Part 2 — LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

The citron-groves their fruit and flowers were strewing Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing With music through their shadowy bowers went by; Music and voices, from the marble halls Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls. A song of joy, a bridal-song came swelling To blend with fragrance in those southern shades, And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown’d maids; And thus it flow’d:—yet something in the lay Belong’d to sadness, as it died away. “The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling To leave the chamber of her infant years; Kind voices from a distant home are calling; She comes like day-spring—she hath done with tears; Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!— Pour the rich odours round! “We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing; Love still goes with her from her place of birth; Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing, Though in her glance the light no more is mirth! Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years; Her sisters weep—but she hath done with tears!— Now may the timbrel sound!” Know’st thou for whom they sang the bridal numbers?— One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more! One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers, Nor Love’s own sigh, to rose-tints might restore! Her graceful ringlets o’er a bier were spread. Weep for the young, the beautiful,—the dead!

Go forth! for she is gone! With the golden light of her wavy hair, She is gone to the fields of the viewless air; She hath left her dwelling lone! Her voice hath pass’d away! It hath pass’d away like a summer breeze, When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas, Where we may not trace its way. Go forth, and like her be free! With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye, Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, And what is our grief to thee? Is it aught e’en to her we mourn? Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed? Doth she rest with the flowers o’er her gentle head, Or float, on the light wind borne? We know not—but she is gone! Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, And the smile of her eye from the festal throng; She hath left her dwelling lone! When the waves at sunset shine, We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more, In the scented woods of our glowing shore; But we shall not know ’tis thine! Even so with the loved one flown! Her smile in the starlight may wander by, Her breath may be near in the wind’s low sigh, Around us—but all unknown. Go forth! we have loosed thy chain! We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers Which the bright day rears in our Eastern bowers; But thou wilt not be lured again. Even thus may the summer pour All fragrant things on the land’s green breast, And the glorious earth like a bride be dress’d, But it wins her back no more!

“Voice of the gifted elder time! Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme! Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes; Voice of the buried past! Voice of the grave! ’tis the mighty hour When night with her stars and dreams hath power, And my step hath been soundless on the snows, And the spell I have sung hath laid repose On the billow and the blast.” Then the torrents of the North And the forest pines were still, While a hollow chant came forth From the dark sepulchral hill. “There shines no sun midst the hidden dead, But where the day looks not the brave may tread; There is heard no song, and no mead is pour’d, But the warrior may come to the silent board In the shadow of the night. There is laid a sword in thy father’s tomb, And its edge is fraught with thy foeman’s doom; But soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep, For the viewless have fearful might!” Then died the solemn lay, As a trumpet’s music dies, By the night-wind borne away Through the wild and stormy skies. The fir-trees rock’d to the wailing blast, As on through the forest the warrior pass’d— Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old— The dark place of visions and legends, told By the fires of Northern pine. The fir-trees rock’d, and the frozen ground Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound; And it seem’d that the depths of those awful shades, From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, Gave warning, with voice and sign. But the wind strange magic knows, To call wild shape and tone From the gray wood’s tossing boughs, When Night is on her throne. The pines closed o’er him with deeper gloom, As he took the path to the monarch’s tomb: The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright With the arrowy streams of the Northern light; But his road through dimness lay! He pass’d, in the heart of that ancient wood, The dark shrine stain’d with the victim’s blood; Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, Arose on his midnight way. Then first a moment’s chill Went shuddering through his breast, And the steel-clad man stood still Before that place of rest. But he cross’d at length, with a deep-drawn breath, The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, And look’d on the pale mysterious fire Which gleam’d from the urn of his warrior-sire With a strange and solemn light. Then darkly the words of the boding strain Like an omen rose on his soul again— “Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep; For the viewless have fearful might!” But the gleaming sword and shield Of many a battle-day Hung o’er that urn, reveal’d By the tomb-fire’s waveless ray; With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, They hung o’er the dust of the far-renown’d, Whom the bright Valkyriur’s warning voice Had call’d to the banquet where gods rejoice, And the rich mead flows in light. With a beating heart his son drew near, And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear— “Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep; For the viewless have fearful might!” And many a Saga’s rhyme, And legend of the grave, That shadowy scene and time Call’d back, to daunt the brave. But he raised his arm—and the flame grew dim, And the sword in its light seem’d to wave and swim, And his faltering hand could not grasp it well— From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell Through the chamber of the dead! The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, And the urn lay shiver’d in fragments round; And a rush, as of tempests, quench’d the fire, And the scatter’d dust of his warlike sire Was strewn on the champion’s head. One moment—and all was still In the slumberer’s ancient hall, When the rock had ceased to thrill With the mighty weapon’s fall. The stars were just fading one by one, The clouds were just tinged by the early sun, When there stream’d through the cavern a torch’s flame, And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came To seek him in the tomb. Stretch’d on his shield, like the steel-girt slain, By moonlight seen on the battle-plain, In a speechless trance lay the warrior there; But he wildly woke when the torch’s glare Burst on him through the gloom. “The morning wind blows free, And the hour of chase is near: Come forth, come forth with me! What dost thou, Sigurd, here?” “I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, I have scatter’d the dust of my warrior-sire! It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart; But the winds shall not wander without their part To strew o’er the restless deep! In the mantle of death he was here with me now— There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow; And his cold still glance on my spirit fell With an icy ray and a withering spell— Oh! chill is the house of sleep!” “The morning wind blows free, And the reddening sun shines clear; Come forth, come forth with me! It is dark and fearful here!” “He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown! But gone from his head is the kingly crown— The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand— They have chased him far from the glorious land Where the feast of the gods is spread! He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, He must ride o’er the grave-hills with stormy speed! His place is no longer at Odin’s board, He is driven from Valhalla without his sword; But the slayer shall avenge the dead!” That sword its fame had won By the fall of many a crest; But its fiercest work was done In the tomb, on Sigurd’s breast!

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

The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep Of a vision-haunted night, And he look’d from his bark o’er the gloomy deep, And counted the streaks of light; For the red sun’s earliest ray Was to rouse his bands that day To the stormy joy of fight! But the dreams of rest were still on earth, And the silent stars on high, And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth Midst the quiet of the sky; And along the twilight bay, In their sleep the hamlets lay, For they knew not the Norse were nigh! The Sea-king look’d o’er the brooding wave, He turn’d to the dusky shore, And there seem’d, through the arch of a tide-worn cave, A gleam, as of snow, to pour; And forth, in watery light, Moved phantoms, dimly white, Which the garb of woman bore. Slowly they moved to the billow-side; And the forms, as they grew more clear, Seem’d each on a tall pale steed to ride, And a shadowy crest to rear, And to beckon with faint hand From the dark and rocky strand, And to point a gleaming spear. Then a stillness on his spirit fell, Before th’ unearthly train, For he knew Valhalla’s daughters well— The Choosers of the slain! And a sudden rising breeze Bore, across the moaning seas, To his ear their thrilling strain. “There are songs in Odin’s Hall For the brave ere night to fall! Doth the great sun hide his ray? He must bring a wrathful day! Sleeps the falchion in its sheath? Swords must do the work of death! Regner!—Sea-king!—thee we call!— There is joy in Odin’s Hall. “At the feast, and in the song, Thou shalt be remember’d long! By the green isles of the flood, Thou hast left thy track in blood! On the earth and on the sea, There are those will speak of thee! ’Tis enough,—the war-gods call,— There is mead in Odin’s Hall! “Regner! tell thy fair-hair’d bride She must slumber at thy side! Tell the brother of thy breast Even for him thy grave hath rest! Tell the raven steed which bore thee, When the wild wolf fled before thee, He too with his lord must fall,— There is room in Odin’s Hall! “Lo! the mighty sun looks forth— Arm! thou leader of the North! Lo! the mists of twilight fly— We must vanish, thou must die! By the sword and by the spear, By the hand that knows no fear, Sea-king! nobly thou shalt fall!— There is joy in Odin’s Hall!” There was arming heard on land and wave, When afar the sunlight spread, And the phantom-forms of the tide-worn cave With the mists of morning fled; But at eve, the kingly hand Of the battle-axe and brand Lay cold on a pile of dead!

Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave, Seek not the bright spars there, Though the whispering pines that o’er it wave With freshness fill the air: For there the Patriot Three, In the garb of old array’d, By their native Forest-Sea On a rocky couch are laid. The Patriot Three that met of yore Beneath the midnight sky, And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore In the name of liberty! Now silently they sleep Amidst the hills they freed; But their rest is only deep Till their country’s hour of need. They start not at the hunter’s call, Nor the Lammer-geyer’s cry, Nor the rush of a sudden torrent’s fall, Nor the Lauwine thundering by; And the Alpine herdsman’s lay, To a Switzer’s heart so dear! On the wild wind floats away, No more for them to hear. But when the battle-horn is blown Till the Schreckhorn’s peaks reply, When the Jungfrau’s cliffs send back the tone Through their eagles’ lonely sky; When the spear-heads light the lakes, When trumpets loose the snows, When the rushing war-steed shakes The glacier’s mute repose; When Uri’s beechen woods wave red In the burning hamlet’s light— Then from the cavern of the dead Shall the sleepers wake in might! With a leap, like Tell’s proud leap When away the helm he flung, And boldly up the steep From the flashing billow sprung![312] They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea, In the ancient garb they wore When they link’d the hands that made us free, On the Grütli’s moonlight shore; And their voices shall be heard, And be answer’d with a shout, Till the echoing Alps are stirr’d, And the signal-fires blaze out. And the land shall see such deeds again As those of that proud day When Winkelried, on Sempach’s plain, Through the serried spears made way; And when the rocks came down On the dark Morgarten dell, And the crownèd casques,[313] o’erthrown, Before our fathers fell! For the Kühreihen’s[314] notes must never sound In a land that wears the chain, And the vines on freedom’s holy ground Untrampled must remain; And the yellow harvests wave For no stranger’s hand to reap, While within their silent cave The men of Grütli sleep!

Look on the white Alps round! If yet they gird a land Where Freedom’s voice and step are found, Forget ye not the band,— The faithful band, our sires, who fell Here in the narrow battle-dell! If yet, the wilds among, Our silent hearts may burn, When the deep mountain-horn hath rung, And home our steps may turn,— Home!—home!—if still that name be dear, Praise to the men who perish’d here! Look on the white Alps round! Up to their shining snows That day the stormy rolling sound, The sound of battle, rose! Their caves prolong’d the trumpet’s blast, Their dark pines trembled as it pass’d! They saw the princely crest, They saw the knightly spear, The banner and the mail-clad breast, Borne down and trampled here! They saw—and glorying there they stand, Eternal records to the land! Praise to the mountain-born, The brethren of the glen! By them no steel array was worn, They stood as peasant-men! They left the vineyard and the field, To break an empire’s lance and shield! Look on the white Alps round! If yet, along their steeps, Our children’s fearless feet may bound, Free as the chamois leaps: Teach them in song to bless the band Amidst whose mossy graves we stand! If, by the wood-fire’s blaze, When winter stars gleam cold, The glorious tales of elder days May proudly yet be told, Forget not then the shepherd race. Who made the hearth a holy place! Look on the white Alps round! If yet the Sabbath-bell Comes o’er them with a gladdening sound, Think on the battle-dell! For blood first bathed its flowery sod, That chainless hearts might worship God!

Thou art come from the spirits’ land, thou bird! Thou art come from the spirits’ land: Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, And tell of the shadowy band! We know that the bowers are green and fair In the light of that summer shore; And we know that the friends we have lost are there, They are there—and they weep no more! And we know they have quench’d their fever’s thirst From the fountain of youth ere now,[315] For there must the stream in its freshness burst Which none may find below! And we know that they will not be lured to earth From the land of deathless flowers, By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, Though their hearts were once with ours: Though they sat with us by the night-fire’s blaze, And bent with us the bow, And heard the tales of our fathers’ days, Which are told to others now! But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain! Can those who have loved forget? We call—and they answer not again: Do they love—do they love us yet? Doth the warrior think of his brother there, And the father of his child? And the chief of those that were wont to share His wandering through the wild? We call them far through the silent night, And they speak not from cave or hill; We know, thou bird! that their land is bright, But say, do they love there still?[316]

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look’d for the youth of the sunny glance Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance; The light of his eye was a joy to see, The path of his arrows a storm to flee. But there came a voice from a distant shore— He was call’d—he is found midst his tribe no more He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, But we look for him still—he will yet return! His brother sat with a drooping brow In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough: We roused him—we bade him no longer pine, For we heard a step—but the step was thine! We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look’d for the maid of the mournful song— Mournful, though sweet,—she hath left us long: We told her the youth of her love was gone, And she went forth to seek him—she pass’d alone. We hear not her voice when the woods are still, From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, The winter is white on his lonely head: He hath none by his side when the wilds we track, He hath none when we rest—yet she comes not back! We look’d for her eye on the feast to shine, For her breezy step—but the step was thine! We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look’d for the chief, who hath left the spear And the bow of his battles forgotten here: We look’d for the hunter, whose bride’s lament On the wind of the forest at eve is sent: We look’d for the first-born, whose mother’s cry Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!— Where are they? Thou’rt seeking some distant coast: Oh ask of them, stranger!—send back the lost! Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, Tell them our lives but of them are dreams! Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, And to watch for a step—but the step was thine!

Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take O’er yon blue hills thy lonely way, To reach the still and shining lake Along whose banks the west winds play? Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile— Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle! Lull but the mighty serpent-king,[317] Midst the gray rocks, his old domain; Ward but the cougar’s deadly spring,— Thy step that lake’s green shore may gain; And the bright Isle, when all is pass’d, Shall vainly meet thine eye at last! Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams, Clear as within thine arrow’s flight, The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams, Floats on the wave in golden light; And lovely will the shadows be Of groves whose fruit is not for thee! And breathings from their sunny flowers, Which are not of the things that die, And singing voices from their bowers, Shall greet thee in the purple sky; Soft voices, e’en like those that dwell Far in the green reed’s hollow cell. Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise From the deep chambers of the earth? The wild and wondrous melodies To which the ancient rocks gave birth?[318] Like that sweet song of hidden caves Shall swell those wood-notes o’er the waves. The emerald waves!—they take their hue And image from that sun-bright shore; But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe, And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,— Before thee, hadst thou morning’s speed, The dreamy land should still recede! Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear The music of its flowering shades, And ever should the sound be near Of founts that ripple through its glades; The sound, and sight, and flashing ray Of joyous waters in their play! But woe for him who sees them burst With their bright spray-showers to the lake! Earth has no spring to quench the thirst That semblance in his soul shall wake, For ever pouring through his dreams The gush of those untasted streams! Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, The waters of our deserts lie, Yet at their source his lip shall burn, Parch’d with the fever’s agony! From the blue mountains to the main, Our thousand floods may roll in vain. E’en thus our hunters came of yore Back from their long and weary quest;— Had they not seen th’ untrodden shore? And could they midst our wilds find rest? The lightning of their glance was fled, They dwelt amongst us as the dead! They lay beside our glittering rills With visions in their darken’d eye; Their joy was not amidst the hills Where elk and deer before us fly: Their spears upon the cedar hung, Their javelins to the wind were flung. They bent no more the forest bow, They arm’d not with the warrior band, The moons waned o’er them dim and slow— They left us for the spirits’ land! Beneath our pines yon greensward heap Shows where the restless found their sleep. Son of the stranger! if at eve Silence be midst us in thy place, Yet go not where the mighty leave The strength of battle and of chase! Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile— Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war. “Heard you not the battle-horn?— Reaper! leave thy golden corn: Leave it for the birds of heaven— Swords must flash and spears be riven! Leave it for the winds to shed— Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.” And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on. “Hunter! leave the mountain-chase, Take the falchion from its place; Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey; Let the deer ungall’d sweep by— Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh.” And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on. “Chieftain! quit the joyous feast— Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fires give ruddy light, Leave the hearth, and leave the hall— Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.” And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on. “Prince! thy father’s deeds are told In the bower and in the hold, Where the goatherd’s lay is sung, Where the minstrel’s harp is strung! Foes are on thy native sea— Give our bards a tale of thee!” And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on. “Mother! stay thou not thy boy, He must learn the battle’s joy: Sister! bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer: Maiden! bid thy lover part: Britain calls the strong in heart!” And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on; And the bards made song for a battle won.

The bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves roll’d on; And what was England’s glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived—for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain; Why comes not death to those who mourn? He never smiled again! There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave; But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him pass’d the young and fair, In pleasure’s reckless train; But seas dash’d o’er his son’s bright hair— He never smiled again! He sat where festal bowls went round, He heard the minstrel sing, He saw the tourney’s victor crown’d Amidst the knightly ring: A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep— He never smiled again! Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace Of vows once fondly pour’d, And strangers took the kinsman’s place At many a joyous board; Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Were left to heaven’s bright rain, Fresh hopes were born for other years— He never smiled again!

Torches were blazing clear, Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier In the church of Fontevraud. Banners of battle o’er him hung, And warriors slept beneath; And light, as noon’s broad light, was flung On the settled face of death. On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare, Though dimm’d at times by the censer’s breath, Yet it fell still brightest there: As if each deeply furrow’d trace Of earthly years to show. Alas! that sceptred mortal’s race Had surely closed in woe! The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests round him that slept Sang mass for the parted soul: And solemn were the strains they pour’d Through the stillness of the night, With the cross above, and the crown and sword, And the silent king in sight. There was heard a heavy clang, As of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang With a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chant was hush’d awhile, As, by the torch’s flame, A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle With a mail-clad leader came. He came with haughty look, An eagle-glance and clear; But his proud heart through its breastplate shook, When he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow, And clasp’d hands o’er it raised; For his father lay before him low— It was Cœur-de-Lion gazed! And silently he strove With the workings of his breast; But there’s more in late repentant love Than steel may keep suppress’d! And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,— Men held their breath in awe; For his face was seen by his warrior train, And he reck’d not that they saw. He look’d upon the dead— And sorrow seem’d to lie, A weight of sorrow, even like lead, Pale on the fast-shut eye. He stoop’d—and kiss’d the frozen cheek, And the heavy hand of clay; Till bursting words—yet all too weak— Gave his soul’s passion way. “O father! is it vain, This late remorse and deep? Speak to me, father! once again: I weep—behold, I weep! Alas! my guilty pride and ire!— Were but this work undone, I would give England’s crown, my sire! To hear thee bless thy son. “Speak to me! Mighty grief Ere now the dust hath stirr’d! Hear me, but hear me!—father, chief, My king! I must be heard! Hush’d, hush’d—how is it that I call, And that thou answerest not? When was it thus?——Woe, woe for all The love my soul forgot! “Thy silver hairs I see, So still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me, They had not been so white! I bore thee down, high heart! at last: No longer couldst thou strive. Oh! for one moment of the past, To kneel and say—‘forgive!’ “Thou wert the noblest king On royal throne e’er seen; And thou didst wear in knightly ring, Of all, the stateliest mien; And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, In war, the bravest heart: Oh! ever the renown’d and loved Thou wert—and there thou art! “Thou that my boyhood’s guide Didst take fond joy to be!— The times I’ve sported at thy side, And climb’d thy parent knee! And there before the blessed shrine, My sire! I see thee lie,— How will that sad still face of thine Look on me till I die!”

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak On the dark deep water cast, And it was not fell’d by the woodman’s stroke, Or the rush of the sweeping blast; For the axe might never touch that tree, And the air was still as a summer sea. I saw it fall, as falls a chief By an arrow in the fight, And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, At the crashing of its might; And the startled deer to their coverts drew, And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew! ’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep For the forest’s pride o’erthrown— An old man’s tears lie far too deep To be pour’d for this alone; But by that sign too well I know That a youthful head must soon be low! A youthful head, with its shining hair, And its bright quick-flashing eye; Well may I weep! for the boy is fair, Too fair a thing to die! But on his brow the mark is set— Oh! could my life redeem him yet! He bounded by me as I gazed Alone on the fatal sign, And it seem’d like sunshine when he raised His joyous glance to mine. With a stag’s fleet step he bounded by, So full of life—but he must die! He must, he must! in that deep dell, By that dark water’s side, ’Tis known that ne’er a proud tree fell But an heir of his fathers died. And he—there’s laughter in his eye, Joy in his voice—yet he must die! I’ve borne him in these arms, that now Are nerveless and unstrung; And must I see, on that fair brow, The dust untimely flung? I must!—yon green oak, branch and crest, Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast! The noble boy!—how proudly sprung The falcon from his hand! It seem’d like youth to see him young, A flower in his father’s land! But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. Say not ’tis vain! I tell thee, some Are warn’d by a meteor’s light, Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home, Or a voice on the winds by night; And they must go! And he too, he!— Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour, If thou didst not hear the blast Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower, As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d, And the roar of the stormy chase went by Through the dark unquiet sky! The stag sprang up from his mossy bed When he caught the piercing sounds, And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head, As he flew from the viewless hounds; And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height, Away through the rushing night! The banner shook on its ancient hold, And the pine in its desert place, As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d With the din of the trampling race; And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout, And the bugle, ringing out! From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell, At the castle’s festive board, And a sudden pause came o’er the swell Of the harp’s triumphal chord; And the Minnesinger’s[319] thrilling lay In the hall died fast away. The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d, And the hermit dropp’d his beads, And a trembling ran through the forest-shade, At the neigh of the phantom steeds, And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d. The storm hath swept with the chase away, There is stillness in the sky; But the mother looks on her son to-day With a troubled heart and eye, And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care Midst the gleam of her golden hair! The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long Must hear a voice of war, And a clash of spears our hills among, And a trumpet from afar; And the brave on a bloody turf must lie— For the Huntsman hath gone by!

The corn in golden light Waves o’er the plain; The sickle’s gleam is bright; Full swells the grain. Now send we far around Our harvest lay!— Alas! a heavier sound Comes o’er the day! Earth shrouds with burial sod Her soft eyes blue,— Now o’er the gifts of God Fall tears like dew! On every breeze a knell The hamlets pour: We know its cause too well— She is no more!

Know ye not when our dead From sleep to battle sprung?— When the Persian charger’s tread On their covering greensward rung; When the trampling march of foes Had crush’d our vines and flowers, When jewel’d crests arose Through the holy laurel bowers; When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon. There was one, a leader crown’d, And arm’d for Greece that day; But the falchions made no sound On his gleaming war-array. In the battle’s front he stood, With his tall and shadowy crest; But the arrows drew no blood, Though their path was through his breast. When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon. His sword was seen to flash Where the boldest deeds were done; But it smote without a clash— The stroke was heard by none! His voice was not of those That swell’d the rolling blast, And his steps fell hush’d like snows— ’Twas the Shade of Theseus pass’d! When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon. Far sweeping through the foe, With a fiery charge he bore; And the Mede left many a bow On the sounding ocean-shore. And the foaming waves grew red, And the sails were crowded fast, When the sons of Asia fled, As the Shade of Theseus pass’d! When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon.

Where is the summer with her golden sun?— That festal glory hath not pass’d from earth: For me alone the laughing day is done! Where is the summer with her voice of mirth? —Far in my own bright land? Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die On the green hills?—the founts, from sparry caves Through the wild places bearing melody?— The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves? —Far in my own bright land! Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining, The virgin dances, and the choral strains? Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes? —Far in my own bright land! Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades? The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, And the pine forests, and the olive shades? —Far in my own bright land! Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, The Dryad’s footsteps, and the minstrel’s dreams?— Oh, that my life were as a southern flower’s!— I might not languish then by these chill streams, Far from my own bright land!

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young— Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung:— “Ianthis! dost thou sleep? Thou sleep’st—but this is not the rest, The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow’d on my breast: I lull’d thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son! As, in thy glowing childhood’s time, by twilight I have done. How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now? And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow? “I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave. Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie; And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne, When to thy couch I came and said,—‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’ Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,— And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay! “Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that this would be! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;— A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die! That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.— Why doth a mother live to say—My first-born and my dead! They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won: Speak thou, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!” A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young— A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:— “Ianthis! look’st thou not on me? Can love indeed be fled? When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head? I would that I had follow’d thee, Ianthis, my beloved! And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved; That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side!— It would have been a blessed thing together had we died! “But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine, Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring! And couldst thou thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?— Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death! “Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led, And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread; But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins flew— Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu? What now can breathe of gladness more,—what scene, what hour, what tone? The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone! Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved: Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!” A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young— Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:— “Ianthis! brother of my soul!—oh! where are now the days That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays? When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source, And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!— I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, But see thy bounding step no more—my brother and my friend! “I come with flowers—for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou here? I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier. Thou shouldst be crown’d with victory’s crown—but oh! more meet they seem, The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream— More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low. Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine’s glow— The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send: Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!—my brother and my friend!”

A Youth went forth to exile, from a home Such as to early thought gives images, The longest treasured, and most oft recall’d, And brightest kept, of love;—a mountain-home, That, with the murmur of its rocking pines, And sounding waters, first in childhood’s heart Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, And half-unconscious prayer;—a Grecian home, With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung, And, through the dimness of its olive shades, Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. And this was what he left! Yet many leave Far more—the glistening eye, that first from theirs Call’d out the soul’s bright smile; the gentle hand, Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps To where the violets lay; the tender voice That earliest taught them what deep melody Lives in affection’s tones. He left not these. Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part With all a mother’s love! A bitterer grief Was his—to part unloved!—of her unloved That should have breathed upon his heart like spring, Fostering its young faint flowers! Yet had he friends, And they went forth to cheer him on his way Unto the parting spot; and she too went, That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. The parting spot was reach’d—a lone deep glen, Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above, The silence of the blue still upper heaven Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze Through the wild laurels back; but then a light Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, A sudden quivering light, and from his lips A burst of passionate song. “Farewell, farewell! I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!—thou’rt from my native dell, Thou’rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell! And fare thee well—flow on, my stream!—flow on, thou bright and free! I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; But I have been a thing unloved from childhood’s loving years, And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears! The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known: The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone! “I see thee once again, my home! thou’rt there amidst thy vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves— The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves. The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o’er my soul through distant years will come— Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home? “Not as the dead!—no, not the dead! We speak of them—we keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep: We hallow even the lyre they touch’d, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place they fill’d our band among! But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, mountains, home, farewell! “And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong; And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky, And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply. Yes! I will speak! Within my breast, whate’er hath seem’d to be, There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gush’d for thee! Brightly it would have gush’d—but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own! “Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine, Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine. Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be that a tone Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone; And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne’er hast smiled, And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child! Might but my spirit then return, and midst its kindred dwell, And quench its thirst with love’s free tears! ’Tis all a dream—farewell!” “Farewell!”—the echo died with that deep word; Yet died not so the late repentant pang By the strain quicken’d in the mother’s breast! There had pass’d many changes o’er her brow, And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood Of tears at last all melted; and she fell On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, “Return, return, my son!” The echo caught A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, Murmuring, “Return, my son!”

She stood upon the loftiest peak, Amidst the clear blue sky; A bitter smile was on her cheek, And a dark flash in her eye. “Dost thou see them, boy?—through the dusky pines Dost thou see where the foeman’s armour shines? Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror’s crest? My babe, that I cradled on my breast! Wouldst thou spring from thy mother’s arms with joy? —That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!” For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son: They had heap’d high the piles of death Before the pass was won. “They have cross’d the torrent, and on they come: Woe for the mountain hearth and home! There, where the hunter laid by his spear, There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep, Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!” And now the horn’s loud blast was heard, And now the cymbal’s clang, Till even the upper air was stirr’d, As cliff and hollow rang. “Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! What saith the trumpet to Suli’s wild? Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, As if at a glance of thine armèd sire? Still!—be thou still!—there are brave men low: Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!” But nearer came the clash of steel, And louder swell’d the horn, And farther yet the tambour’s peal Through the dark pass was borne. “Hear’st thou the sound of their savage mirth? Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,— Free, and how cherish’d, my warrior’s son! He too hath bless’d thee, as I have done! Ay, and unchain’d must his loved ones be— Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!” And from the arrowy peak she sprung, And fast the fair child bore:— A veil upon the wind was flung, A cry—and all was o’er!

“’Tis hard to lay into the earth A countenance so benign! a form that walk’d But yesterday so stately o’er the earth!” Wilson.

Come near! Ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Look on your brother; and embrace him now, In still and solemn trust! Come near!—once more let kindred lips be press’d On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest! Look yet on this young face! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Leave of its image, even where most it shone, Gladdening its hearth and race? Dim grows the semblance on man’s heart impress’d. Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest! Ye weep, and it is well! For tears befit earth’s partings! Yesterday, Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, And sunshine seem’d to dwell Where’er he moved—the welcome and the bless’d. Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest! Look yet on him whose eye Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, The beings born to die?— But not where death has power may love be bless’d. Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest! How may the mother’s heart Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? The spring’s rich promise hath been given in vain— The lovely must depart! Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? Come near! and bear the early-call’d to rest! Look on him! Is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chase?— Too still and sad the smile upon his face; Yet that, even that must fade: Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest. Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest! His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, At the gay bridal-feast! Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. Come near! weep o’er him! bear him to his rest. Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirits’ light is quench’d! For him the past Is seal’d: he may not fall, he may not cast His birthright’s hope away! All is not here of our beloved and bless’d. Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!