must leave thee!-Yet be strong, my love,
As thou hast still been gentle.
Teresa.                 O Eugene!
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene,
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all?
Mly only sunshine! —How can I bear on?
How can we part? We that have loved so well
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief,
By tears, by prayer?
Eugene.        E'en therefore we can part,
With an. immortal trust that such high love
Is not of things to perish




492          THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.
Let me leave
One iecord still of its ethereal flame
Brightening through death's cold shadow   Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
And eyes half veil'd, in thine own soul absorb'd,
As in thy watchings e'er I sink to sleep;
And I will give the bending flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being.'Thee! thy head
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought-even thus —my own Teresa,
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light-but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer flush! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles
Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass;-I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify
With a soft halo what is imaged thus —
But how much rests unbreathed! my faithful one!
What thou hast been to me! This bitter world,
This cold unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while-how have I turn'd away
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart
Found ever the sweet fountain of response
To quench my thirst for home!
The dear work grows
Beneath my hand, —the last!
Teresa, (falling on his neck in tears.)-Eugene. Eugene
Break not my heart with thine excess of love!Ohi! must I loose thee- thou that hast been still
The tenderest-bestEugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved!
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last!-Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong aflfction! -Let our soulis.
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boonOur perfect love!-Oh! blessed have we been
In that high gift; Thousands o'er earth may pass
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly d!ew,
Which hath kept ours from withering.-Kneel, true wife!
And lay thy hands in mine.
li  ________________________




LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD            49?
[She kneels beside the couch —he prays.
Oh, thus receive
Thy children's thanks, Creator! for the love
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woru,
To spread heaven's peace around them; which hath bound
Their spirits to each other and to thee,
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath breathed,
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God!
For all its treasured memories! tender cares,
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, unchanged
Through tears and joy. O Father! most of all
We thank, we bless Thee, fbr the priceless trust,
rhrough Thy redeeming Son vouchsafed, to those
That love in Thee, of unrion, in Thy sight,
And in Thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer!
Take home our Ibnd affections, purified
To spirit radiance from all earthly stain;
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell,
Father! where all things that are lovely meet,
And all things that are pure-for evermore,
With Thee and Thine!
MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD
SAVIOUR, that of woman born,
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn,
Thou, with whose last anguish strove
One dear thought of earthly loveH ear and aid!
Low he lies, my precious child,
With his spirit wandering wild
From its gladsome tasks and play,
And its bright thoughts far awaySaviour, aid!
Pain sits heavy on his brow,
E'en though slumber seal it now;
Round his lip is quivering strife,
In his hand unquiet lifeAid! oh, aid!
Saviour! loose the burning chain
From his fever'd heart and brain,
Give, oh! give his young soul back,
Into its own cloudless track!
Hear and aid!
Thou that said'st, "Awake, arise!"
E'en when death had quench'd the eyes,
In this hour of grief's deep sighing,
When o'erwearied hope is dying!
Hear and aid!
VOL. U1.- 42




NIGHT IHYMN AT' SEA.-FEMALE CHARACTERS
Yet, oh! make him thine, all thine,
Saviour! whether death's or mine!
Yet, oh! pour on human love,
Strength, trust, patience, from above'
Hear and aid!
NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.
THR WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON
NIGHT sinks on the wave,
Hollow gusts are sighing,
Sea-birds to their cave
Through the gloom are flying.
Oh! should storms come sweeping,
Thou, in heaven unsleeping,
O'er thy children vigil keeping,
Hear, hear, and save!
Stars look o'er the sea,
Few, and sad, and shrouded;
Faith our light must be,
When all else is clouded.
Thou, whose voice came thrilling,
Wind and billow stilling,
Speak once more! our prayer fulfillingPower dwells with Thee!
FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE,
A SERIES OF SONNETS.*
"Your tents are (esolate; your stately steps,
Of all their choral dlances, have not left
One trace beside the fountains; your full cup
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike
Is broken; yet, amidst undying things,
The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still
All the fresh glories of the early world
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls,
Never to change!"
I.-INVOCATION.
As the tired voyager on stormy seas
Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore,
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze,
Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar;
So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,
I call you, gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew
Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
* Suggested by the perusal of Mrs. Sandford's Woman.




FEMALE CHARAC'ITFT.  OF SCRIPTURE.          495
Daughters of Judah! With the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes,
Imperial in their visionary fire;
Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time,
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime
II.-INVOCATION CONTINUED.
AND come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,
With a soft harmony of tears and light
Streaming through all your spiritual mien,
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight
Ethereal cradle.-From your heart subdued
All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their flight,
And left high place for martyr fortitude,
True faith, long suffiring love.-Come to me, come!
And, as the seas beneath your master's tread
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.
III.-THE SONG OF MIRIAM.
A SONG for Israel's God! —Spear, crest, and helm,
Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea,
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm
Sent on the blast a hymnof jubilee;
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free,
Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain,
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee
Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain.
A sonog for God's own victory!-O, thy lays,
Bright poesy! were holy in their birth:How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling bitter founts-return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native' urn!
IV.-RUTH.
Tin plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd,
Still brings me back thine image-Oh! forlorn,
Yet not forsaken, Ruth!-I see thee stand
Lone,'midst the gladness of the harvest band —
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam,
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection's glance, fobr ever true




049      FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.
Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes
Gleam tremulous through tears,'tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone,
" Thypeople and thy God shall be mine own!"
V.-THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.
"And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it
for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water
dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of
the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night."
2 SAM. xxi. 10.
WHO watches on the mountain with the dead,
Alone before the awfulness of night?A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might?
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread?
No, a lorn woman!-On her drooping head,
Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain;
She recks not-living for the unburied slain,
Only to scare the vulture from their bed.
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept; —
Oh! surely some bright Presence from above
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!E'en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade,
Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest love!
VI.-REPLY OF THE SHUNAMlTE WOMAN.
"And she answered, I dwell among mine own people."
2 KINGs iv. 13.
"I DWELL among mine own," —Oh! happy thou!
Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow;
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters-not fbr these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,  t
lWhose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thineOh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,
Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities.
VII.-THE ANNUNCIATION.
LOWLrEST of women, and most glorified!
In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew-and by t!hy side
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne




FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.            497
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,
A stately prophetess of victory
From her proud lyre had struck a temptest's tone,
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of Heaven! that hour:-but thou, 0 thou!
E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word,
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.
VIII.-THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.
YET as a sunburst flushing mountain snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire erelong
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the choirs of Heaven among
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords.
Fun many a strain, borne far on glory's blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd,
No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh;
While thine, 0 childlike virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime,
Being of God, and. therefore not to die.
IX.-THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET.
THERE was a mournfulness in angel eyes,
That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train,
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies,
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.
But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain,
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn.
When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn;
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odors forth
On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh,
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth,
Than all those costly balms of Araby;
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven,
For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!
X.-MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.
)R! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth!
What were the Orient's thrones to that low-seat
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth?
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour's feet!
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet,
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
42*




498     FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying
So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.
XI.-THE  SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH
OF LAZARUS.
ONE grief, one faith, 0 sisters of the dead!
Was in your bosoms-thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of' Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait the summons-then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the bless'd Deliverer's feet,
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move
And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just,
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven.
XII.-THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.
"Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preachea
in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done,
be told for a memorial of her."-J-latthew, xxvi. 13.-See also John.
xii. 3.
THOU hast thy record in the monarch's hall;
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where'er, beneath some oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests-where'er the child
Looks upward from the English mother's knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known-where'er the Book of light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above:
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure silent place of fame?
One lowly offering of exceeding love.
XIII. —THE WOMEN OF JERUSALE.M AT THE CROSS.
LIKE those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast
Such by the cross doth vour bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last 
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye,




THE TWO MONUMENTS.                   499
E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
0 blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth;
Still hath your act a voice-through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life,
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.
XIV. —MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.
WEEPER! to thee how bright a mom was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial rocks had liven,
Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion's royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of one word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, 0 woman! bow'd
By strong affection's anguish! one low word"31ary!"-and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal'd! and thou, that so hadst err'd,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!
XV.-MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE
RESURRECTION.
THEN was a task of lory all thine own,
Noblerthan e'er the still small voice assign'd
To lips, in awful music making known
The stormy splendors of some prophet's mind.
"Christ is arisen!"-by thee, to wake mankind,
Firt from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught"Christ is arisen!"-Thou, thou, the sin enthrall'd,
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert call'd
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh! raised from shame to brightness!-there doth lie
The tenderest meaning of His ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth
THE TWO MONUMENTS.*
"Oh' bless'd are they who live and die like'him,'
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!"
Wordswoortk
BAINNERs iung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral's nave,
" Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer's' Notes and Reflec
tions during a:arnmble in Germany."




50C            THE TWO MONUMENTS
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!
And a marble warrior's form beneath,
With helm and crest array'd
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.
Triumph yet linger'd in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal'd,
And his head was pillow'd haughtily
On standard and on shield.
And shadowing that proud trophy pile
With the glory of' his wing,
An eagle sat;-yet seem'd the while
Panting through heaven to spring.
He sat upon a shiver'd lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.
And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
- The conqueror and his sword.
A flood of hues; but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.
Meet was that robe for him whose name
Was a trumpet note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.
But faintly, tenderly was thrown,
From the color'd light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.
Few were the fond words chisell'd there,
Mourning for parted worth -
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.
They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain-source:
Whose young pure memory, lying deep'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,*
A soft light meek and still:
* love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.- Wordsworth.








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X...,    X....S "'  i  Sii S'iii''' "' ~ I'!B; B:':   X 8'::i..B..S.88 ^::Sii:iii-i?-           ~!ii~ii~ii              i
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THE COTTAGE GIRL.-ETC.               501
Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.
These were his victories-yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fobld
Left but to heaven his name.
To heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household soundAnd finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.
Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!
THE COTTAGE GIRL.
A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage-this was all!
What'had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love! What secret spell
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell?
What but the spirit of the joyous child,
That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled,
Casting upon the common-things of earth
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
I L001'D on the field, where the battle was spread,
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array;
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray.
I saw the dark forest of lances appear,
As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood,
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.




Oohii:o the   A PENITENT'S RETURN
Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold,
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.
I look'd on the field of contention again,
When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past;
And the wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast.
Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose,
And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepen'd blur;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose.
Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearl-droDs of,tew.
But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host,
As the ocean in might-as the storm-cloud in speed!
Where now were the thunders of victory's boastThe slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of' the steed?
Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone,
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!
Oh, glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent:
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot;
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spentA grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!
A PENITENT'S RETURN.
"Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,
The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
And wins him o'er to virtue."- Wilson.
MY father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before I
Is it the brooding night,
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?
All solemnized it seems,
And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
- - -         --— I —'~~~~~~_______________________________




A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.                503
And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger d-where my sisters made
Our mother's bower-I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade!
How spirit-like a tone
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair!
Now those grey locks are gone!
My soul grows faint with fear!
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move-the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful! Faithless hearted!'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn gladd'ning light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
Therefore the calm abode,
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
The night-flowers round that door
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.
And must I turn away?Hark, hark!-it is my mother's voice I hearSadder than once it seem'd-yet soft and clearDoth she not seem to pray?
My name!-I caught the sound!
Oh! blessed tone of love-the deep, the mild —
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!
A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.
" Wre receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live;
Ours is hes wedding-garment, ours her shroua;
And, would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth;
And from the soul itself must there be sent




504            A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element."-ColeridgR
GREEN spot of holy ground!
If thou couldst yet be found,
Far in the deep woods, with all thy starry flowers;
If not one sullying breath
Of time, or change, or death,
Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers;
Might our tired pilgrim-feet,
Worn by the desert's heat,
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there
Through heaven's transparent air,
And rest on colors of the immortal rose?
Say, would thy balmy skies
And fountain-melodies
Our heritage of lost delight restore?
Could thy soft honey-dews
Through all our veins diffuse
The early, chila-like, trustful sleep once more?
And might we, in the shade
By thy tall cedars made,
With angel voices high communion hold?
Would their sweet solemn tone
Give back the music gone,
Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old?
Oh! no-thy sunny hours
Might come with blossom showers,
All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill;
But we-should we not bring
Into thy realms of spring
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still'
What could thy flowers and airs
Do for our earth-born cares'
Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free?
No!-past each living stream,
Still would some fever dream
Track the lorn wand'rers, meet no more for thee!
Should we not shrink with fear,
If angel steps were near,
Feeling our burden'd souls within us die?
How might oir passions brook
The still and searching look,
The starlike glance of seraph purity?
Thy golden-fruited grove
Was not for pining love;
Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies!
Oh! Thou wert but a part




LET US DEPART.                     505
Of what man's'exiled heart
Iath lost-the dower of inborn Paradise!
LET US DEPART.
lit I's mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalern by the Romans, the priests, going by night
into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing
noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let
us depart hence."]
NIGHT hung on Salem's towers,
And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around,
The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmnering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.
And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
Inpeace, as if the Holy One
Yet watched his chosen hill.
But a iearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"
Within the fated city
E'en then fierce discord raved,
Though o'er.night's heaven the comet sword
Its vengeful token waved.
There were shouts of kindred warfare
Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh.
Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.
And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"
VOL. II.-43




506           ON A PICT(URE OF CHIRIST.
But within the fated city
There was revelry that night;
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,
And the blaze of banquet light.
The footsteps of the dancer
Went bounding through the hall,
And the music of the dulcimer
Summon'd to festival.
While the clash of brother weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair
And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
" Let us depart!"
ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.
PAINTED BY VALASQUEZ.*
BY the dark stillness brooding in the sky,
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony
Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.
I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
Of victory from thy mien! and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn
And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming,
Gazed in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye,
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,
With quenchless faith and deep love's fervency;
Gathering, like incense, round some dirn-veil'd shrine,
About the form, so mournfully divine!
Oh! let thine image, as e.'en then it rose,
Live in my soul fbrever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,
Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of dayspring from on high.
* This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Met
rion Square, Dublin.




COMMUNINGS WITH TROTJGHT.               507
COMMUNTNGS WITH THOUGHT.
"Could we but keep our spirit's to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal."-Byron.
RETURN my thoughts, come home!
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep?
And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep,
As birds the ocean foam?
Swifter than shooting star,
Swifter than lances of the northern light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!
Through the.bright battle-clime,
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes,
By temples of old timne:
Through the north's ancient halls,
Where banners thrill'd of yore-where harp-strings rung;
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung —
Hearth-light hath left their walls!
Through forests old and dim,
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood;
And sometimes on the haunted solitude
Rises the pilgrim's hymn:
Or where some fountain lies,
With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming!
There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming
Of man's lost paradise!
Return, my thoughts, return!
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you backHarsh voices, cold and stern!
Oh! no, return ye not!
Sill farther, loftier let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free,
O'er many a haunted spot.
Go, seek the martyr's grave,'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast;
Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past,
Follow the wise and brave!
Go, visit cell and shrine!                 [scorn,
Where woman hath endured!-through wrong, through
Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne
By promptings more divine!
Go, shoot the gulf of death!
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind,._._,_._...,      -.._-. 77.   -




508                   SONNETS.
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find,
Where the storm sends no breath!
Higher, and yet more high!
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay
On your victorious wings-mount, mount!-Your way
Is through eternity!
SONNETS,
DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.
I.-THE SACRED HARP.
How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tune of prophet-years,
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain.
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music's consecrated reign?
Spirit oF God! whose glory once o'erhung
A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.
II.-TO A FAMILY BIBLE.
WHAT household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently?-of anxious looks beguiled
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,
Each day were bent-her accents. gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest: yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be
A seed not lost;-for which, in darker years,
0 Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!
III.-REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.
FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.
UNDER a palm-tree, by the green old Nile,
Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair child lies,




PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRlST.-ETC.          509
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes.
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things!Vain pomps! from him, with that pure flowery cheek,
Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,
O'er the whole wo rld like vernal air shall spread!
And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown,
Before the suffering and the lowly, down.
IV.-PICTURE OF TIHE INFANT CHRIST WITH
FLOWERS.
ALL the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red,
Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye,
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of'thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers,
To Him who oour'd forth blessings in soft showers
O'er all her paths, a cup of' bitter scorn!
And we repine, for whom that cup He took,
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook!
V.-ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST
AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.
I MET that image on a mirthful day
Of youth; and, sinking with a still'd surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway,
Awful, though meek; and now, that from the strings
Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay;
Now, that around the deep life of my mind,
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,
Oft does the pale bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!
43*




510                    SONNETS.
VI.-THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED).
HArPPY were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow'd from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of' heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the mighi,
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love!
And honor'd be atl childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immort;l spirit wake,
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.
VII.-MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.
"He went up to a mountain apart to pray."
A CHILD'midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have press'd
Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I now one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure commuinion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day:
So might the o'erburden'd Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.
VIII.-THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.
"Consider the lilies of the field."
FLOWERS! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty-when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the skyThen, in the bosom of' your purity,
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine,
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd,




THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.-ETC.             511
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced?
IX.-THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.
"And behold the birds of the air."
YE too, the free and fearless Birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
1'hat knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd.
X.-THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.
"And he that was dead sat up and began to speak."
[te that was dead rose up and spoke-He spoke!
Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Ihose words, which first the bier's dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep?
BE hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay
Still drawn: thy Lord call'd back the voice departed,
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.'
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
r]t on submissive strength to meet, not question death!
XI.-THE OLIVE-TREE.
THE Palm-the Vine-the Cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!-in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old




512                    SONNETS.
Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear the sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'dWhen pale stars look'd upon his fainting head,
And angels, minist'ring in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.
XII.-THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
ON Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon:-the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth:-and, when to anp-uish wrung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased-thence by guilt! Oh! turn not thou away
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!
XIII.-PLACES OF WORSHIP
"God is a spirit." 
SPIRIT! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration:-founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring:-to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's un'rest,
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward.-Ne'er may rock or cave possess
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.
XIV -OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.*
CROWNING a flowery slope it stood alone
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
* Fawsley Park, Near Daventry.




A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.-ETC.              513
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown,
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure,
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure,
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.
XV.-A CHURCH IN NORThI WALES.*
BLESSINGS be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms!-yet not alone,
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee,'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer!
But for their sakes who unto thee repair
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer,
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls for evermore!
XVI.-LOUISE SCHEPLER.
[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pasto
Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their
perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied
zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and
danger.]
A FEARLESS journeyer o'er the mountain snow
Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light,
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,
Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a deli
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye,
Nor the proudglance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim ot unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning
k That of Aber, near Bangor.




514                    SONNETS.
Io blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!
XVII.-TO THE SAME.
FoR thou a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth,
For this were all thy journeyings, and the close
Of that long path, Heaven's own bright sabbath-rest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast.
THE WATER-LILY.
"The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, tal
no less serene among the black and scowling waves."
Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life
OHt! beautiffil thou art,
Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.
Bright lily of the wave!
Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy cell:
Lifting alike thy head
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.
What is like thee, fair flower,
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?
Oh! love is most like thee
The love of woman! quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast'Midst life's dark sea.
And faith-O, is not faith
Like thee, too, lily, springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?




RECORDS OF THE SBRING OF 1834.           s15
Yes, link'd with such high thought
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought:
Something yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed
As from a shrine.
RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
These Sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and June,
were intended, together with the Records of the Autumn of 1834
to form a continuation of the series entiled " Sonnets, Devotiona'
and Memorial."]
I —A VERNAL THOUGHT.
O FESTAL Spring!'midst thy victorious glow,
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich song a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould an earthly; we alone,
Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again'!-But we, O Spring!
Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not ofearth,
Press to the regions of' thy heavenly birth,
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.
II.-TO THE SKY.
FAR from the rustlings of the poplar bough,
Which o'er my opening life wild music made,
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow
And flashing streams whereby my childhood plav'd;
In the dim city,'midst the sounding flow
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn
O thou rich sky! and frdm thy splendors learn
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home,
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome!
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rent,
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbles'd
With fbunts of beauty for the eye of love.




516        RECORDS OF,THE SPRING OF 1834.
III.-ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.*
OH! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those,
Who, richly dower'd for life, are called to die,
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won repose
In truth's divinest ether, still and high!
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh!
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain,
First notes of some yet struggling harmony,
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain
Of many inspirations met, and held
From its true sphere:-Oh! soon it might have swell'd
Majestically forth!-Nor doubt, that Hfe,
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made tree!
IV —ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY-LARK.
UPWARD and upward still!-in pearly light
The clouds are steep'd; the vernal spirit sighs
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies
Woo thee, 0 bird! to thy celestial height;
Bird piercing Heaven with music! thy free flight
Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all
For those wherein the rapture and the might
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn,
For their high place: 0 heirs of genius! learn
From the sky's bird your way!-No joy may fill
Youzr hearts, no gift of holy strength be won
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun!
Save by the unswerving flight-upward and upward still!
V.-A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.
MY earliest memories to thy shores are bound,
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main!
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound
In my lone being, made thy restless plain
As the vast shining floor of some dread fane,
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep!
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep,
Never to thee did love with silvery chain
Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature sought
What waves deny; some power of steadfast bliss,
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought,
As with sweet flowers:-But chasten'd hope for this
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee, [sea."
To that sole changeless world, where " there is no more
Written after reading the Memorials of the late Mrs. Tighe




RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.           b17
V1.-DISTANT SOUND OF'rHE SEA AT EVENING.
YET, rolling far up some green mountain dale,
Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard,
Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird
And bee to rest; when summer tints grow pale,
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil,
And peasant steps are hastening to repose,
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close
To the last whisper of the falling gale,
Then,'midst the dying of all other sound,
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound,
Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the night'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.
VII.-THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.
O CAMBRIAN river, with slow music gliding
By pastoral hills, old woods and ruin'd towers;
Now'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding,
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers;
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream,
Though time and change, and other mightier powers,
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream
Art winding still thy sunny meads along,
Murm'ring to cottage and grey hall thy song,
Low, sweet, unchanged. Il1y being's tide hath pass'd
Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain,
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain,
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.
VIII.-ORCHARD BLOSSOMS.
DOTH thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy boungh?
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn?-the wondering fresh delight
In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright,
Ajoy of-fairyland?-Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white,
Showur'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot,
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?-O gentle friend!
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts-Time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring memories to the end.
VOL. It. —




RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
IX.-TO A DISTANT SCENE.
STILL are the cowslips from thy bosom springing
O far-off grassy dell?-and dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake the vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet-the bee
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and round my beechen tree
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell?
-Oh! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought,
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face!
— Miy being's tide of many-colored thought
Hath pass'd from thee, and now, rich, leafy place!
I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene,
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been.
X.-A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.
O VALE and lake, with your mountain-urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies: fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star!
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar
The perfect music of thy charm serene!
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayez
XI.-THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.
TREES, gracious trees! how rich a gift ye are,
Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes!
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise!
How the whole picture of a childhood lies
Oft'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep!
Till gazing through them up the summer skies
As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils-and lo! at once unfurl'd
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight,
Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-seal'd urn
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return,
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.




RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834            51
XII.-THE SAME.
AND ye are strong to shelter!-all meek things,
All that need home and covert, love your shade!
Birds, of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd.
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play'd
With his first primrose-wealth: there love hath sought
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought;
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid,
A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer,
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim;
For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.
XIII.-ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN
CHILDHOOD.
0 GENTLE story of the Indian isle!
I loved thee in my lonely childhood well
On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile
Slept on the waters, ana their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell
Unto thine ocean-pictures.'Midst thy palms
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell,
And watch the southern cross through midnight calms,
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd
Thy vision of sweet love; kind, trustful, true,
Lighting the citron groves-a heavenly guest,
With such pure smiles as Paradise onceknew.
Even then my young heart wept o'er the world's power,
To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower.
XIV.-A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.
STILL that last look is solemn! though thy rays,
O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze
Tracks thee with love half fearful; and in days
When earth too much adored thee, what a swell
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell,
O sun of Greece! 0 glorious, festal sun!
Lost, lost!-for them thy golden hours were done,
And darkness lay before them! Happier far
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd,
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd,
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.




RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
XV.-IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.
CALM scenes of patriarch life!-how long a power
Your unworn pastoral images retain
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels' train
Winding in patience o'er the desert plainThe tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock,
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
And in the influence of its touch how bless'd,
Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful breast,
To household memories, for all change endear'd!
The matin bird, the ripple of a stream
Beside our native porch-the hearth-light's gleam
The voices, earliest by the soul revered!
XVI.-ATTRACTION OF THE EAST
WHAT secret current of man's nature turns
Unto the golden east with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbum at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow;
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint and slow
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know
Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star
Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!
XVII.-TO AN AGED FRIEND.*
NOT long thy voice amongst tIs may be heard,
Servant of God!-thy day is almost done;
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun,
That which the spirit of decay hath won
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense
Of life immortal-progress but begun —
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline;
And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell,
By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine;
* The late Dr. Percival of Dublin




RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.  5'        1
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given,
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.
XVIII.-FOLIAGE.
CoMa forth, and let us through our hearts receive
The joy of verdure!-see, the honied lime
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wildflowers weave
Thick tapestry; and woodbine tendrils climnb
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme.
The rich deep masses of the sycamore
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime,
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar,
Scatters fbrth gleams like moonlight, with each gale
That sweeps the boughs:-the chestnut flowers are past,
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail,
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast
From every hedge: —Oh! never may we lose,
Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature's hues!
June 2d.
XIX.-A PRAYER.
FATHER in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odor or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour,
With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
That speak thy presence; oh! with such a dower
Grace thou my song!- -the precious gift bestow
From thy pure Spint's treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for Thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain,
Be as the meek wildflower's-i-f transient, yet not vain.
XX.-PRAYER CONTINUED.
"What in nie is dark
Illumine; what is low raise and support."-JMilton.
FAR are the wings of intellect astray,
That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat;
They rove, but mount not; and the tempests beat
Still on their plumes:-O source of mental day!
Chase from before my spirit's track the array
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air,
And veil the opening of the starry way.
44*




RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
Which brightens on thee!-Oh! guide thou right
My thought's weak pinion, clear mine inward sight,
The eternal springs of beauty to discern,
Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear,
Nature s true oracles in joy to hear:
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.
XXI.-MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.
YES! all things tell us of a birthright lost,
A brightness from our nature pass'd away!
Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast,
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay,
And but by some lone flower, that'midst decay
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone,
Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown,
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day,
Can trace their once-free heritage; though dreams
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams
Flash o'er their souls.-But One, oh! One alone,
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild,
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd,
With Eden-flowers —One, mighty to atone!
June 27th*
RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
I.-THE RETURN TO POETRY.
ONCE more the eternal melodies from far
Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning
Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,
Above the poet's world serenely burning,
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love is turning,
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,
For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's unrest.
-Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide
Through the bright land!-that no brief gladness found
In passing bloom, rich odor, or sweet sound,
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside:
Their true, high quest-to seek, if ne'er to gain,
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.
September 9t&.
II.-TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS "PRIGIONE.'
THERE are who climb the mountain's heathery side,
Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge




RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.            523
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge,
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride
Over the green savannas, gleaming wide
By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea,
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free,
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified
By thy brave suffering.-Thou from its dark cell
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude,
Filling the dedicated solitude
With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell,
Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie,
There throned in peace divine is liberty!
III.-TO THE SAME, RELEASED.
How flows thy being now?-like some glad hymn,
One strain of solemn rapture?-doth thine eye
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim,
O'er the crown'd Alps, that,'midst the upper sky,
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy?
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound,
Unto these dear parental faces bound,
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by,
Haunting thy prison-dreams?-Where'er thou art,
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart,
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod,
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent,
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!
IV.-ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.*'TWAs a bright moment of my life when first,
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing!
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst
On my glad sight!-thy pebbly couch lay glowing
With deep mosaic hues: and, richly throwing
O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest,
High bIoom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild wood's cresn
Was touch'd with gold.-Flow  ever thus, bestowing
Gifts of delight, sweet stream!.on all who move
Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love,
-True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraughtShould sometimes bear his treasured grief to thee,
Then full of kindness let thy music be,
Singing repose to every troubled thought!
* A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow.




&24        RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
V.-ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
"' Stop, Christian passer-by! stop child of God
And read with gentle breast; —Beneath this sod
A Poet lies, or that which once seemed he;
Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.
That He, who once ill vain, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death.
Mercy, for praise; to be forgiven, for Fame,
He ask'd and hoped througth Christ. Do thou.the same n'
SPIRIT! so oft in radiant freedom soaring,
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of' their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich firuitage to man's kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed?  0 strong and nigh,
And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess'd
Was the Redeemer's Cross —thy last bequest
One lesson breathing thence profound humility!
VI.-ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.
MAJESTIC plant! such fairy dreams as lie
Nursed, where the bce sucks in the cowslip's bell,
Are not thy train:-those flowers of vase-like swell
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high,
And in their monumental purity
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe
Which broods o'er Sculpture's works.-A meet ally
For those heroic forms, the simply grand
Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand,
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine
In spotless marble; honoring one, whose strain
Soar;d upon wings of thought that knew no stain
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.
VII. —DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.
THEY float before my soul, the fair designs s
Which I would body fbrth to Life and Power,
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines
Portray majestic buildings:-Donle and tower,
Bright spire, that through the ratinbow and the shower
Points to th' unchanging stars; and high arcade




'RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.           5J
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made
For holiest rites:-meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'erwrought,
I sink;-O friend! 0 link'd with each high thought
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou see'st fulfill'd,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring ane!'
VIII.-HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.
IF e'er again my spirit be allow'd
Converse with nature in her chambers deep,
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud,
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep
From caves of mystery; —if I roam once more
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar,
And voiceful oaks respond — shall I not reap
A more ennobling joy, a loftier-power,
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour,
From such communion?-yes! I then shall know,
That not in vain have sorrow, love and thought,
Their long still work of preparation wrought,
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd below.
IX.-DREAMS OF THE DEAD.
OFT in still night-dreams a departed face
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye,
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace,
But all the tender pity-that may lie
On the clear brow of lTimortalhty,
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien,
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky
Around it floats transparently serene
As a pure veil of waters. O rich sleep!
Thou hast strong spirits in thy regions deep
Which glorify with reconciling breath,
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine
Beauty's high truth, and how much more divine
Tlhy power when link'd in this, with thy stern brother-Death
X.-THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.
NOBLY thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat;




526        DESPONDENCY AVD ASPIRATION. 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud,
~And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud.
But far more gloriously to earth made known
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone,
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll,
Jehovah spake, through the imbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.
DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.*
"Per correr miglior acqua alza le vele,
Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto."-Dante.
MY soul was mantled with dark shadows, born
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain:
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn,
A cloud-like weeping train;
Through the long day they dimm'd the autumn gold
O)n all the glistening leaves; and wildly roll'd,
When the last farewell flush of light was glowing,
-Across the sunset sky;
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing
One melancholy dye.
And when the solemn Night
Came rushing with her might
Of stormy oracles from cavesunknown,
Then with each fitful blast
Prophetic murmurs pass'd,
Wakening or answering some deep Sibil tone,
Far buried in my breast, yet proppt to rise
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies.
"Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, "and strive no more,
Faint spirit, strive no more.-for thee too strong
Are outward ill and wrong,
And inward wasting fires!-Thou canst not soar
Free on a starry way
Beyond their blighting sway,
At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore!
How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to unbind 7
O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!
"Never shall aught but broken music flow
From joy of thine, deep love, or fearful woe;
Such homeless notes as through the&forest sigh,
From the reeds hollow shaken,
When sudden breezes waken
* Partly composed during the Author's last illnew,




DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.               527
Their vague wild symphony:
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place
In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no traceBorn only so so die!
" Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain,
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour,
From thy bruised life again
A moment's essence breathe;
Thy life, whose trampled flower
Into the blessed wreath
Of household charities iio longer bound,
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.
"So fade, fade on! thy gift of love shall cling,
A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain,
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing,
All sensitive to pain!
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall.
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued,
In cold and unrepining quietude!"
Then my soul yielded* spells of numbing breath
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death,
Its powers, like leaves before the night rain, closing;
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss'd
On the chill bosom of some desert coast,
Mutely and hopelessly I-lay reposing.
When silently it seem'd
As if a soft mist gleam'd
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling,
To many a shape and hue
Of vision'd beauty grew,
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling.
Oh! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye
Unrolling then swept by,
With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes,
And gemm'd with many an island, wildly fair,
Which floated past me into orient day,
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way,
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering trees
Cofor'd the silvery seas.
And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose,
Height above spiry height!
A soaring solitude of woods and snows,
Afi steep'd in golden light!
While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling,
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings
And mighty solnds, as if the vision hailing,
From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand strings:
ii_              ____________________




528        DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION
Or "as it waters forth to music leaping,
From many a cave,'he Alpine Echo's hall,
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping,
Link'd in majestic anthems! while through all
That billowy swell and fall,
Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air
With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd
My being's core; then, moulding into word
Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise and beai
In that great choral strain my trembling part
Of tones, by love and faith struck from ahuman heart;
Return no more, vain bodings of the night!
A happier oracle within my soul
Hath swell'd to power;-a clear unwavering light
Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll,
And to a new control
Nature's fu!' harp gives forth rejoicing tones,
Wherein my glad sense owns
The accordant rush of elemental sound
To one consummate harmony profound;
One grand Creation Hymn,
Whose notes the seraphim
Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd and crown'd.
Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre,
Faithful though faint?-Shall not my spirit's fire,
If' slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend
Now to its fount and end?
Shall not my earthly love, all purified,
Shine forth a heavenward guide 2
An angel of bright power?-and strongly bear
My being upward into holier air,
Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode,
And the sky's temple-arch' o'erflows with God?
The radiant hope new-born
Expands like rising morn
In my life's life: and as a ripening rose,
The crimson shadow of its glory throws
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream;
So from that hope are spreading
Rich hues, o'er nature shedding,
Each day, a clearer, spiritual gleam.
Let not those rays fade from me-once enjoy'd,
Father of spirits! let them not depart!
Leaving the chill'd earth, without form and void,
Darken'd by mine own heart!
Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone
All lovely gifts and pure
In the soul's grasp endure;
Thou to the steps of whose eternal throne




TIfOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.             2
All knowledge flows-a sea for evermore
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shoreO consecrate my life! that I may sing
Of Thee with joy that hath a living spring,
In a full heart of music!-Let my lays
Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise,
And wih that theme the wood's green cloisters fill,
And make their quivering leafy dimness thrill
To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake
The deep religion, which hath dwelt froth yore,
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake,
And wildest river shore!
And let me summon all the voices dwelling
Where eagles build, and cavern'd rills are welling,
And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling,
In that one spirit gather'd to adore!
Forgive, 0 Father! if presumptuous thought
Too daringly in aspiration rise!
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught
By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs
Of sad confession!-lowly be my heart,
And on its penitential altar spread
The offerings worthless, till Thy grace impart
The fire from Heaven, whose touch alone can shed
Life, radiance, virtue!-let that vital spark
Pierce my whole being, wilder'd else and dark!
Thine are all holy things-O make me Thine,
So shall I, too, be pure —a living shrine
Unto that Spirit, which goes forth from Thee,
Strong and divinely free,
Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight,
And brooding o'er them with a dovelike wing,
Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship spring,
Immortally endow'd for liberty and light.
THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.
I.-INTELLECTUAL POWERS.
O THOUGH"'! 0 Memory! gems for ever heaping
High in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine Imagination! keeping
Thy lamp's lone star'mid shadowy hosts enshrined;
How in one moment rent and disentwined,
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall,
-Your glorious combinations!-broken all,
As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind
VOL. n.-45




5W           THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.
Scatter'd to whirling dust!-Oh, soouuncrown'd!
Well may your parting swift, your strange return,
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,
Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern
How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be pass'd
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.
II.-SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.
Tuou art like Night, 0 Sickness! deeply stilling
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound,
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling
With low sweet voices by Life's tumult drown'd,
Thou art like awful Nighkt!-thou gather'st round
The things that are unseen-though close they lie,And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound,
Givest their dread presence to our mental eye.
-Thou art like starry, spiritual Night!
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way,
And revelations, which the common light
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray
All outward life:-Be welcome then thy rod,
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.
III.-ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.*
WELL might thine awful image thus arise
With that high calm upon thy regal brow,
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes,
Unto the glorious Artist!-Who but thou
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow
For Him with permanencyt-who make those gleams
Of brighter life, that color his lone dreams,
Immortal things?-Let others trembling bow,
Angel of Death! before thee.-Not to those,
WVhose spirits with Eternal Truth repose,
Art thou a fearful shape!-and oh! for me,
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine,
Did not the chords of strong affection twine
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!
* This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of Mrs
Jameson's Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in a description
she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, near Dresden:-"After
wards he placed upon his easel a wonderous face, which made me
shrink back-not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful,-but
with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back
from the pale brow-the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark,
hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew
nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me
again out of the depth of the shallow, as if from the bottom of an
abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the ANGEL Of
EATEH."




THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.              5#l
IV.-REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.
O, NATuRE! thou didst rear me for thine own,
With thy free singing birds and mountain brooks;
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks,
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone;
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves,
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves,
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne'Midst the green hills:-and now, that far estranged'From all sweet sounds and odors of thy breath,
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged,
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death
Seems that pure passion's fervor-but ordain'd
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty unstain'd.
V. —FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.
WHITHER, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way I
What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight?
What hosts magnificent in dread array?
My spirif! when thy prison-house of clay,
After long strife is rent?-fond, fruitless guest!
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves by fits reveal'd,
A glimpse of summer sky:-Nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
-Thou art that bird!-of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies,
Knowing but this-that thou shalt find thy Guide!
VI. —FLOWERS.
WELCOME, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloomVisions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye blingFar more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love,
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer, drawing fever'd breath,
Whether the couch be that of life or death.
Li 




CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
VIT.-RECOVERY *
BACK then, once more to breast the waves of life,
To battle on against the unceasing spray,
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife,
And rise to strife again; yet on my way,
Oh! linger still, thou light of better day,
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you,
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true,
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay,
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn
Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-bonr,
Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure,
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey take, Lscure
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world ob
SABBATH SONNET.
COMPOSED BY MRS. HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND
DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER.
How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way
Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!
The halls from old heroic ages grey
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With those thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways,-to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound; yet, oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.
CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS.
"WE cannot allow these verses to adorn, with a sad beauty, the
pages of this Magazine-more especially as they are the last composed by their distinguished writer, and that only a few days betbre her
death-without at least a passing tribute of regret over an event
which has cast a shadow of gloom through the sunshiny fields of
contemporary literature. But two months ago, the beautiful lyric
entitled'Despondency and Aspiration,' appeared in these pages, and
now the sweet fountain of music from which that prophetic strain
gushed has ceased to flow. The highly gifted and accomplished, the
patient, the meek, and long-suffering FELICIA HEMANS, is no more
* Written under the false impression occasioned by a temporary
improvement in strength.
ho-~ —   — r                                               ___I~




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                          533
She died on the night.of Saturday, the 16th of May 1835, at Dublin,
and met her fate with all the calm resignation of a Christian, conscious that her spirit was winging its flight to another and a better
world, where' the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at
rest.'
" Without disparagement of the living, we scarcely hesitate to say,
that in Mrs. Hemans our feIraie  literature has lost perhaps its brightest ornament  To Joanna Baillie she might be inferior, not only in
vigor of conception, but in the power of metaphysically analysing
those sentiments and feelings which constitute the basis of hmna.i
actions; —to Mrs. Jameson in the critical perception which, fromn detached fragments of spoken thought, can discriminate the links which
bind all into a distinctive character:-to Miss Landon in eloquent fai
cility; —to Caroline Bowles in simple pathos;-and to Mary Mitford
in power of thought; —but as a female swriter, influencing the female
Inind, she Lhas undoubtedly stood, for somie bypast years, the very
first in the first rank;  and this pre-eminence has bleen acknowledged,
not only in her own land, but wherever the Englih tongue is spoken,
whether on the banks of thae eastern Garages or the western Missis
sippi.  Her path was her Own; arnd shoals orf imitators have arisen,
alike at hboome and on the other side of the Atlantic, who, destitute
of her animating genius, have mimicked her themes, and parodied
her sentimrens and language, without being able to reach its height.
In her poetry, religious truth and intellectual beauty meet together;
and assuredly it is not the less calculated to refine the taste and exalt
the imagination, because it addresses itself almost exclusively to the
better feelings of our nature alone. Over all her pictures of hunmanity are Epread the glory and the grace reflected fronom purity of
morals, delicacy of perception and conception, sublimity of religious
tfaith, and warmth of patriotism; and, turning from the dark and degraded, vwhsether in stbjdct or sentitment, she seeks out those verdant
oases in the desert of human life on which the raffections mnay
maost pleasantly rsst.  Her poetry is intensely and entirely feillinine-and, in our estimation, this is the highest praise which could
be awarded it:-it could have been written by a woman only; for, although in the' Recordis,' of her sex, we have the female cha.racter delineated in all the varied phases of baffled passion and of ill-requited
affection; ofeheroical self-denial, and of withering hope deferred; of
devotedness tried in the furnace of affliction, and of'Gentle feelings long subdued,
Subdluedl anda cherisl'd long;'
yet its energy resembles that of the dove,' pecking the hand that
hovers o'er its mate,' and its exaltation of thourght is not of the (daring kind, which doulbts and derides, or even qrlestions, but which
clings to the anchor of hope, and looks forward with faith and reverential fear.
"Mrs. Ilemans has written much, and as with all authors in like
predicament, her strains are of various degrees of excellence. Independently of this, her different works will be differently estimaztel,
as to their relative value, by different minds; but atmong the lyrics
of the English language which can scarcely die, we hesitate not to
assign places to'The Hlebresv Mother'-' The Treasures of the Deep'
-' The Spirit's Returna'-'The Homes of England'-'The Better Land'
—'The Hour of Death'-' The Trumpet'-and'The Graves of a
Household.' In these'gems of purest ray serene,' the peculiar genius of Mrs. Hemans breathes, and burns, and shines pre-emlinent;
for her forte lay in depicting whatever tends to beautify and embelsish domnestic life-the gentle overflowvings of love and friendshiphomebred delights and heartfelt happiness'-the associations of
ocal attachment-and the influences of religious feelings over the
45*'




534             CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
soull, whether arising frGm the varied circumstances and situations of
man, or from the aspects of external nature. We would only here
add, by way-of remark, that the writings of Mrs. Hemans, seem to
divide themselves into two pretty distinct portions-the first comprehending her' Modern Greece,'  Wallace,'' Dartlmoor,' Sceptic'' Historic Scenes,' and other-productions, tip to the publication of'The
Forest Sanctuary;' and the latter comprehending that volume'The
Records of Woman,'' The Scenes and Hymns of Life,' and all her
subsequent productions. In her earlier works, she follows the classic model, as contradistinguished from the Romantic, and they are
inferior in that polish of style and almost gorgeous richness of language, in which her maturer compositions are set. Itis evident that
new stores of thought were latterly opened up to her, in a more extended acquaintance with the literature of Spain and Germany, as
well as by a profounder study of the writings of our great poetical
regenerator-Wordsworth."-DELTA, in Blackwoood's Jllagazine, July
1835.
"Did we not know this world to be but a place of trial-our bitter
probation for another and for a better-how strange in its severity
would seem the lot of genius in a woman. The keen feeling-the
generous enthusiasm-the lofty aspiration-and the delicate perception-are given but to make the possessor unfitted for her actual position. It is well: such gifts, in their very contrast to the selfishness
and the evil with which they are surrounded, inform us of another
world-they breathe of their home, which is heaven; the spiritual
and the inspired in this life but fit us tn believe in that which is to
come. With what a sublime faith is this divine reliance expressed
in all Mrs. Hemans' later writings. As the clouds towards nightfall
melt away on a fine summer evening into the clear amber of the
west, leaving a soft and unbroken azure whereon the stars may
shine; so the troubles of'life, its vain regrets and vainer desires,
vanished before the calm close of existence-the hopes of heaven
rose steadfast at last-the light shone from  the windows of her
home, as she approached unto it.
sNo tears for thee!- though light be from us gone
With thy soul's radiance, bright and restless oneNo tears for thee!
They that have loved an exile must not mourn
To see him parting for his native bourne
0 er the dark sea.'
"We have noticed this yearning for affection-unsatisfied, but
still unsubdued-as one characteristic of Mrs. Hemans' poetry: the
rich picturesque was another. Highly accomplished, the varied
stores that she possessed were all subservient to one master science.
Mistress both of German and Spanish, the latter country appears to
have peculiarly captivated her imagination. At that period when
the fancy is peculiarly alive to impression-when girlhood is so
new, that the eagerness of childhood is still in its delights-Spain
was, of all Jthers, the country on which public attention was fixed
-victory after victory carried the British flag from the ocean to the
Pyrenees; but, with that craving for the ideal which is so great a
feature in her writings, the present was insufficient, and she went
back upon the past;-the romantic history of the Moors was like a
storehouse, with treasures gorgeous like those of its own Alhambra.
"It is observable in her minor poems, that they turn upon an incident rather than a feeling. Feelings, true and deep, are developed;
but one single emotion is never the original subject. Some graceful
or touching anecdote or situation catches her attention, and its poetry
is developed in a strain of mourning melody, and a vein of gentle
moralizing. I always wish, in reading my favorite poets, to know




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                       53,
what first suggested my favorite poems. Few things would be more
interesting than to know under what circumstances they were composed-how much of individual sentiment there was in each, or
how, on some incident seemingly even opposed, they had contrived
to ingraft their own associations. What a history of the heart would
such annals reveal'. Every poem is in itself an impulse.
"Besides the ideal and the picturesque, Mrs. Hemnans is distinguished by her harmony. I use the word harmony advisedly, in
contradistinction to melody. Melody implies something more careless, more simple, than belongs to her style. it is song by snatches;
our English ballads are remarkable for it. To quote an instance or
two. There is a verse in that of Yarrow Water:0 wind that wandereth from the south,
Seek where my love repaireth,
And blow a kiss to his dear mouth
And tell me how he fareth.'
Nothing can exceed the tender sweetness of these lines; but there
ts no skill. Again, in Faire Rosamonde, the verse that describes the
cruelty of Eleanor,-'With that she struck her on the mouth,
So dyed double red
Hard was the heart that gave the blow,
Soft were the lips thatbled.'
How musical is the alliteration! but it is music which, like that of
the singing brook, has sprung up of itself. Now, Mrs. Hemans has
the most perfect skill in her science; nothing can be more polished
than her versification. Every poem is like a piece of music, with
its eloquent pauses, its rich combinations, and its swelling chords.
Who that has ever heard, can forget the exquisite flow of' The Voice
of Spring!''.1 come' I come'-ye have call'd me long ~
I come o'er the mountains with light and son!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds that tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass."
It is like the finest order of Italian singing-pure, high, and scienti.
"I can never sufficiently regret that it was not my good fortune to
know Mrs. Hemans personally: it was an honor I should have estimated so highly-a happiness that I should have enjoyed so keenly.
I never even met with an acquaintance of hers but once; that once,
however, was much. I knew Miss Jewsbury, the late lamented
Mrs. Fletcher. She delighted in speaking of Mrs. Hemans: she spoke
of her with the appreciation of one fine mind comprehending another, and with the earnest affection of a woman and a friend. She
described her conversation as singularly fascinating-full of poetry,
very felicitous in illustration by anecdote, happy, too, in quotation,
and very rich in imagery;' in short, her own poem on " The Treasures of the Deep," would best describe it.' She mentioned a very
striking simile to which a conversation on Mrs. Hemails' own poem of' The Sceptic' had'led:' Like Sinbad, the Sailor, we are often shipwrecked on a strange shore. We despair; but hope comes when
least expected. We pass through the gloomy caverns of doubt into
the free air and blessed sunshine of conviction and belief.' 1 asked
her if she thought Mrs. Hemans a happy person; and she said,' No;
her enjoyment is feverish, and she desponds. She is like a lamp
whose oil is consumed by the very light which it yields.' What a
cruel thing is the weakness of memory! How little can its utmost
efforts recall of conversation that was once an instruction and a dedelight!




536            CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
" To the three characteristics of Mrs. Hemans' poetry which have
already been mentioned-viz., the ideal, the picturesque, and the
harmonious-a fourth must be added,-the moral. Nothing can be
more pure, more feminine and exalted, than the spirit which pervades
the whole; it is the intuitive sense of right, elevated and strength
ened into a principle. It is a glorious and a beautiful memory to be
queath; but she who left is little to be envied. Open the volumnes
which she has left, legacies from many various hours, and what a
record of wasted feelings and disappointed hopes mllay be traced it
their sad and sweet complainings! Yet Mrs. Hemans was sparet
some of the keenest mortifications of a literary career. She knew
lothing of it as a profession which has to make its way through
toverty, neglect, and obstacles; she lived apart in a small, affectionate circle of friends. The high-road of life, with"its crowds and,ontel tion-its heat, its noise, and its dust that rests on all-was for
aer happily at a distance; yet even in such green nest, the bird
could not fold its wings, and sleep to its own music. Their came
the aspiring, the unrest, the aching sense of being misunderstood,
the consciousness that those a thousand times inferior were yet more
beloved. Genius places a woman in an unnatural position; notoriety
frightens away affection; and superiority has ior its attendant fear,
not love. Its pleasantest emotions are too vivid to be lasting: hoje
may sometimes,'Raising its bright face,
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase
The characters of anguish;'
but, like the azure glimpses between thunder-showers, the clouds
gather more darkly around for the passing sunshine. The heart
sinks back on its solitary desolation. In every page of Mrs. Hemans'
writings is this sentiment impressed; what is the conclusion of' Corinne crowned at the Capitol?'' Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown'd of Rome! Oh, art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?
Happier, happier far than thou
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth.'
"What is poetry, and what is a poetical career?  The first is to
have an organization of extreme sensibility, which the second exposes bareheaded to the rudest weather. The original impulse is
irresistible-all professions are engrossing when once begun; and
acting with perpetual stimulus, nothing takes more complete possession of its follower than literature. But never can success repay
its cost. The work appears-it lives in the light of popular applause;
but truly might the writer exclaim,It is my youth-it is my bloom-it is my glad free heart
1 cast away for thee-for thee-ill-fated as thou art.'
If this be true even of one sex, how much more true of the other!
Ah! Fame to a woman is indeed btlt a royal mourning in purple for
happiness."-MIss LANDON, in J'ew JMIonthly MIagazine for August,
1835.
"Though respect for the memory of the dead, and delicacy towards the living, enjoin us to be brief in alluding to the events of
her life, we may speak freely, and at length, of the history of her
mind, and the circumstances of her literary career, in the course of
which she deserved and acquired a European reputation as the first
of our poetesses living, and still before the public. Few have writ



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS                         537
ten so much, or written so well as Mrs. Ilemans: few have entwined the genuine fresh thoughts and impressions of their own
minds, so intimately with their poertcal fancies, as she (lid; few
h-!ve undergone more arduous and reverential preparation for the
ser ice of s(ng; for, from childhood, her thirst for knowledge was
extreme, and her reading great and varied. Those who, while admitting the high-toned beauty of her poetry, accused it of monotony
of style and subject, (they could not deny to it the praise of originality,
seeing that it founded a school of imitators in England, and a yet
larger in America,) little knew to what historical research she had
applied herself-how far and wide she had sought for food with
which to fill her eager min6k It is true that she used only a part of
the mass of information which she had collected-for she never
wrote on calculation, but fromn the strong impulse of the moment, and
it was her natu:e intimately to take home to herself and appropriate
only what was high-hearted, imaginative, and refined;-but the
writer of this notice has seen manuscript collections of extracts made
in the course of these youthful studies, sufficient of themselves to justify his assertion; if her poems (like those of every genuine poet) did
not contain a still better record of the progress of her mind. Her knowledge of classic literature may be distinctly traced in her' Sceptic,' her
eModern Greece,' and a hundred later lyrics based upon what Bulwer so happily calls'the Graceful Superstition.' Her study and admiration of the works of ancient Greek and Roman art, strengthened
into an-abiding love of the beautiful, which breathes both in the
sentiment and in the structure of every line she wrote (for there are
few of our poets more faultlessly musical in their versification;) and
when, subsequently, she opened for herself the treasuries of Spanish
and German legend and literature, how thoroughly she had imbued
herself with their spirit, may be seen in her' Siege of Valencia,' in
her glorious and chivalresque' Songs of the Cid,' and in her' Lays
of Many Lands,' the idea of which was suggested by Herder's'Stimnmen der Volker in Liedern.'
"But, though'her mind was enriched by her wide acquaintance
with the poetical and historical literature of other countries, it posess
ed a strong and decidedly marked character of its own, which colored
all her productions-a character which, though any thing but feeble
or sentimental, was essentially feminine. An eloquent modern critic
(Mrs. Jameson) has rightly said,' that Mrs. Hemans' poems could
not have been written by a man;' their love is without selfishness,
their passion without a stain of his world's coarsness, their high heroism (and to illustrate this assertion we would mention'Clotilda,'' the Lady of Provence,' and the' Switzer's Wife,') unsullied by any
grosser alloy of mean ambition. Her religion, too, is essentially
womanly, fervent, clinging to belief, and,'hoping on, hoping ever,'.
in, spite of the peculiar trials appointed to her sex, so exquisitely describe in the' Evening Prayer in a Girl's School;''    Silent tears to weep
And patient smiles to wear througsh suffering's hour,
And sumless riches from affection's deep
To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower.
Altd to make idols, andlto find them clay,
And to bewail that worship'* " If such was the mind of her works, the manner in which she
wrought out her conceptions was equally individual and excellent.Her imagination was rich, chaste, and glowing; those who saw only
published fruits little guessed at the extent of its variety.
" It is difficult to enumerate the titles of her principal works. Her first
childish efforts were published when she was only thirteen, and we can
speak of her subsequent poems,' Wallace,'' Dartmoor,'' The Restor



~538           CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
ation of the Works of Art to Italy,' and her' Dramatic Scenes,' only
from memory. These were, probably written in the happiest period of
her life, when her mind was rapidly developing itself, and its progress
was aided by judicious and intelligent counsellers; among whom may
be mentioned Bishop Heber. A favorable notice of one of these
poems will b1 found in Lord Byron"s letters; and the fame of her op.
ening talent had reached Shelley, who addressed a very singular
correspondence to her. With respect to the world in general, her
name began to be known by the publication of her'Welsh Melodies,' her' Siege of Valencia,' and the scattered lyrics which appeared
in the New Monthly Magazine, then under the direction of Campbell. She had previously contributed a series of prose papers, on Foreign Literature, to Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, which, with
little exception, are the only specimens of that style of writing ever
attempted by her. To the'Siege of Valencia,' succeded rapidly
her' Forest Sanctuary,' her' Records of Woman,' (the most successful
of her works,) her' Songs of the Affections,' (containing, perhaps,
her finest poem,' The Spirit's Return,') her' National Lyrics and
Songs for Music,'(most of which have been set to music by her sister, and become popular,) and her' Scenes and Hymns of Life.' A
few words with respect to the direction of her powers in later days,
may be worthily extracted from a letter of hers which lies now before us. She had been urged by a friend to undertake a prose' work,
and a series of'Artistic Novels,' something after the manner of
Tieck, and Goethe's Kunst-Romanen, as likely to be congenial to her
own tastes and habits of mind, and to prove most acceptable to the
public.
whatI have now,' she says,' passed through the feverish and somewhat visionary state of mind often connected with the passionate
study of art in early life; deep affections and deep sorrows seem to
have solemnized my whole being, and I now feel as if bound to
higher and holier tasks, which, though I may occasionally lay aside,
I could not long wander from without some sense of dereliction. I
hope it is no self-delusion, but I cannot help sometimes feeling as if
it were my true task to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry, and extend its influence. When you receive my volume of " Scenes and
Hymns," you will see what I mean by enlarging its sphere, though
my plan as yet is very imperfectly developed.'
" Besides the works here enumerated, we should mention her tragedy,' the Vespers of Palermo,' which, though containing many fine
thoughts and magnificent bursts of poety, was hardly fitted for the
stage; and the songs which she contributed to Colonel Hodges''Peninsular Melodies;' and we cannot but once more call the attention
of our readers to her last lyric,'Despondency and Aspiration,' published in' Blackwood's Magazine' for May 1835. It is the song of
the swan-its sweetest and its last! " *-H. F. CHORLEY, in the
AJthenamum, No. 395
ON THE POETRY OF MRS. HEMANS.
BY PROFESSOR NORTON.
"WE have now received the last of the imperishable gifts of Mrs.
flemans's genius. The period of her spirit's trials and sufferings, and
its glorious course on earth, has been completed. She has left an
unclouded fame; and we may say, in her own words:-'No tears for thee!-though light be from us gone
With thy soul's radiance!  *  *  *
No tears for thee''it has already been shows that this was not the case




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                            53~
They that have loved an exile, must not mourn
To see him parting for his native bourne
O'er the dark sea.'
"As this, therefore, will be the last time that we shall review any
productions of Mrs. Hemans, we may be permitted to recall, with a
melancholy pleasure, the admiration and delight with which we have
followed the progress of her genius. The feelings with which her
works are now generally regarded, have been expressed in no publication earlier, more trequently, or more warmly, than in our own.
Without repeating what we have already said, we shall now endeavor to point out some of their features, considered in relation *o
that moral culture in which alone such writings call exist.
"' Mrs. Hemans may be considered as the representative of a new
school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her poetry discovers
characteristics of the highest kind, which belong almost exclusively
to that of later times, and have been the result of the gradual advance, and especially the moral progress, of mankind. It is only
when man, under the influence of true religion, feels himself connected with whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers are
fully developed. The poetry of an immortal being must be of a
different character from that of an earthly being. But, in recurring
to the classic poetry of antiquity, we find that, in their conceptions,
the elements of religious faith was wanting. Their mythology was
to them no object of sober belief; and, had it been so, was adapted
not to produce but to annihilate devotion. They had no thought of
regarding the universe as created, animated, and ruled by God's allpowerfill and omniscient goodness. To them it was a world of mat
ter.-'The fair humanities of old religion,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty
That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring
Or chassms and watery depths,'
never existed except in the imagination of modern poets. The beings
intended were the' fair humanities' of Ovid's JMetamorphoses, whose
attributes, derived from the baser parts of our nature, were human
passions lawlessly indulged, accompanied with more than mnortal
power. Gibbon, who was any thing rather than what he affected to
be-a philosopher-speaks of' the elegant mythology of the Greeks.'
The great fountains of their popular and poetical mythology were
Homer and Hesiod. Hesiod does not surpass Homer in the agreeable
or imoral character of his fictions, and, as regards the elegance of the
mythology found in the great epic poet, a single passage, if we had
no other smeans of judging, might settle the question, the address eof
Jupiter to Juno at the commencement of the Fifteenth Book of the
Iliad:
-' Oh, versed in wiles,
Juno! thy mischief-teemilg mind perverse
Hath plotted this; thou hast contrived the hurt
Of Hector, and hast driven his host to flight.
I know not but thyself mayst chance to reap
The first-fruits of thy cunining, scourged by me.
Hast thou forgotten how I hung ti;ee once
On high, with two huge anvils at thy feet,
And bound with force-defying cord of gold
Thywrists together  In the heights of heaven
Did I suspend thee. With compassion moved,
The assembled gods thy painful sufferings saw,
But help could yield thee none; for whom I seized,
Hurl'd through the portal of the skies, he reach'd
The distant earth, and scarce survived the t'al'
I  thus remind thee now, that thou mayst cease
Henceforth from artifice, and mayst be taught
How little all the dalliance and the love




540)           CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
Which, stealing down from heaven, thou hast by fraud
Obtain'd from me, shall favor thy designs.'
"It may be incidentally remarked, that these lines illustrate not
merely the features of the ancient mythology,.but also the condition
of woman as treated by the heroes of Homer and by his cotempora
ries. We happen just to have opened upon another striking example
of the elegance of the ancient mythology during the Augustan age
It is a passage of Ovid, almost too indecent and silly to be alluded
to, though Addison was not ashamed to translate it, beginning-'Forte Jovem memorant, diffusum nectare, curas
Seposuisse graves, vacu'tque agitasse remnissos
Cum Junone jocos.' *
"From  the passage referred to, we may judge something of the
convivial manners of the Romans, and of the habits of intercourse
between the sexes.
" It is remarkable, that in all religious and moral conceptions, the
noblest materials of poetry, the philosophers were very far in advaitce of the poets.' The Fables of Hesiod and Homer,' says Plato,'are especially to be censured. They have uttered the greatest
falsehoods concerning the greatest beings.' Referring to the loathsome and abominable fables about Ccelus, Saturn, and Jupiter, he
says-' We must not tell our youth that he who commits the greatest iniquity does nothing strange, nor he who inflicts the Inost cruel
punishment upon his father when injured by him; but that he is
on!y doing what was done by the first and greatest of the gods.' A
little after he subjoins,' The chaining of Juno by her son, the throwing of Vulcan from heaven by his father, because he attempted to
defend his mother from being beaten, and the battles of the gods
described by Homer, are not fictions to be allowed in our city, whether explained allegorically or not.'' Though we praise mnany things
in Homer,' he says,'we shall not praise him when he represents
Jupiter as sending a lying dream to Agamemnnon, nor zEschylus when
he makes Thetis complain of having been deceived by Apollo.'' When any one thus speaks of the gods we are indignant, we grant
no permission for such writings, nor shall we suffer teachers to use
them in the instruction of youth.'t
" The poets of this nation did not, in Plato's opinion, represent their
heroes as rmore amiable or respectable than their gods.' We shall
not,' he says,' suffer those of whom we have the charge to believe
that Achilles, the son of a goddess, was so ftull of evil passions as to
iunite in himself two opposite vices, avaricious meanness, and insolence towards gods and men. Nor shall we allow it to be said
that Theseus, the son of Neptune, and Perithosls, the son of Jove,
rushed forth to the commission of such abominable robberies, or that
any son of a god or any hero committed those abominable and impious acts which are now imputed to thenm in the fictions of the poets.'' Such fictions are pernicious to those who hear them; for every bad
mnan finds a license for himself, in the belief that those nearly related
to the gods do and have done such deeds. They are, then, to be
suppressed. lest they produce a strong tendency to wickedness in our
youth.' X
"Such were the sentiments of the most poetical of Grecian philosophers concerning the religious and moral character of the poets of
his nation; and he remarks in addition upon the gloomy fancies of
Homer concerning the state of departed souls, as neither true nor
useful, but adapted to produce unmanly fears, and therefore not to
*  It is related that Jove clamnced, being exhilarated by nectar, to lay aside his
weighty cares, and interchange pleasant jokes with idle Juno."
t ee De Republica, Lib. IF pp. 373 —383.
I See De Republica, Lib. 111. p. 391.




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                           541
be listened to by those who, as freemen, should dread slavery more
than death. During the period between Homer and Virgil, a misty
brightness had spread over the poetic ideas of the future abodes of
the blessed; but the Elysium and Tartarus of poetry were but fictions, awakening no serious hopes nor fears, and having no power
over the heart. These imaginations of a future life were connected
with no just and ennobling conceptions of the purposes of our existence, of the spiritual nature of man, or of that endless progress to.
which we may look forward. The heroes of Elysium found their
delight in the meaner pleasures of this life.-' Qua gratia currsim
Armorunlque fuit vivis, quae cura nitentes
Pascere equos, eadens sequitur tellure repbstos.
Conspicit, ecce, alios dextra laevaque per herbain
Vescentes, lwetumque chora paeana canentes.' *
"Thus the ancient poets were shut out from the whole sphere of
religig  sentiment; and all those numberless conceptions and feelings mtU spring from our knowledge of God, and the sense of our
own immortality, are absent from their writings, while this whole
exhaustless domain has been laid open to the poets of later times. A
single example may illustrate what has been said.  Let us take the
concluding verses of Mrs. Hemans's Fountain of Oblivion mFill with forgetfulness! —there are, there are
Voices whose music 1 have loved too well;
Eyes of deep gentleness —but they are farNever! oh! —never in my home to dwell!
Take their softioks from off my yearning soulFill high th' oblivious bowl!
Yet pause again — with memory wilt thou cast
The undying hope away, of memory born 1
Hope of re-union; heart to heart at last;
ho restless doubt between, no rankling thorn 1
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 frieods be wreathed in one bright band
— Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill,
I must remember still.'For their sake, for the dead —whose image nought
May dim within the temple of my breast —
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me as a spirit —yet
I ask not to forget.'
"The whole train of emotion and thought in these verses is of a
character wholly unknown to the classic days of Greece and Rome
To imagine any thing corresponding to it in the work of an ancient
poet, is to bring together conceptions the most incongruous.
"Here it may be worth while, in order to prevent ourselves fro m
being misunderstood, to observe, that we do not mean to depreciate
the value of the study of the ancient poets. After those inquiries
by which the truths of religion are established, there are none of
more interest or importance than such as relate to the mind and heart
of man, and open to us a knowledge of what he has been, and what
he may be on earth. But, to attain this knowledge, we must ac* " The iove of horses which thevy had alive,
And care of chariots, after death survive.
Is bands reclining on the grassy plain,
They feasted adrl pour'dl forth a joyful strail."
See Dryden's Virgil
VOT. II.-46
i                                                                      r~~~~~~~~~~~________




542           CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
quaint ourselves with the moral and intellectual characters ofourrace,
as it has existed, and exists, under influences and forms of society
very unlike each other. In this research, no jeriod can be compared
in interest with a few centuries in the history of Athens and Rome,
which have left traces still so deeply impressed upon the civilized
worfd. Thus, in studying the history of human nature, the Grecian
and Roman poets furnish some of our most important materials. We
may discover in them a source of sentiments and opinions that still
affect men's minds. Homer carries us back to remote Pagan antiquity, on which his writings shed a light afforded by no other; and.
at the same time, having been regarded as the undisputed master
poet by his countrymen, (for this Plato himself does not question,)
he shows us what were the topics by which their imaginations were
most affected during the period of their greatest civilization. The
dramatic poets of Athens reflect the Athenian character; and in
Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, we find the lineaments of the Augustan
age. But the value which thus attaches to their works is not to be
confounded with the absolute value of those works as poems apted
through their intrinsic beauties to give delight at the preseft day.
In estimating their naked worth, we must likewise separate from
them the interest connected with their antiquity, and all those accidental associations that have been gathering round them for many
centuries. We must even put out of view the native genies of the
w riter, if this genius have been exerted under circumstances so unfavorable as to render it ineffectual to produce what may give pleasure to a pure and highly-cultivated mind. Notwithstanding the
traditionary enthusiasm that has existed en the subject, it may well
be doubted whether their power of giving vivid pleasure merely as
poetical compositions, forms a principal recommendation of the study
ofthe ancient poets. They were not acquainted with the richest
realms of mind. It is a mistake to address them as' bards illustrious, born in happier days.' But, to return to our immediate subject.
"After the revival of letters, the forms of what was called Christianity, both among Catholics and Protestants, were in many respects
so abhorent to reason, or feeling, or both, that they could combine in
no intimate union with our higher nature, however they might operate on men's passions or fears. Religious truth was, however,
sometimes contemplated in greater purity by minds of the bettet
class; and we early begin to find in poetry some expressions of trueire
ligious sentiment. But what advance had been actually made even ir
the seventeenth century, we may learn from the great work of Milton
It is based on a system of mythology more sublime than the Pagan,
and less adapted to degrade the moral feelings, but scarcely less offensive to reason, and spreading all but a Manichaan gloom and
blight over the creation of God. Putting forth his vast genius, he
struggles with it as he can, moulding it into colossal forms that repel
our human sympathies, and lavishing upon it gorgeous treasures ot
imagination, but even his powers yield and sink at times before its
intrinsic incongruity and essential falsehood. Whoever rightly apprehends the character of God, or contemplates as he ought the invisible world. will turn to but few pages of the Paradise Lost, with
the hope of finding expressions correspondent to his thoughts and
emotions. We feel with pain the inappreciable contrast between
the genius displayed in the poetical exeCution of the work, and the
absurdity of its prose story. It is the opposition which this story presents to the most ennobling truths, even more than' the want of human interest,' on which Johnson remarks, that gives to the poem
the unattractive character of which he speaks, and which we believe is felt by almost all its readers.
"Doubtless pure religious sentiment breaks out in this and in the




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                         -543
other poems of MiltQn. The concluding line of his Sonnet on his
Blindness,      They also serve who only stand and wait
and numerous other passages of similar beauty, have, we may believe, found an answering feeling in many hearts. But in speaking of
those causes which,have given a new character to the poetry of
later times it is not our purpose to trace their influence historically.
Going back to the days of Grecian and Roman civilization, we shall
take only a few illustrations that may serve to show more clearly
the contrast produced by their absence on one hand, or their operation on the other.
"In proportion as we contemplate the wcrld from the height to
which true religion conducts us, we perceive the circle of moral action widening indefinitely. Our duties toward the inferior animals
are few and low, compared with those which we lie under to our
fellow-men; and our duties toward our fellow-nien become far more
extensive, and assume a far more solemn character, when we regard
them -not as born to perish upon earth, but as commencing.here an
unending existence.  Our obligations to others correspond to our
means of serving them; and we are introduced to a higher class of
virtues, as soon as we recognise in those around us beings forming
characters for a different mode of existence, to whonl the highest
service that can be rendered is to assist their progress in virtue, and
to whom some influence, good or evil, is continually flowing out from
us, and diverging into channels of which we cannot see the termination. All interest in the spiritual and imperishable good of our fellow-men must depend upon our regarding them as spiritual and imperishable. It is onry under a sense of our true nature, that man is
capable of reaching the sublime thought of assimilating himself to
GQa, by devoting his powers to the moral welfare of his fellow-men'Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest! — am vowed
To solemn service high:
An,' shall the spirit, for thy tasks endowed,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone
Unto the altar stone
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth Its mate,
May cheer the sacred solitary way I'Oh. be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame
Make me thine only! Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Whicr glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, child-like, lone,
For mounting'to thy throne
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, In illumined secresy, the sense
Of that blest work, its own high recompense.
"But there is more to be considered. The conduct which would
be wise and right for man if immortal, would not be wise and right
for him if viewed as a perishing animal. It is true that moral good
is always good, and moral evil always evil; but with an essential
change in our nature and relations, there must likewise be an essential change in what is morally good or evil. If all humnan hopes
were limited to this world, it would be folly for any one to act as if
he and others were to exist for ever. The whole plan of life and of
its duties formed by a wise man, would be quite different in one case




544              CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
from what it would be in the other; and the course of life actually
pursued by the generality, if destitute of all religious belief, would be
still more unlike that of men under its unfluence.' Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces.'*'Quid brevi fortes jaculamur wavo
Multa?'t'Laefus in praesens, tnimus quod ultra est
Oderit curare. et amara lento
Temperet risu.'l
In the absence of religious faith, this is true philosophy. If this life
were the limit of our being, its pleasures and pains would be the only
objects of our concern. Nothing would be virtuous which tended
not the attainment and communication of those limited and perishing
pleasures we might here partake; nothing morally evil, but what
lessened our own capacity for enjoying them, or tended to prevent
others from sharing them with us. There would be no sphere for
the exercise of those powers, no object for those capacities of happiness, that belong to the imperishable part of our nature. There
would be nothing to prompt one to great sacrifices or acts of moral
heroism; for these have their source in the consciousness of ilnrnortality, in a sense of our connexion with the infinite, our look forward
to good for ourselves and others beyond the limits of life. Earthly
motives afford no soil in which the nobler virtues can strike their
roots.  It is true that the ancients, particularly the ancient philosophers, were not without the influence of truly religious conceptions,
and under almost any forms of opinion the better nature of man will
of itself occasionally break out into exhibitions, of excellence. But
the religious sentiment being so weak and perverted among the ancient poets, we find little in their works that can be regarded as
morally noble, and scarcely an indistinct recognition of those deep
feelings and unearthly virtues which have their source in our spiritual nature. The same remark is almost equally applicable to a large
proportion of the modern poets: for true religion has been little understood or felt by then.  Where, in any age preceeding our own,
may we hope to find such expressions of sentiment as in the follow
ing verses from Mrs. Hemans'' Vaudois Wife.'~'But calm thee! Let the thought of death
A solem peace restore;
The voice that must be silent soon,
Would speak to thee once more,
That thou may'st bear its blessing on
Through years of after life, —
A token of consoling love,
Even from this hour of strife.'  bless thee for the noble heart,
The tender and the true,
Where mine hath found the happiest rest
That e'er fond woman's knew;
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide,
For my ownt, my treasured share,
In the mournful secrets of thy soul,
In thy sorrow, in thy prayer.
Be wise, pour out your wine, and contract your hopes within life's narrow corn
pass.
t Why in so short a life, do we, in our bravery, aim at so much?
IJoyous during the present hour, the mind should reject all care for what is beyond, and temper what Is bitter with a gentle smile.
~'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 and endurance.'




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                              45'I bless thee for the last rich boon
Won from iffection tried,
The right to gaze on death with thee,
To perish by thy side;
And yet more for the glorious hope
Even to these monents griven;Did not thy spirit ever lift
The trust of mine to leaven I'Now be thou strong! Oh! knew we not
Our path must lead to this t
A shallow and a trembling still
Were minorled with our bliss
We plightleour young hearts when storms
Were dark upon the sky,
In full, deep knowledge of their task
To suffer and to die!' Be strong; I leave the living voice
Of this, my martyr'd blood,
With the thousand echoes of the hills,
With the torrent's foamino flood, —
A spirit'midlst the caves to dwell,
A token on the air,
To rouse the valiant from repose,
The fainting from despair.'Hear it, anot beat thou on, my love;
Ay, joyously endure
Our mountains must be altars yet,
Inviolate and puret
There m..st our God be worshipped still
With the worship of the free; —
Farewell! there's but one pang in death,
One only, —leaving thee.
"With this, may be compared the speech of Alcestis in Euripides,
when dying in the presence of her husband, under circumstances
adapted to call forth all that power of expressing the tender emotions,
for which Euripides has been thought to be distinguished.'"Under the influence of religion, we are acted upon by new mo
tives, through the sense created within us, of the worth of our fellow-inen.  Religion invests thetm  with a new  character, strips off
the disguise with which the accidents of mortality, its imperfections,
weaknesses, follies, miseries, and crimes hide their essential nature
from our view, and presents them before us with all the interests
and capacities of immortal beings. They who'are dear to us, are
worthy of all love and self-devotion, worthy of affections unlimnited
by death or time. They are ioersbers with us of the imisperishable
family of God, in whose company we are to exist for ever, alnd with
whoi our union will become usore entire, as we grow purer and dis
interested.
" Thus in later days there has been a growth of sentimrents  and
affections, almost unknown before. Ouir better feelings toward our
fellow-men have acquired far imore strength, and oassunled new formls.
In other times, man has been comparatively an insulated being.
Dotnestic life, that life in which now almost all our joys or sorrows
are centred, was scarcely known to the ancients; and has had but
a sickly and artificial existence even in modern ages, through the
operation of false notions of domestic government and discipline, and
of the mutual relations of husband and wife, parents and children.
Religion, by teaching us justly to estimate what is truly excellent in
our nature, what is intellectual, moral, and ever-enduring, has given
to woman the rank to which she is entitled. It has isade her the
friend of man; and our feelings are in harmony with the poet when
he speaks of'A perfect woman, nobly plann'd
To wart, to comfort, and command
46*
_,....                          I




54.3            CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
And yet a spirit still ands bright
With something of an all al light.'
But man has never regarded woman with respect and true love, ex
cept so far as he has regarded her as a spiritual and immortal being
Without this, no conception can exist of that inseparable union which
blends all the interests-and affections of one being with those of another. T'he poetry of the ancients that expresses any sentiments toward the female sex is, with rare exceptions, of the grossest kind,
sensual, coarse, indecent, brutal. We can pick out only a few passages from the mass, which shadow forth any thing like real affec
tion. The same character has continued to cleave to much of our
modern poetry, rendering it at once pernicious and disgusting. But
wherever the power of true religion has been felt, there woman, more
disinterested, more pure, and mnore moral than man, has exerted a
constant influence to raise the character of society. Where it has
not been felt, woman has been treated ag a mere creature of this
earth, an object only of sensual passion, courted, wronged, and instilted; her character has sunk, and the infection of the evil has
spread itself every where. It would oe difficult, in as few words, to
suggest to a reflecting mind, a more melancholy picture of the state
of society tat Athens, than that of which Aristotle affords us a glimpse
in a short passage of his'Art of Poetry,' where he remarks with
his usual brevity and dryness, that'the manners (character) of a
woman or slave may be good; though in general perhaps, women
are rather bad than good, and slaves altogether bad.'* Where women are thus estimated, the domestic charities, /'ur best school of
virtue, cannot exist; those affections which are at once the gentlest
and the strongest have no place; nor will there be any true refinement, nor quick and generous feeling in the intercourse between man
and man. The first and strongest link in the chain of human sympathy is wanting.
"When Jesus Christ pronounced these words,' What God has
joined together, let not man put assunder,' he laid down the fundamental law of human civilisation. But it would have been impossible to render marriage the most solemn and indissoluble of connextions, if his religion had not at the same title restored to woman the
character designed for her by nature, and raised her to that place
she now holds, wherever the truths he taught have had somewhat
of their proper influence.
"When the feelings that give sanctity to marriage are wanting, the
parental affections operate but feebly. The new-born child, instead
of being regarded as a gift and a trust from God, a new creature with
whom we have become for ever connected, and a living bond of common interest to strengthen the union of its parents, is either looked
at, on the one hand, as a present encumbrance, or on the other, as a
probable future support. The whole history of the domestic relations of the ancients establishes this truth. What must have been
the state of parental affection among those who practised and tolerated the destruction of infants as a common custom? The absence
of such affection is not to be estimated by the number of victims to
that custom, but by the fact of its being generally viewed with horror or reprobation. It was a shocking trait of barbarity in the cha
racter of the elder Cato, that he recommended that worn-out and
disabled slaves should be exposed to perish; but an exposure more
inhuman, which showed that man had lost even the feelings of the
~  What Aristotle says," observes his able translator, Mr. Twining, " is, I fear,
but too conformable to the manner in which the ancients usually speak of the sex in'
general. At least he is certainly consistent with himself: witness the fillowing very
curious character of women in his' History of Animals' which I give the reader by
no means for his assent, but for his wonder or his diversion." Mr. Twining's remarks sufficiently imply of what nature this character is, and we forbear to quote it.




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.                            547
lower animals, was constantly going on, and was enjoined, under
certain circumstances, both by Plato and Aristotle, as a law of their
imagined republic. There is a famous saying in one of the comedies of'rerence, which has been often quoted as a fine expression of
philanthropy; Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.*  It is
put into the mouth of a man whose wife is afterwards represented
as in fear before him, because she had not destroyed her female infant as he had commanded, but given it a chance for preservation by
causing it to be exposed alive. Maternal love cannot be wholly extinguished; but it is the glow of modern feeling only which pours
its beauty over the following lines, to which nothing parallel can be
found in the poets of Greece or Rome, though Mrs. Hemasts apostrophizes the Elysium of their imagining.
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 betore the mother lay,
E'en so to pass away,
With its bright smile! Elysium what wert thou
To her, who wept, o'er that young sluinberer's brow?
Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's fresh flowers just opening it 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 dew-drop swept before the blast' V
"The ancient popular falth was indeed destitute of consolation;
but in the absence of those associations which shed a holy light
round an infant, such consolation is less needed. Even the fountain
of maternal affection flows with but a scanty and interrupted stream.' Thus religion, by making man of more worth to man, and by
strengthening our assurance in each other's sympathy and virtue,
has called forth affections which lay folded up in our nature, or had
put forth only a stinted growth. The finer productions of modern
poetry are colored throughout with expressions of their beauty and
strength. Moral qualities, good or bad, as they exist in men, unformed directly or indirectly by religion, owe their strength princi
patty to impulse and passion, or depend, like the inconsistent hospi
tality of the Arab, or the pride of the Roman, on what he thought
the glory of his country, upon prejudices, which spring partly from
generous feelings and partly from selfish regards, and are made strong
and binding upon the individual by universal consent. It is only
when quickened by religious sentiment, that the human character
displays all its complicated variety of feelings. Then affections,
which had before seemed almost powerless, become essential elements of our being.  Associations, till then unknown, link together
their invisible chains; and the feeling with which they thrill us
when touched, presents a new phenomenon in our nature. The
love of our youthful home may seem to us an universal sentiment,
likely to appear in the poetry of all times; yet how  little reference
to it do we find in any poetry before our own age, and especially how
little reference, like the following, to its moral power.
"Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back?
The free, the pure, the kind?'
— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track,
As they play'd to the mountain-wind.
"Hath thy soul been true to its early love  "
Whisper'd my native streams;
Hatl the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove,
Still revered its first high dreams?"' &c.
I am a mall; whlatever concerns oti;er metn, I think my concem




548              CRITICAL ANNOFATIONS ON
"It is under the continued influence of Christianity, however imperfect that influence may have been, that the human character,
which had before manifested itself partially and irregularly in the
rudeness and inconsistency of its elementary passions, has begun to
struggle towards its full development. It has become alive to feelings, and is putting forth powers, which belong to its immortal nature.  We may perceive this unfolding of Ian in the very structure
of language, which, enlarged as it has been with new terms, yet
presents so imperfect a means for expressing the different qualities
and shades of character, and the modes and combinations of feeling.
]'he study of human nature has thus become a science of far more
interest and complexity.  Many forms of character now appear, that
belong to no period in the progress of the human race, preceding that
to which we have arrived. To the eye of the poet, man presents
himself in new aspects of strength and weakness in multiform relations to the finite and the infinite, and with all the variety of sentiments resulting from the change in his prospects and hopes. He is
now'a traveller between life and death;' his highest interests connect him with the boundless, the unearthly, and the  lmysterious;
with all that has most power to affect the imagination, and excite
the strongest and deepest feelings. It is only through his relations
to God and eternity, that man becomes an exhaustless subject of
high poetry.  When thus viewed, his ruined home omay be repeopled
with thought and images such as these:'Thou hast heard many soundls, thou hearth,
Deserted now by all'!
Voices at eve here met in mirth,
Which eve may ne'er recall.
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And childhood's lauohinl glee,
And asoo' and prayer slave all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.'Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured
Upon the infant head,
As it in every fervent word
The living soul were shed.
Thon hast seen partiegs,- such as bear
The bloom from life away, —
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where nought beloved can stay!' &c.
"The recognition of the higher relations of man has given a char
acteristic to modern  poetry, particularly English poetry, through
which it has peculiar power over the heart.  Expressions and descriptions of human suffering, instead of depressing its with melan
choly, become sublime or touching, when that suffering is brought
into direct or indirect contrast with man's nature and hopes as an
immortal being, or is represented as calling into exercise those virtues which can exist in such a being alone.  There is no pathos in
the mere lamentations of an individual over his own particular lot
or over the condition of a race to which he feels it an unhappiness
to belong. There is nothing that excites any tender or elevating
feeling in such verses as the following from an ancient poet:-'Is there a man just, honest, nobly born?
Malice shall hunt him down. Does wealth attend him?
Trouble is hard behind. Conscience direct.
Beggary is at his heels.
ADc*  *     * c Account that day
Which brings no new mischance, a (lay of rest.
For what is mnan i   What matter is he made of 
How born I What is he, anti what shall he be h
What an unnatural parent is this world,




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS                                  549
To foster none but villains, adct destroy
All who are benefactors to mankind!' *
"The sufferings to which we are here exposed cease to be a subject that.leads to any grateful or ennoblingr state of mind, when
man regards the pleasures of this life as his only good.  Among the
ancient poets, the contemplation of its evils, when viewed at a distance, is associated with sentiments simply disheartening, or altogether superficial and trifling.  Let us take for example a famous ode
of Horace.  It begins;-'Elleu! fugaces, Postume, Postume,
Labuntur anni; nec pietas moram
Rudis et instatti senecas
Afferet, indomitteque morti. t
It ends:'Absumet hires Cxecuba dignior,
Servata centum clavibus; et mero
Tinget pavir entaut  souperho
Pontificum potiore cePihis.' f
"No modern poet would, or rather could, construct verses after
this fashion.
"It is in representations of the triumph of our immortal nature
over the ills of mortality, of the patience with which they are borne,
of the power by which they are overcome-in one word, of the moral
qualities which suffering alone brings into action, and in those touches
that awaken our best and tenderest affections for the sufferings of
others, especially the innocent and helpless, that the sources of the
highest pathos are to be found. All that is morally sublime springs
upward from our severer trials; and then, only when man feels the
nobleness of his nature.  Present the calamity nakedly to our view,
and its contemplation is merely distressing; picture it in connection
with some effort of virtue, and a glory is spread over the whole.  In
the fall of d'Assas by Mrs. Iemans, (not one of the most remarka
ble of her productions,) a young officer, full of the thoughts of his
home and the scenes of his earlier years, is represented as surprised
and massacred  by his enemies.  The simple narrative of such a                        j
death naturally excites painful emotion, but this emotion is so wholly
overborne, as but to give additional strength to the exaltation of feeling produced by the concluding verses:'"Silence!" in under-tones they cry"No whisper-inot a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh
Shall sentence thee to death!"
— Still, at the bayonet's point lie stood,
And strong to meet the blow;
And shouted,'midst his rushinn blood,
" Arm, arm, Auverglle! the foe!"
The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call,
He heard their tumults -row;
And sent his dying voice through all,"A.4uvergne, Auvergne! the foe!'
The original is ascribed to Sotades. See Cumberland's "Observer," No. 147.
Cumberland says, " There is a melancholy graudeur in these sentiments, with a
simplicity of expression, which prove to us that these authors (tie Greek comic
writers) occasionally diverged fromn the -ay spirit of comedy into passages not only
of the most serious, but sublimest cast.'  Cumhberland is one of those critics who
have regarded themselves as privileged in writing any sort of laudatory nonsense
about the ancient poets.
t Alas! my friend, the rapid years
Are gliding on; no prayers delay
Approaching wrinkles, a-e, andl tears,
UOr wrest from death's all-conquering sway.
IWith wine your hundred locks secure,
Some worthier heir your floors will stain,
Lavish of draughts more rich and pure
Than our high priests are wont to drain.




550              CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
"We may compare the poem just quoted, with a passage from
Virgil, which refers to circumstances somewhat similar, and has been
praised as very pathetic, in the episode of Nisus and Euryalus, where
Nisus perceives that Euryalus has fallen into the hands of his foes,
and is just about to be slain.
Tum vero, exterritus, amens,
Conclamat Nisus; nec se celare tenebris
Amplius, aut tantum potuit perferre doloremra
M" We, me, adsum qui feci, In me convertite ferrum,
0 Rutuli! mea fraus omtnis: nihil iste nec ausus,
Nec potuit; ccelum hoc et conscia sidera testor.
Tantum infelicem nimium dilexit amicutm."
Talia dicta dabat- sed viribus ensis adactus
Transabiit costas./
" However conspicuous such a passage may be in an ancient poet
it would not, we believe, be regarded with great admiration in a
modern.
In one of Miss Edgeworth's little stories for children, which are
far better worth reading than most books for grown people, she says
of the cottage of some poor woman, that it was as clean as misery
could make it.  There is a pathos in these few words, not unusual in
her writings, but such as we can find in but a scanty number of writers before our own age. It has not been well understood, that the
indirect expressions of suffering are far more powerful than the direct, and that we are much more affected by suppressed, than by un
restrained emotion. In but little of the poetry of past times is there
any trace of quickness or delicacy of perception in regard to the
modes or expressions of human feeling and passion; for mian himself
had not become sufficiently refined for the exercise of such observation. Plato objects to Homer and the tragic poets of Greece, that,hey degraded men's minds by representing their heroes, when suffering, as pouring forth long lamentations, singing their sorrows, and
beating their breasts. So far as they did so, there was nothing pathetic in their writings. Who indeed, in modern times, was ever
able to imagine himself affected by the sorrows of Achilles for the
death of Patroclus, or those of his mother, Thetis, in consequence?
" From the want of sentiment and of moral associations, the descriptive language of the ancient poets is, in general,tscanty and poor.
It is for the most part drawn immediately from  the perceptions of
the senses, and has little to do with the invisible feelings and images,
of which outward things become the symbols to a reflecting mind.
it rarely gives them a moral being; its epithets are seldoml imniginattive; it paints to the eye; it calls up recollections of bodily rest and
pleasure; but it does not often address the heart.
" Horace begins one of his odes thus:Vides, ut ulta stet nive candidum
Soracte; nec jam sustineant onus
Sylvae iaborantes, geluque
Flumina constiterint acuto 3'"
"The epithets white mountain, deep snow, sharp frost, are all taken without addition immediately from the perception of the senses;
nor, considering the common prosaic use of laboro, in.a similar sense,
is the epithet laboring much more poetical; yet the passage is as
striking of its kind as most that may be found in'Latin poe:ry. The
lines are thus rendered by Dryden.'Behold yon mountain's hoary height
Made higher with new mounts of snow 
Agait behold the winter's weight
Oppress the laboring woods belowAnd streams with icy fetters bound
Benumb'd and cramp'd to solid ground.'
S* ee how Soracte stands white with deep sntow; the laboring woods cannot bat
up under their load, and the streams are stopped by the sharp trost.




MISCELLANEOUS POEIMS.                         551
"Dryden was not eminent for his love of nature or power of describing its beauties; and a poet of livelier perceptions would hardly
have changed the name of Soracte for the faint generalization,' yon
mountain;' yet something of the difference which we wish to point
out between ancient and modern poetry, is here perceptible. Let us
take from Mrs. Heumans an example of the richly imaginative character of that of later times. We will give the beginning of the verses in which she describes herself as reading in an arbor,' The Talisman' of Scott. A particular interest attaches to them from the ciri.umstance, that in the best portrait of her she is represented in this
real or imaginary situation.' 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
Tihev seem'd but pictured glooms: a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern tufts: and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine.* —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.'
"Every subject becomes rich in proportion to the wealth of t et!
mind by which it is contemplated. The intellectual light that shines
upon it gives.it its colors. Deficient as the ancient poets were in so
many sources of thought and feeling that exist in modern times, they
discover as imperfect a sensibility to most of the other pleasures of
a refined taste, as to those derived from the objects of nature. There
is to be found, for instance, in their works, scarcely a single passage,
perhaps not one in which the power of music, as blending inl intimate union sensible and intellectual pleasures, is described with
strong expression; yet what a treasury of glowing images and sol
elnn thoughts this subject has opened to modern poets. We need not
quote for illustration Mrs. Heman's Triumphant JMusic.
" Through our strong sympathy with our fellow men, we are deeply
interested in the remains of antiquity, in the ruins that recall it to
our thoughts, and in the histories which have come down to us, or
rather in those histories as fashioned anew by our imlagination, eiftcing and softening, filling up the rude outline, and coloring and emilbellishing at pleassie. In proportion as we have a more vivid conception of the virtues and excellences of which man is capable, so
man, as such, becomes more an object of our regard. In looking
back through the obscurity of time, the depravity that would have
shocked us, if forced upon our observation, is partially lost in the
darkness, and the bright traits of character shine out mnore distinctly.
The dead of past ages are regarded with something of the same tenderness that we feel toward the dead whom we have known. At
least we consent for a time to sacrifice our philosophy to an illusion,
and instead of the Richard Coeur-de-Lion of history, whose only
marked characteristics were bodily strength and brutal hardihood,
with those few gleams of goodness which nothing but the grossest
sensuality can utterly extinguish, we consent for a time to take the
"'* Palestine. —Tales of the Crusaders."




152 fCRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
Richard of Scott's Ivanhoe; or in fancying the Augustan age, are
willing to f(orget that it took its name fromn' him who murder'd Tully,
That cold villain, Octavius.'
"Conformably to the laws of our better nature, our imagination is
most readily attracted by what is most excellent in mlan. While
viewing a beautiful tract of country with which we are not familiar,
we can hardly refrain from idealizing its supposed inhabitants, and
giving them  somewhat of a poetical character, or, in otlier words, a
character agreeable to our best feelings. So it is in casting our view
over past ages. Our sympathies are excited for the hopes and fears,
and the virtues, such as they were, of those who have lost all powel
to injure; and we iuay even fashion dim images of what they now
are, as existing somewhere in the creation of God, divested, perhaps.
of the evil that clung to them on earth. The idea of that moral purification and development, which, we believe, is continually going
on in the universe, may thus mingle with the contemplation of the
past. It is in transferring us into a world in which grateful imaginations are blended witt truth, and the harshness of present reality is
shut out, that the poetic interest of antiquity principally consists.
"Of this, modern poetry and fiction have abundantly availed themselves. But though a shadowy antiquity lay as a background to
Greek and Roman civilization, yet it was rarely resorted to by the
ancient poets as a source of pleasing or solemn emotions. To them
the remoter ages were little more than a desert abounding with
monstrous fictions, with licentious and savage divinities, half-brutal
demigods, and heroes, and chiefs hardly human, whose fabulous
deeds and sufferings present nothing to recommend them  to our
sense of beauty. In the period following, history assumed at least
an air of truth, and men appeared on the stage with human feelings,
passions, and virtues. But in looking back upon their earlier history,
the ancients seem to have felt but slightly those peculiar sentiments
and trains of feeling, which the contemplation of antiquity now
awakens in our breasts. In no ancient poet is there a celebration of
a hero of his country to be compared with Mrs. Hemans's lines on
the Scottish patriot, Wallace, beginning'Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of sosng.'
There is no appeal to the deeds of their fathers equal to her Spanish
war-song,-' Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again
Let the high word' Castile' go resounding through Spain.' —
No poetic conception of antiquity is to be found resembling the in
troduction of her'Cathedral Hymn,'-'A dim and mighty minster of old time,
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past.'
And above all, there is nothing so.morally ennobling, so adapted to
raise the character of a people, as the verses by which she has con
ferred a great obligation on our country, her'Pilgrim Fathers.'
1" But, beside the advantages afforded to a modern poet by the religious and moral irmprovemnent of our race, which it has been prIncipally our object to point out, there are others at which we may
glance. He mlly look back over many ages, and around upon all
countries, and acquaint himself with man, as he has existed and ex
ists under circumistances the miost dissimnilar. He may possess himselfof all that knowledge of human nature, which has been gathered




MISCE, L AN EOUS  POEM.                    55oo
from long experience, and wide observation, and multiplied opportunities of comparison. He may, like Southey, construct poems, as
wild and wondrous, and as morally beautiful as'Thalaba,' or as
rich with barbaric splendor as'The Curse of Kehama,' from  the
rude materials of Arabian fiction or Hidloo mythology. The treasures of learning and science, so poor in ancient times, have, through
succeeding ages, been accumulating to furnish him with thoughts,
illustrations, and images.  Our conceptions are enlarged, our views
raised, the physical as well as the nmoral universe has been continu —
ally opening to the view of man, and knowledge unfolding her everlengthening scroll, of which the ancients had scarcely read the first
lines. It was a dream, ridiculed by Plato,* of the extravagant admirers of Homer, that all human and divine learning was to be foundt
in his writings.
"In the nature of things art is progressive; its theory and practice
are gradually better understood, errors are discovered and corrected,
new objects of attainment proposed, and visions of higher excellence
revealed to the mind; and thus we may believe, that the tharacter,
prirnsiples, purposes, and means of poetry are now  comprehended
more justly than they were in former times.
But it may be said, that in perfection of language, at least, the
poets of Greece and Rome must remain unsurpassed. It mi.ay be
doubted, however, whether we are qualified to pronounce this judgment in their favor. The harmonious flow of articulate sounds in
the Greek and Latin languages, particularly in the Latin, is not to be
readily attained in some of the principal languages of literary Europe. But if we speak of poetical beauty of expression and hartmony
of thought, we must recollect, that it is necessary to be acquainted
with the train of shadowy associations which follow  the direct
meaning of a poetical word, before we can determine that word to be
well chosen. But such acquaintance itmplies an intimate knowledge
of the use of language and of the state of mind in those addressed,
which, as regards the poetry of the ancients, it is very difficult to acquire, and, in many particulars, impossible, yet without which we
are liable to fall into great lnistakess, and may often be left in nmuch
uncertainty. Take, for example, the line,Quadrupedante vutrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.t
It has been admired from  the consonance of the sound with the
dense. We understand the epithet putris to mean dusty, —the dusty
pltin; but this epithet is elsewhere applied to a rich, mellow  soil,
easily broken up, or to a sandy plain. According to either of these
uses, it is apparently an epithet unsuitable from its associations to be
given to a field described as shaken and resounding with the tramlpling of a body of horse. As respects, likewise, the epithet quadrmupedans, we mIsay doubt whether any modlern critic can explain whx
quadrupedante sonitu is more poetical in Virgil, than its equivalent,'the sound of quadrupeds,' would be in a nlodern poet, if used to express the sound of horses.
"Let us take another example:'Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus
Idmeis Helenarn perfilus hospitam.'
*De Republica, Lib. x. p. 598, seq.
t "s Repeated peals of shouts are heard aroulnd:'he neihiji coursers answer to the sound,
And stiale with hornv hoots the solid ground." —Dryden.
Loutd shouts arise; the thunoderinlt coursers bound
Through clouds of dust, and paw the tremblilg ground." —Pitt
X When the perfidious shlepElherd was bearing away, in ldzean ships through lnatrow seas,,.Helell, thle wife ot' his host --—.
VOT,. II.-47




554            CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON
"Why is the word traheret used, which, as employed elsewhere,
would imply the taking away of Helen against her will? Does it refer to one version of the story according to which Paris dil bear her
away by force? Were this the case, one would naturally expect,
considering the reproachful and denunciatory character of the ode,
to find that idea brought out more distinctly. Is it intended to express
the reluctance with which, though yielding to her love for Paris, she
left her husband and her home? This conception is too refined for an
ancient poet to trust to its being made apparent by so light a touch, if
indeed we may suppose it to have entered hi:i mnnd. \TVas traheret
then intended, by its associations with an act of viole-c:r. to dellnote
the rapidity and fear of the flight of Paris? Or was it inerely em
ployed abusively, to use a technical term, only withl raftrence to a
part of its signification, as words are not unfrequently u:;red in poetry,
though it is always an imperfection?
"Such cases are very numerous, in which no modern reader can
pronounce with just confidence upon the character of the poetical
language of the ancients. Instances are frequently occurrig, in hwhich,
if we admire at all, we must admire at second hand, upon trust. The
meaning and effect of words have undergone changes which it is of
ten not easy, and often not possible, to ascertain with precision.
Even in our own language this is the case. Shakspeare says,Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, Hold! Koll!'
"Here Johnson understands him as presenting the ludicrous conception of' the ministers of vengeance peeping through a blanlket'
and Coleridge, as we see by his Table-Talk, conjectured that instea.d
of' blanket,'' blank height' was perhaps written by Shakspeare. But
by'Heaven' we conceive to be meant not the ministers of vengeance,
but the lights of heaven; and it is not unpoetical to speak of the
noon and stars as peeping through clouds. With the word'blitnket,'
our associations are trivial and low; but understand it merely as
denoting a thick covering of darkness which closely enwraps the
lights of heaven, and it suits well to its place. But our associations
with the word are accidental, there is nothing intrinsically more
mean in a blanket than a sheet, yet none would object to the expression of' a sheet of light.' The fortunes of the words only have been
different, and that, in all probability, since the time of Shakspeare,
considering his use of this word, and the corresponding use of the
word rug by Drayton.*
"If s,.ch be the character of poetical language, it is clear that to
judge with critical accuracy of that of a distant age or even a foreign land, requires uncommon knowledge and discriminatiQni, as well
as an accurate taste; while, unfortunately, profound scholarship and
cqtivated and elegant habits of mind, have very rarely been united
in the study of the ancient poets. The snpposition of a peculiar
felicity of expression in their writings is to be judged of, in most
cases, rather by extrinsic probabilities, which do not favor it, than by
any direct and clear evidence of it that can be produced. We are
very liable in this particular to be biassed by prepossession and authority; our imaginations often deceive us; we create the beauty
which we fancy that we find.
"There is perhaps no poet, in whose productions the characteristics of which we have spoken as giving a superiority to the poety of
later times over that which has preceded, appear more strikingly than
in those of Mrs. Hemans. When, after reading such works as she
has written, we turn over the volumes of a collection of English
poetry, like that of Chalmers, we cannot but perceive that the greater
* See examples, in the notes to Shakspeare.




JUVENILE POEMS.                     555
part of it appears more worthless and distasteful than before. Much
is evidently the work of barren and unformed, vulgar and vicious
minds, of individuals without any conception of poetry as the glowing expression of what is most noble in our nature, and often with no
title to the name of poet, but from having put into metre thoughts toc
mean for prose. Such writings as those of Mrs. Hemans at once afford evidence of the advance of our race, and are among the most
important means of its further purification and progress. The minds,
which go forth from their privacy to act with strong moral power
upon thousands and ten thousands of other minds, are the real agents
in advancing the character of man, and improving his condition.
They are instruments of the invisible operations of the Spirit of God."
-From the Christian Examiner of January, 1836.
SELECTIONS FROM JUVENILE PCEMS.
[In this collected edition of the various writings of Mrs. Hemans,
chronological arrangement has been adhered to, in so far as any useful purpose has been attained by it; and, when departed from, it has
only been to a small extent, and that for the purpose of' giving to each
volume a greater degree of variety.
In a very general point of view, the intellectual career of Mrs. Hemans may be divided, as we have already hinted, into two separate
eras,-the first of which may be termed the classical, and comprehends the prodRestoration of her pen, from  the Restoration of the works
of Art to Italy " and " Modern Gleece," down to the " Historic Scenes "
and the "Translations from Canloens,"-and the last the romantic,
which commences with the "Forest Sanctuary," and includes "Records of Woman," together with nearly all her later efforts.
In point of poetical merit, there can be little doubt that the last
section far transcends the first, and forms the groundwork-whether
we regard conception or execution-on which her peculiar famne
will be tested by posterity. The former series of poems, however,
must be always reckoned valuable, not only in themselves as compositions, but as showing the progress of an intrinsically poetical mind
towards its maturity.
But as noonday has its morning, so even these were only the blossoms from antecedent buds; and, as matter of literary curiosity, we
have appended a selection from Mrs. Hemans's really juvenile efforts,
sufficient to show the first expansions of that genius, which time and
exertion afterwards ripened into "the bright consummate flower."
Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, some of the following outpourings of
poetical sentiment may be read with no common interest.]
JUVENILE POEMS,
BY FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWVNE.
From a Volume of Poems by FELICIA DOROTssEA BROWNE, published
in 1808, containing Pieces written between the ages of eight and
thirteen.
ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.
CLAD in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen,




556                JUVENILE POEMS.
Tlhe tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.
The breeze instill, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May
Because it is thy natal day.
The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.
A PRAYER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.
OnH! God, my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessing to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side;
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe!
Contented with the humblest lot,
Happy, though in the meanest cot.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
THE infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of' all good, oh! teach my voice to sing
Thee, firom whom Nature's genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise."
Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year,
Love, Truth, and Mercy, in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy, heaven's immortal King.
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire;
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And " fill my beating heart with sacred fire!"
_______ - - - - - --- __ _ __ _ __ _ _   ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _




JUVENILE POEMS.
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given,
Raise me, to join Eliza,* blest in Heaven.
SONNET TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN AT THE AG(E OF TWELVE.
To thee maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art;
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth,
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way;
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile,
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.'Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest
May hover round the virtuous man's repose:
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven with pure control,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease,
Inspire the pious fervor of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace.
Ah! tender thought, that oft with sweet relief
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blent
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.
RURAL WALKS.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIR t',EN.
OH! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape charms my youthful breast.
* A sister whom the author had lost.
47*




i   558           JUVENILE POEMS.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful ril,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd;
Where cliff[ in solemn majesty are piled,
" And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild:
And there I view the moulderinl tower sublime,
Array'd in all the blending shades of Time.
The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
"And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast."
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
1 LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour,
When evening spreads around her twilight veil;
When dews descend on every languid flower,
And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear,
Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.
~~-~~ —---------------------       --    - -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ —-I




JUVENILE POEMS.                  5.
IF m" The Domestic.ffecttons and Other Poems," by FELICIA
DOROTHEA BROWNE. Published in 18192.
TO MY.MOTHER.
IF e'er for human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e'er my heart has learn'd to know
The gen'rous wish or prayer;
Who sow'd the germ with tender hand?
Who mark'd its infant leaves expand?
My mother's fostering care.
And if one flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind;'Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn,
That oft opposed her toil!
And oh! if e'er I sigh'd to claim,
The palm, the living palm of Fame,
The glowing wreathT of praise;
If e'er I wish'd the glittering stores,
That Fortune on her fav'rite pours;'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round Thee, with streaming rays might shine
And gild thy sun-bright days!
Yet not that splendor, pomp, and power.
Might then irradiate every hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined;
And fall, as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light,
Than all the diamond's crystal rays,
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart,
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to blees,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make Thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom'd to dwell;




56)0              JUVEN LE POEMS.
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Aolian lyre,
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E'en then, shall teach thee to rejoice;
E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow's tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune's gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER.
On -his return from Spain, after the fatal retreat under Sir John.Moore, and the battle of Corunna.
THOUGH dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!
And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies,
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
With a smile and a glow on her cheek!
From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.
Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice, 
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice,
To meet thee, my Brother! again.
When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown'd
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!
How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care,
In the heat of the combat's alarm!




JUVENILE POEMS.                   o1
How sad and how often descended the tear,
(Ah! long shall remembrance the image retain)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!
But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er,
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear'd thee the more,
And my bosom with tenderness glows!
And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
Bright and transient, have fled, like the rainbow, away;
My aiection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!
No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and ofjoy
And beam through the cloud of despair!
TO MY ELDEST, BROTHER,
( With the British Army in Portugal.)
How many a day, in various hues array'd,
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade
How many an hour, on silent wing is past,
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last!
Since then has childhood ripen'd into youth,
And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth;
Her splendid fabrics melting into air,
As sage'experience waved the wand of care!
Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh,
And the tear trembles in affection's eye!
When shall we meet again!-with glowing ray,
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day;
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear
And sings benignly still-that day is near!
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice,
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice;
Tells, that the hour approaches, to restore
Our chrish'd wanderer to his home once more;
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear,
To faith still true, affection still sincere!
Then the past woes, the fuiture's dubious lot,
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot!
And joy's full radiance gild that sun-bright hour,
Though all around th' impending storm should lower.
Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host,
Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast,
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried,
Where glory's pole-star beams their constant guide,)
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray
To Cambria's vales and mountains far away?




562               JUVENILE POEMS.
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam,
And paint the greeting that awaits at home?
Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue,
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew;
In softer tints delighting to retrace,
Each tender image and each well-known face?
Yes! wanderer, yes! thy spirit flies to those,
Whose love, unalter'd, warm and faithful glows.
Oh! could that love, through life's eventful hours
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers.
Perennial joy should harmonize thy breast,
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest!
But though our tenderness can but bestow
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe;
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame,
In storms, in sunshine, far and near-the same!
Still dwell enthroned within th' unvarying heart,
And firm and vital-but with life depart!
Bronwoylfa, Feb. Sth, 1811.
LINES
WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH
OH, thou! whose pure, exalted mind,
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
Oh, thou! whose blameless life combined,
Soft female charms and grace refined,
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar'd
Beyond this vale of tears;
Whose clear, enlighten'd eye explored
The lore of years!
Daughter of Heaven! if here, e'en here,
The wing of towering thought was thine
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless'd ethereal soul,
Now kindle in her noon-tide ray;
And hail unfetter'd by control,
The Fount of Day!
E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes,
Undimm'd by doubt, nor veil'd by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise -;
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendent, pure and clear!
E'en now, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal'd,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light'eveal'd!




JUVENILE POEMS.                 563
If here, the lore of distant time,
And learning's flowers were all thine own;
-Iow must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven's empyreal clime,
To light's unclouded throne!
Perhaps, e'en now, thy kindling glance,
Each orb of living fire explores;
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse,
Admires-adores!
Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise,
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!
How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning's brightest ray!
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of' glory pours his beam,
Perfection's day!
THE SILVER LOCKS.
ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.
THouGH youth may boast the curls that flow
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
As graceful on thy hoary head,
Has time the robe of honor spread,
And there, oh! softly, softly shed,
His wreath of snow!
As frost-work on the trees display'd,
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E'en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E'en so thy locks of purest white,
Survive, in age's frost-work bright,
Youth's vernal rose decay'd!
To grace the nymph whose tresses play
Light on the sportive breeze of May,
Let other bards the garland twine,
Where sweets of every hue combine;
Those locks revered, that silvery shine,
Invite my lay!
Less white the summer-cloud sublime,
Less white the winter's fringing rime;
Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem,
(A Poet's blest immortal theme,)
Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam
Of rev'rend Time!
Long may the graceful honors smile,
Like moss on some declining pile;




5Xi                JUVENILE POEMS.
Oh! much revered! may filial care,
Around thee, duteous, long repair,
Thy joys with tender bliss to share
Thy pains beguile!
Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave,
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save!
May bliss your latest eveniug crown,
Disarm life's winter of its frown,
And soft ye hoary hairs go down
In gladness to the grave,
And as the parting beams of day
On mountain-snows reflected play,
And tints of roseate lustre shed 
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head,
May, joy, with evening planet, shed
His mildest ray!.u.fust 18th, 1809.
THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.
SWEETS Of the wild! that breathe and bloom
On this lone tower, this ivied wall;
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall;
Though doom'd, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die,
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the sprinrl renew,
Your balmy scent and giowing hue,
To deck the robe of time'!
Breathe, fragrance! breathe, enrich the air
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flow'rets! blow, though vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These flowers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers are mouldering fast,
While Flora's children stayTo mantle o'er the lonely pile,
To gild Destruction with a smile,
And beautify Decay!
Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown'd
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!




JUVENILE POEMS
Thou hoary pile, majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o'er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!
Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valor sleep,
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honor, Fancy, weep,
That vanish'd is the ggden dream!
Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of ever —
All purple as the morning cloud,
All streaming to the winds of Heaven?
Where is the harp, by rapture strung,
To melting song, or martial story!
Where are the lays the minstrel sung,
To loveliness, or glory?
Lorn echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound,
As if, within this lonely round,
A step-a note-a whisper'd sound,
Had ne'er aroused thy voice!
Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne'er again shall harp or sona,
These dark deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose;
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush'd, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat,
Or lofty strain, or carol sweet,
W.th plaintive close!
Proud Castle! though the days are flown,
When once thy towers in glory shone
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o'er thy ramparts hung,
Though'midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern Desolation rear his throne;
And Silence, deep and awfuil, reign,
Where'echo'd once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The Muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quiv'ring, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of' TimeVOL. II. —48




65L             JUVENILE POEMS.
Oh! here shall Contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturb'd, to rove;
And bending o'er some mossy tomb,
Where Valor sleeps, or Beauties bloom,
Shall weep fbr Glory's transient day,
And Grandeur's evanescent ray
And list'ning to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past,
Call up the forms c'ages fled,
Of warriors and ofxinstrels dead;
Who sought the fiedd, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition's kindling fire!
Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odors on this desert air!
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!
Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom,
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!
Thus, round Misfortune's holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honor spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
FAIR Gratitude! in strain sublime,
Swell high to Heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
Kneel, Adoration! kneel!
CHORUS.
For lo! the day, th' immortal day,
When Mercy's full, benignant ray,
Chased every gathering cloud away,
And pour'd the noon of light!
Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing,
While from thine eye the tear is flowing,
Pure, warm, and bright!
Twas on this day, oh, Love Divine!
The Orient Star's effulgence rose;
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign,
Shall never, never close!
CHORUS.
Messiah! be thy name adored,
Eternal, high, redeeming Lord!
By grateful worlds be anthems pour'd




JUVENILE POEMS.                   567
Emanuel! Prince of Peace!
This day, from Heaven's empyreal dwelling,
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling,
Bade discord cease!
Wake the loud paean, tune the voice,
Children of heaven and sons of earth!
Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice,
To bless the Saviour's birth!
CHORUS.
Devotion! light thy purest fire!
Transport on cherub-wing aspire!
Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre,
Strike every thrilling chord!
While at the Ark of Mercy kneeling
We own thy grace, reviving, healing,
Redeemer! Lord!
THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.
W MN'CE are those tranquil joys in mercy given,'I o light the wilderness with beams of heaven?
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse,
Their temper'd sunshine, and celestial hues?
Those pure delights, ordain'd on life to throw
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know?
Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne,
When kneeling myriads call the world his own?
Or dwell with Lux'ry, in th' enchanted bowers,
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers?
Favolrd of Heaven! 0 Genius! are they thine,
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine;
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way,'Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day?
No! sacred joys!'tis yours to dwell enshrined,
Most fondly cherish'd in the purest mind;
To twine with flowers, those loved, endearing tieb,
On earth so sweet-so perfect in the skies!
Nursed on the lap of solitude and shade,
The violet smiles, embosom'd in the glade;
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale,
Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale!
Thus, far retired from life's tumultuous road,
Domestic Bliss has fix'd her calm abode,
Where hallow'd Innocence and sweet Repose
May strew her shadowy path with many a rose.
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky,
The cherub, Infarcy, can close its eye,




1656               JUVENILE POEMS.
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear,
While viewless angels wave their pinions near;
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll,
Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole;
While War's red lightnings desolate the ball,
And thrones and empires in destruction fall;
Then calm as evening on the silvery wave,
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave,
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest,
tIer empire Home!-her throne, Afibction's breast!
For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest.blooms,
And softer sunshine every scene illumes,
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze,
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas;
When Summer, wavinrg her creative wand,
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand;
Or Autumn's, pencil sheds, with magic trace,
O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace;
Oh! still for her, through Nature's boundless reign,
No charm is lost no beauty blooms in vain;
While mental peace, o'er every prospect bright
Throws mellowing, tints, and harmonizing light!
Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime,
Stern Winter bursting from the polar clime,
Triumphant waves his signal-torch an high,
The blood-red meteor of' the northern sky!
And high through darkness rears his giant-form,
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm!
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more,
And the wild surges foam along the shore;
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene,
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green!
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade,
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade!
Clear through the day, her light around thee glows,
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose!
-Hail, sacred Home! where soft Afiection's hand,
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band!
Where pure and bright, the social ardors rise,
Concentrating all their holiest energies!
When wasting toil has dimm'd the vital flame,
And every power deserts the sinking frame;
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores!
Thus,when oppress'd with rude, tumultuous cares,
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs!
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies,
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!
Bower of repose! when torn from all we love,
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove;




JUVENILE POEMS.                   569
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar,
Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star!
And from the martial field, the troubled sea,
Unfetter'd thought still roves to bliss and thee!
When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die,
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh;
Wide o'er the world, when Peace and Midnight reign,
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main:
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep,'Midst the dead calm, the vigil of' the deep!
No gleaming shores his dim horizoribound,
All heaven-and sea-and solitude around!
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm,
From the wild grandeur of the shadowy realm;
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined,
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind,
Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career,
To the loved scene, so distant, and so dear!
Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave,
And Danger frowns-the monarch of the wave!
Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel,
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!
Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge,
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge?
Yes! thy long toils, thy weary conflict's o'er,
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more!
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife,
The stuggling agony for death or life;
E'en then thy mind, embitt'ring every pain,
Retraced the image so beloved-in vain!
Still to sweet Home, thy last regrets were true,
Life's parting sigh-the murmur of adieu!
Caal war's dread scenes the hallowed ties efface,
Each ender thought, each fond remembrance chase?
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy
The loved impression of domestic joy?
Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier's breast,
In hostile climes with spells benign and blest;
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray,
O'er the long march, through Desolation's way;
Oh! still ye bear him from th' ensanguin'd plain,
Armor's bright flash, aidl Victory's choral strain;
To that loved Home, where pure affection glows,
That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose!
When all is hush'd-the rage of combat past,
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast;
When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er,
And many an eye is closed to wake no more;
48*




579                JUVENILE PO:EMS.
Lull'd by the night-wind, pillow'd on the ground,
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades round!)
While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep,
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep!
E'en then, soft visions, hov'ring round, portray,
The cherish'd forms that o'er his bosom sway;
He sees fond transport light each beaming face,
Meets the warm tear-drop, and the long embrace!
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart,
"Hail, weary soldier!-never more to part!"
And lo! at last, released from every toil,
He comes!-the wanderer views his native soil!
Then the bright raptures words can never speak,
Flash in his eye, and mantle o'er his cheek!
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer
Implored for him, each guardian-spirit's care;
Who, for his fate, through sorrow's ling'ring year,
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear;
In that blest moment, all the past forgetHours of suspense, and vigils of regret!
And, oh! for him, the child of rude alarms,
Rear'd by stern danger in the school of arms!
How sweet to change the war-song's pealing note,
For woodland-sounds, in summer-air that float!
Through vales of peace, o'er mountain wilds to roam,
And breathe his native gales, that whisper —" Home!"
Hail sweet endearments of domestic ties,
Charms of existence! angel sympathies!
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen!
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene,
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours,
With mifth and music, in Arcadian bowers;
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar;
While Fame's loud paean bids his heart rejoice,
And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice,;Yet from your source, alone, in mazes bright,
Flows the full current of serene delight!
On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores,
Through realms of space, th' aspiring eagle soars!
Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire,
Meridian glory-on her throne of fire!
Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze,
Hails the full moon, and triumphs in the blaze;
But soon, descending from his height sublime,
Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal clime;
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest,
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest!




JUVENILE POEMS.                   m
Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career,
Through the wide regionsof the mental sphere;
And proudly waving, in his gifted hand,
O'er Fancy's worlds, Invention's plastic wand;
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays!
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend,
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend;
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught,
Dilate the noblest energies of thought:)
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined,
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind,
At length he flies to that serene retreat,
Where calm and pure, the mild affections meet;
Embosom'd there, to feel and to impart
The softer pleasures of the social heart!
Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn,
From every tie, by fate relentless torn;
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle,
Mark'd with no step, uncheer'd by human smile,
Heart-sick and faint the shipwreck'd wanderer stand,
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand!
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main,
And weep-and pray-and linger-but in vain!
Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade,
Where voice ne'er echo'd, footstep never stray'd;
He fondly seeks, o'er cliffs and deserts rude,
Haunts of mankind,'midst realms of solitude!
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone,
The wood's deep sigh, the surge's distant moan!
All else is hush'd! so silent, so profobund,
As if some viewless power, presiding round,
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath,
Had spread for ages the repose of death!
Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep,
Lives but to watch-and watches but to weep!
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise,
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies!
Far from his cherish'd friends, his native shore,
Banish'd from being-to return no more!
There must he die!-within that circling wave,
That lonely isle-his prison and his grave!
Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows
With fainting step, Siberia's exile goes!
Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild,
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled;
Where frost.and silence hold their despot-reign,
And bind existence in eternal chain!
Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom!
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb!




JUVENILE POEMS.
While on thy faded cheek, the arctic air,
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair!
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day,
In that stern clime, to shed its parting ray;
Not that fair nature's loveliness and light
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight;
Ah! not for this, far, far beyond relief,
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief;
But that no friend of kindred heart is there,
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share;
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage
The stormy trials of thy ling'ring age;
No smile of tenderness, with angel power,
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour;
For this alone, despair, a withering guest
Sits on thy brow, and cainkers in thy breast!
Yes! there, e'en there, in' that tremendous clime,
Where desert grandeur frowns, in pomp sublime;
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night,
In all his wild magnificence of might;
E'en there, affection's hallow'd spell might pour
ThIlight of heaven around th' inclement shore!
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced,
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced,
Teach the pure heart, with vital fires to glow,
E'en'midst the world of solitude and snow!
The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions feign,
With mystic power, could tranquillize the main;
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep,
And peace and silence brood upon the deep!
And thus, Affection, can thy voice compose
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!
Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien,
Wan, yet resign'd and hopeless, yet serene!
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase,
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face;
That faded eye was dimm'd with many a care,
Those waving locks were silver'd by despair!
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm,
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm!
Ete, a sad emigrant! condemn'd to roam,
In life's pale autumn from his ruin'd home;
IIas borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave,
Where joy-and hope-and fortune-found a grave!'Twas his, to see Destruction's fiercest band,
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land,
And roll, triumphant, on their blasted way,
In fire and blood-the deluge of dismay!




JUVENILE POEMS.                    573
Unequal combat raged on many a plain,
And patriot-valor waved the sword in vain!
Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled,
Long braved the tempest gath'ring o'er his head!
Till all was lost! and horror's darken'd eye,
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!
Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll'd
Far o'er his country, rushing uncontroll'd;
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom,
Torn by the blast-were scatter'd on the tomb!
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife,
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life;
Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile,
Can sooth his wanderings, and his tears beguile;
E'en then, could temper, with divine relief,
The wild delirium of unbounded grief;
And whisp'ring peace, conceal, with duteous art,
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart!
And now, though time, subduing every trace,
Has mellow'd all, he never can erase;
Oft will the wanderer's tears in silence flow,
Still sadly faithful to rernember'd woe!
Then she, who feels a father's pang alone,
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,)
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh,
To chase the image that awakes the sigh!
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise,
To brighter visions of celestial days!
And speak of realms, where Virtue's wing shall soar
On eagle-plume-to wonder and adore;
And Friends, divided here, shall meet at last,
Unite their kindred souls-and smile on all the past!
Yes! we may hope, that nature's deathless ties,
Renew'd, reihn'd —shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection's hours.
Oh! still be near, and bright'ning through the gloom,
Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb 
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved,
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.
Lo! oy the couch where pain and chill disease,
In every vein, the ebbing life-blood freeze;
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay,
Life's closing lesson-in its dawning day;
Where beauty's rose is with'ring ere its prime,
Unchanged by sorrow-and unsoil'd by time;
There, bending still, with fix'd and sleepless eye,
There, from her child, the mother learns to die;
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace,
Of ling'ring sickness in the faded face;




F74                JUVENILE POEMS.
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufTrer's bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler's hand-the blight of death, is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray,
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering, fades away!
Faint beats the hov'ring pulse, the trembling heart;
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!'Tis past, the struggle and the pang are o'er,
And life shall throb with agony no more;
While o'er the wasted form, the features pale,
Death's awful shadows throw their silvery veil:
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere,
Though poignant suff'ring mark'd thy short career;
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes,
And hush thy sighs-an angel of repose!
But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest,
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?
And, while she bends inI silence o'er thy bier,
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear?
Visions of hope, in loveliest hues array'd,
Fair scenes of bliss! by fancy's hand portray'd;
And were ye doom'd with false, illusive smile,
With flatt'ring promise, to enchant awhile?
And are ye vanish'd, never to return,
Set itl the darkness of the mould'ring urn?
Will no bright hour departed joys restore?
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more?
Behold no more the soul-illumined face,
The-expressive smile, the animated grace?
Must the fair blossom, wither'd in the tomb,
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom?
Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care,
And chase the gath'ring phantoms of despair;
Tell, that the flower, transplanted in its morn,
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn;
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews,
The full perfection of immortal hues;
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies,
By death released, the parent spirit flies;
There shall the child, in anguish mourn'd so long,
With rapture hail her,'midst the cherub throng;
And guide her pinion, on exulting flight,
Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds of living ligh
Ye gentle spirits of departed fiiends!
If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends;
TIf with benignant care, ye linger near,
T'o. E"rd the objects in existlnce de:'r;




JUVENILE POEMS.                  575
If hov'ring o'er, ethereal band! ye view
The tender sorrows, to your memory true;
Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep,
While fbr your loss affection wakes to weep;
While every sound in hallow'd stillness lies,
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs;
Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near,
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear;
With secret spells, her wounded mind compose,
And chase the faithful tear-for you that flows;
Be near; when moonlight spreads the charm you loved,
O'er scenes where once your earthly footstep roved;
Then, while she wanders o'er the sparkling dew-,
Through glens and wood paths, once endear'd by you,
And fond y lingers in your fav'rite bowers,
And pauses oft, recalling former hours;
Then wave your pinion o'er each well-known vale,
Float in the moonbeam. sigh upon the gale;
Bid your wild symphonies relnotely swell,
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell;
And touch your viewless harps, and sooth her soul,
With soft enchantments and divine control!
Be near, sweet guardians; watch her sacred rest
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest;
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise,
Re urn'd in dreams, to bless her mental eyes,
Efface the mem'ry of your last farewell,
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell;
Tihe sweet communion of the past renew,
Reviving former scenes, array'd in softer hue.
Be near when death, in virtue's brightest hour,
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power;
Oh! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream,
Then let your forms unveil'd, around her beam;
Then waft the vision of unclouded light,
A burst of glory, on her closing sight;
Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal strain
To hush the final agonies of pain 
With rapture's flame, the parting soul illume,
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom!
Oh! still be near, when, darting into day,
Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay;
Be yours to guide her flutt'ring wings on high,
O'er many a world, ascending to the sky:
There let your presence, ohce her earthly joy,
Though dimm'd with tears, and clouded with alloy,
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore,
Where death shall sever kindred hearts nb more.
Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death or time;
-                                         — J~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~i




576               JUVENILE POEMS.
Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire,
Shall beam on glories-never to expire;
Oh! there th' iliarnined soul may fondly trust,
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust,
Those mild affections. whose consoling light
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night,
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow,
Exulting rapture-not assuaging woe!
lEE END,