NATIONAL SONGS.

Upon its little turfy hill, the desert’s charm and pride, The tall oak in his majesty extends his branches wide: His shadow covers half the waste, and there he stands alone, Like a poor soldier on the watch, a sad abandoned one! And who, when wakes the glowing sun, thy friendly shade shall seek? Or shield thee when the thunder rolls, and when the lightnings break? No graceful pine protects thee now, no willow waves its head, No sheltering ivy’s dark green leaves are midst thy branches spread! Alas! ’tis sad to stand alone, thus banished from the grove; But bitterer far for youth to mourn divided from his love! Though gold and silver, wealth and fame, and honours he possess, With none t’ enjoy them, none to share, they are but nothingness. Cold is the converse of the world—a greeting, and no more! And beauty’s converse colder still—a word, and all is o’er: Some shun my presence, and from some scorn bids my spirit fly: Though all are lovers, all are friends, till tempests veil the sky. But where’s the breast where I may sleep, when those dark moments come? For he who loved me cannot hear, he slumbers in the tomb! Alas! I long have lost the joys of friend and family, And the fair maid that I adore looks carelessly on me: No aged parents on our heads their benedictions pour: No children to our bosoms creep, or play upon our floor; O take away your wealth, your fame, your honours, treasures vile, And give me in their stead, a home—a love—and love’s sweet smile.

Why wilt thou think that thy heart’s distress May find relief in tear or sigh? Thou art abandoned to loneliness— To loneliness and to misery. Severing oceans between you roll, And frowning mountain-barriers rise; She may not read thy faithful soul— She may not witness tears or sighs. Weak and wayward spirit to deem That the wing of the zephyr will bear to her Soft as the flight of childhood’s dream The orisons of her worshipper! That the gale’s light fragrant breath will bring Music of thine to thy maiden’s ear, What time the day-star triumphing Looks from his throne on the waking sphere. Yet cherish the hope—tho’ weak and wild, Its promise of joy thy bosom may bless— But thou—thou, sorrow’s devoted child! Soon wilt be left to thy loneliness, To thy loneliness and thy misery— Oceans and mountains divide you far; Never her smile shall light on thee, Ne’er shalt thou welcome that heavenly star.

Thou field of my own, thou field so fair! So wide, extensive, fertile there! Adorned with gems so gay and bright— With flowers, and butterflies, and bees, And plants, and shrubs, and leafy trees— Thou hast but one ungrateful sight! See there upon the broom-tree’s bough, The young gray eagle flapping now, O’er the raven black, that he tears asunder, Whose warm red blood is dropping under, And sprinkles the moistened ground below: The raven black—a wild one he! And the eagle gray—his enemy! No swallow, gliding round and round His homely happy nest, is found;— But a mother is seen in the darksome vale, Or sad by the raging ocean’s tide; A sister sighs on the fountain’s side, A lover weeps in the night-dews pale— The sun shines forth—the dews are dried⁠[1]⁠.

A young maid sat upon the streamlet’s side, And thought most tearfully on her bitter fate; Her bitter fate, and on departed time— Departed time—the glad, exulting time; And there the lovely maiden robed herself, She robed herself, with many adornings robed, And waited anxious for her trusted friend— Waited for her trusted friend:—a ruffian he! He played the ruffian with the maid and fled:— Alas! love’s flower of hope is withered! Well may that lonely flower decay and die! She calls in vain—she wipes her tears away: Thee, rapid streamlet! they may fill, and roll Over thy bosom—make thy bed of tears: “I had adorned me for that faithless friend, That faithless friend is fled:—he hath stolen all, All my possessions but my grief:—that grief He left in mercy, if that grief can kill. Come, death! I veil me in thy shadows dim— To thee I fly, as once I flew to him!”

Upon that brow, so soft, so fair, Why sit those frowns?— O why should I Plant bitter flowers of anger there? O tell me, more than angel, why? I have been wretched—did I e’er Trouble thy peace with my distress? Did I invite thee, say, to hear The story of my wretchedness? O no! I sigh’d midst rocks and groves, That thou might’st never know I sigh’d: I wept where stillest water roves:— The tear but swell’d the silent tide. Forget me—for my love shall be Enough for both:—undying, bright— Winged for an immortality, And filling all the tomb with light.

Not to-day he the young rose sought, For she was fairer than the rose: Hers be the cypress, dark as thought; Yew that over the still grave grows. Can ye remember her sigh, her tear O’er a departed one, fair as she? Such were a tribute meet for her, Meet for us, and our misery. O forget her sweet smiles—forget All that she was:—she is nothing now. Scatter the purple violet; O’er her green pillow the snow-drop throw! Come with the eve; let your requiem Mount on the breeze o’er the grassy heap: Thousand spirits shall join the hymn, Watching over her slumbers deep.