Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

“Where’s the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?” Marmion.

The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound, Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman’s voice flows forth in song, Or childhood’s tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be rear’d To guard each hallow’d wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child’s glad spirit loves Its country and its God!

“I have dreamt thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness; afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air.” L. E. L.

The champions had come from their fields of war, Over the crests of the billows far; They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores, Where the deep had foam’d to their flashing oars. They sat at their feast round the Norse king’s board; By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d; The hearth was heap’d with the pine-boughs high, And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme Their songs of the sword and the olden time; And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung, Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung. But the swell was gone from the quivering string, They had summon’d a softer voice to sing; And a captive girl, at the warriors’ call, Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall. Lonely she stood,—in her mournful eyes Lay the clear 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 flame, 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 foreign streams. They bade her sing of her distant land— She held its lyre with a trembling hand, Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke, And the stream of her voice into music broke. Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow— Troubled its murmur, and sad and low; But it swell’d into deeper power ere long, As the breeze that swept o’er her soul grew strong. “They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee! Am I 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: How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth— 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 by, Thy soul flow o’er my lips again—yet once, my Sicily! “There are blue heavens—far hence, far hence! but, oh! their glorious blue! Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth’s deep hue! It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home, And arching o’er my vintage hills, they hang their cloudless 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 richness of its breath, And the violets gleam like amethysts from the dewy moss beneath. “And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day— Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away; They wander through the olive woods, and o’er the shining seas— They mingle with the orange scents that load the sleepy breeze; Lute, voice, and bird are blending there,—it were a bliss to die, As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily! “I may not thus depart—farewell! Yet no, my country! no! Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so! My fleeting spirit shall o’ersweep the mountains and the main, And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again. Its passion deepens—it prevails!—I break my chain—I come To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet air, my home!” And her pale arms dropp’d the ringing lyre— There came a mist o’er her eye’s wild fire— And her dark rich tresses in many a fold, Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll’d. For her head sank back on the rugged wall— A 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!

“Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss Ihn wieder haben!... ... Trostlose allmacht, Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!” Schiller.

He sat in silence on the ground, The old and haughty Czar, Lonely, though princes girt him round, And leaders of the war; He had cast his jewell’d sabre, That many a field had won, To the earth beside his youthful dead— His fair and first-born son. With a robe of ermine for its bed Was laid that form of clay, Where the light a stormy sunset shed Through the rich tent made way; And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Which the lord of nations mutely watch’d, In the dust, with his renown. Low tones at last, of woe and fear, From his full bosom broke— A mournful thing it was to hear How then the proud man spoke! The voice that through the combat Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burden’d with agony. “There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath; I call thee, and thou dost not speak— They tell me this is death! And fearful things are whispering That I the deed have done— For the honour of thy father’s name, Look up, look up, my son! “Well might I know death’s hue and mien— But on thine aspect, boy! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle, And bravest there of all— How could I think a warrior’s frame Thus like a flower should fall? “I will not bear that still cold look— Rise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook All, save this calm, from thee! Lift brightly up, and proudly, Once more thy kindling eyes! Hath my word lost its power on earth? I say to thee, arise! “Didst thou not know I loved thee well? Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit! If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart That seem’d to thee so stern. “Thou wert the first, the first, fair child That in mine arms I press’d: Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast! I 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 wave, And bury my red sword and spear, Chiefs! in my first-born’s grave! And leave me!—I have conquer’d, I have slain: my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer not— Thou too art mute, my son!” And thus his wild lament was pour’d Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sigh’d; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank— Humbly the conqueror died.

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o’er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast; Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song! ’Tis well thou shouldst depart.

A sound of music, from amidst the hills, Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset’s light Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, And the wind’s whisper in the mountain ash, Whose clusters droop’d above. His head was bow’d, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood Waiting around, in silent earnestness, Th’ unchaining of his soul, the gush of song— Many and graceful forms!—yet one alone Seem’d present to his dream; and she, indeed, With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, E’en painfully!—a creature to behold With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth Too dim without its brightness! Did such fear O’ershadow in that hour the gifted one, By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dash’d with grief— As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o’ermaster’d him; but yielding then To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters o’er the harp he pour’d The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang— “Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sere leaf’s trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. “But thou art sent For the sad earth’s young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind’s low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods—but they hear not thee! “Long have I striven With my deep-foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There’s a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreath— Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 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 comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round— But soon it must be still! “Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie— Make not the strength of love thy trust, A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow That my hand for thee hath tried, But into dirge-notes wild and low Its ringing tones have died. “Young art thou, Morna! Yet on thy gentle head, Like heavy dew on the lily’s leaves, A spirit hath been shed! And the glance is thine which sees Through nature’s awful heart— But bright things go with the summer breeze, And thou too must depart! “Yet, shall I weep? I know that in thy breast There swells a fount of song too deep, Too powerful for thy rest! And the bitterness I know, And the chill of this world’s breath— Go—all undimm’d in thy glory, go! Young and crown’d bride of death! “Take hence to heaven Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track, This parting should not be! But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee!” There was a burst of tears around the bard: All wept but one—and she serenely stood, With her clear brow and dark religious eye Raised to the first faint star above the hills, And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek Was paler than before. So Morna heard The minstrel’s prophecy. And spring return’d, Bringing the earth her lovely things again— All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile, A young sweet spirit gone.

If there be but one spot on thy name, One eye thou fear’st to meet, one human voice Whose tones thou shrink’st from—Woman! veil thy face, And bow thy head—and die!

Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o’er cheek and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child’s light hand is roving Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! Yet that bright lady’s eye, methinks, hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, Than might beseem a mother’s; on her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. These may be dreams—but how shall woman tell Of woman’s shame, and not with tears? She fell! That mother left that child!—went hurrying by Its cradle—haply not without a sigh, Haply one moment o’er its rest serene She hung. But no! it could not thus have been, For she went on!—forsook her home, her hearth, All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, To live a gaudy and dishonour’d thing, Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. He reck’d no more of glory: grief and shame Crush’d out his fiery nature, and his name Died silently. A shadow o’er his halls Crept year by year: the minstrel pass’d their walls; The warder’s horn hung mute. Meantime the child On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew Her mother’s tale! Its memory made the sky Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; Check’d on her lip the flow of song, which fain Would there have linger’d; flush’d her cheek to pain, If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, E’en to the spring’s glad voice. Her own was low And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears A haughty brow, and age has done with tears; But youth bows down to misery, in amaze At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;— And thus it was with her. A mournful sight In one so fair—for she indeed was fair; Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light— Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, Still that fond child’s—and oh! the brow above So pale and pure! so 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 proffer’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 ground they trod; then, burying in her vest Her brow’s deep flush, sobb’d out—“O undefiled! I am thy mother—spurn me not, my child!” 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 weigh’d her being to the earth with shame. What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, The dark remembrances, the alter’d guise, Awhile o’erpower’d 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— Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll’d, And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o’er her—call’d her: ’twas too late— Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard— How didst thou fall, O bright-hair’d Ermengarde!

“O good old man! how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world! Thou art not for the fashion of these times.” As You Like It.

Fallen was the house of Giafar; and its name, The high romantic name of Barmecide, A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, By the swift Tigris’ wave. Stern Haroun’s wrath, Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, Had so pass’d sentence: but man’s chainless heart Hides that within its depths which never yet Th’ oppressor’s thought could reach. ’Twas desolate Where Giafar’s halls, beneath the burning sun, Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased; The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice Was there—the fountain’s; through those Eastern courts, Over the broken marble and the grass, Its low clear music shedding mournfully. And still another voice! An aged man, Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate On a white column’s fragment; and drew forth, From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, A tone that shook them with its answering thrill, To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale He told that sad yet stately solitude, Pouring his memory’s fulness o’er its gloom, Like waters in the waste; and calling up, By song or high recital of their deeds, Bright solemn shadows of its vanish’d race To people their own halls: with these alone, In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts Held still unbroken converse. He had been Rear’d in this lordly dwelling, and was now The ivy of its ruins, unto which His fading life seem’d bound. Day roll’d on day, And from that scene the loneliness was fled; For crowds around the gray-hair’d chronicler Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze Wanders through forest branches, and is met By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, The spirit of his passionate lament, As through their stricken souls it pass’d, awoke One echoing murmur. But this might not be Under a despot’s rule, and, summon’d thence, The dreamer stood before the Caliph’s throne: Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, And with his white lips rigidly compress’d; Till, in submissive tones, he ask’d to speak Once more, ere thrust from earth’s fair sunshine forth. Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, And he was changed!—and thus, in rapid words, Th’ o’ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way:— “And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave, With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave? What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land? I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band! “My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes that in your halls was nursed— That follow’d you to many a fight, where flash’d your sabres first— That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart:— Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart? “It shall not be! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still, With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill; The wind’s free flight shall bear it on as wandering seeds are sown, And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep and thrilling tone. “For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves expires, And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires; It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword, It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings pour’d. “The founts, the many gushing founts which to the wild ye gave, Of you, my chiefs! shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave; And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim’s way, Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day. “The very walls your bounty rear’d for the stranger’s homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern rung, And the serpent in your palaces lie coil’d amidst its young. “It is enough! Mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees— I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and to the breeze! I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair, And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs! are there.” But while the old man sang, a mist of tears O’er Haroun’s eyes had gather’d, and a thought— Oh! many a sudden and remorseful thought— Of 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!”

“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.” Moore.

I 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, 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 cheeks’ 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 lips’ breath was fled, And the bright ringlets hung so still— The lovely child was dead! “Alas!” I cried, “fair faded thing! Thou hast wrung 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 feasted in his hall— The red wine mantled high; Banners were trembling on the wall To the peals of minstrelsy: And many a gleam and sparkle came From the armour 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 wassail band? The strings were hush’d—the knights made way For the queenly mother’s tread, As up the hall, in dark 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 Flush’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 of thy line In each fair little one! Though grief awhile within their eyes Hath tamed the dancing glee, Yet there thine own quick spirit lies— Thy brother’s children see! “And where is he, thy brother—where? He in thy home that grew, And smiling, with his sunny hair, Ever to greet thee flew? How would his arms thy neck entwine, His fond lips press thy brow! My son! oh, call these orphans thine!— Thou hast no brother now! “What! from their gentle eyes doth naught 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 flew— Where 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 below— Thine 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 cease— Take, 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 hall Burst forth to hail the sight; And eyes were wet midst the brave that met At the Kaiser’s feast that night.

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. Her bower was one where daylight’s close Full oft sweet laughter found, As thence the voice of childhood rose To the high vineyards round. But still and thoughtful at her knee Her children stood that hour, Their bursts of song and dancing glee Hush’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 grace. While she—yet something o’er her look Of mournfulness was spread— Forth from a poet’s magic book The glorious numbers read; The proud undying lay, which pour’d Its light on evil years; His of the gifted pen and sword,[354] 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 Godfrey’s deeds, of Tancred’s arm, That slew his Paynim love. Young cheeks around that bright page glow’d, 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 pride 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; 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; My soul is dim with clouds of care— Tell me those words again! “Life hath been heavy on my head— I come a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here.” She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept Shook all her thrilling frame— She fell upon his neck and wept, Murmuring her brother’s name. Her brother’s name!—and who was he, The weary one, th’ unknown, That came, the bitter world to flee, A stranger to his own? He was the bard of gifts divine To sway the souls of men; He of the song for Salem’s shrine, He of the sword and pen!

“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 me! This once—once more!” Manfred.

“Thou’rt gone!—thou’rt slumbering low, With the sounding seas above thee: It is but a restless woe, But a haunting dream to love thee! 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 flood From a dark rock’s beetling height. “I know thou hast thy bed Where the sea-weed’s coil hath bound thee; The storm sweeps o’er thy head, But the depths are hush’d around thee. What wind shall point the way To the chambers where thou’rt lying? Come to me thence, and say If thou thought’st on me in dying? I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek. Come to me from the ocean’s dead!—thou’rt surely of them—speak!” 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 song; My voice shall stir the sea By love—the deep, the strong! By the might of woman’s tears, by the passion of her sighs, Come to me from the ocean’s dead!—by the vows we pledged, arise!” 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 heart— By the weight of gloom which clings To the mantle of the night, By the heavy dawn which brings Naught lovely to the sight— By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear, Come to me from the ocean’s dead! Awake, arise, appear!” 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, Dim from thy watery grave— O thou that wert so fair! Yet take me to thy rest! There dwells no fear with love; Let me slumber on thy breast, While the billow rolls above! Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home, We will sleep among the ocean’s dead. Stay for me, stay!—I come!” There was a sullen plunge below, A flashing on the main; And the wave shut o’er that wild heart’s woe— Shut, and grew still again.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills, The old and full of voices,—by the source Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills The solitude with sound; for in its course Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, Where vernal winds each tree’s low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay. Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath 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 woman’s lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith’s victorious constancy. True bard and holy!—thou art e’en as one Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 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 on his deathbed lay— Did censers waft perfume, And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, Through his proud chamber’s gloom? He lay upon a greensward bed, Beneath a darkening sky— A lone tree waving o’er his head, A swift stream rolling by. Had he then fallen as warriors fall, Where spear strikes fire with spear? Was there a banner for his pall, A buckler for his bier? Not so—nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod, Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Yielded his soul to God. Were there not friends with words of cheer, And princely vassals nigh? And 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 face of death survey’d. Alone she sat: from hill and wood Red sank the mournful sun; Fast gush’d the fount of noble blood— Treason its worst had done. With her long hair she vainly press’d The wounds, to stanch their tide— Unknown, on that meek humble breast, Imperial Albert died!

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Of sainted genius call’d too soon away, Of light from this world taken, while it shone Yet kindling onward to the perfect day— How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee? Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard And that deep soul of gentleness and power, Have we not felt its breath in every word Wont from thy lip as Hermon’s dew to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn’d— Of 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!

“Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, A straw-roof’d cabin, with lowly wall— Mine is a fair and a pillar’d hall, Where many an image of marble gleams, 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 bee o’er the scented thyme, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know— Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” “Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell— Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, Harps which the wandering breezes tune, And the silvery wood-note of many a bird Whose voice was ne’er in thy mountains heard.” “Oh! 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 low— Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” “Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest— She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more, Nor hear the 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 mother gone from her home away? But I know that my brothers are there at play— I know they are gathering the foxglove’s bell, Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well; Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow— Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” “Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now, They 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! oh, let me go!”

“I call’d on dreams and visions, to disclose That which is veil’d from waking thought; conjured Eternity, as men constrain a ghost To appear and answer.” Wordsworth.

Answer me, burning stars of night! Where is the spirit gone, That past the reach of human sight As a swift breeze hath flown? And the stars answer’d me—“We roll In light and power on high; But, of the never-dying soul, Ask that which cannot die.” O many-toned and chainless wind! Thou art a wanderer free; Tell me if thou its place canst find, Far over mount and sea? And the wind murmur’d in reply— “The blue deep I have cross’d, And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou hast lost.” Ye clouds that gorgeously repose Around the setting sun, Answer! have ye a home for those Whose earthly race is run? The bright clouds answer’d—“We depart, We vanish from the sky; 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 life’s restless din— Where is the spirit flown? And the voice answer’d—“Be thou still! Enough to know is given: Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil— Thine is, to trust in Heaven.”

‘Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.’ (Forget not the faithful dead.)”

Green wave the oak for ever o’er thy rest, Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, in the stillness of thy country’s breast, Thy place of memory as an altar keepest; Brightly thy spirit o’er her hills 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— Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod With freedom and with God. The oak waved proudly o’er thy burial rite, On thy 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 thee; And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token That Lyre and Sword were broken. Thou hast a hero’s tomb: a lowlier bed Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying— The gentle girl that bow’d her fair young head When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave!— She pined to share thy grave. Fame was thy gift from others;—but for her, To whom the wide world held that only spot, She loved thee!—lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not. Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy,—what hath she? Her own bless’d place by thee! It was thy spirit, brother! which had made The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, Since first in childhood midst the vines ye 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 from the image in her breast— Once, once again to see that buried face But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. Too sad a smile! its living light was o’er— It 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! Have ye not met ere now?—so let those trust That meet for moments but to part for years— That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust— That love, where love is but a fount of tears. Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye dwell: Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell![355]

A song for the death-day of the brave— A song of pride! The youth went down to a hero’s grave, With the sword, his bride.[357] 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 fatherland. And with all his glorious feelings yet In their first glow, Like a southern stream that no frost hath met To chain its flow. A song for the death-day of the brave— A song of pride! For him that went to a hero’s grave, With the sword, his bride. He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays To turn the flight, And a guiding spirit for after days, Like a watch-fire’s light. And a grief in his father’s soul to rest, Midst all high thought; And a memory unto his mother’s breast, With healing fraught. And a name and fame above the blight Of earthly breath, Beautiful—beautiful and bright, In life and death! 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!

‘They were but two—and when that spirit pass’d, Woe to the one, the last!’

‘Gently a voice from afar is borne to the ear of the mourner; Mildly it soundeth, yet strong, grief in his bosom to soothe; Strong in the soul-cheering faith, that hearts have a share in his sorrow, In whose depths all things holy and noble are shrined. From that land once dearly beloved by our brave one, the fallen, Mourning blent with bright fame—cometh a wreath for his urn. Hail to thee, England the free! thou see’st in the German no stranger. Over the earth and the seas, join’d be both lands, heart and hand!’

“I come To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, And thymy mound that flings unto the winds Its morning incense, is my friend.”—Barry Cornwall.

There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs like those of childhood’s sleep, Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound As of soft showers on water; dark and deep Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf, so still They 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 glow-worm 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.[362] Meanwhile the bee Swept past me with a tone of summer hours— A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free, On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by; And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell Where sat the lone wood-pigeon. But ere long, All sense of these things faded, as the spell Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong On my 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 grassy glen;— A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen Peal’d from the desert’s lonely heart, and shook The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high, O’er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 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 mask 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 splendours gone, My heart so leap’d to that sweet laughter’s tone.[363]

“His 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 cloud of its clustering vines, And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, Borne from the mountain in dewy hours, And the fire-fly’s glance through the darkening shades, Like shooting stars in the forest glades, And the scent of the citron at eve’s dim fall— Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all? The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!— Hush! give my dream’s deep music way, thou blast! Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth! The notes of the singing cicala’s mirth, The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, The sighing of reeds as the day declines, The wings flitting home through the crimson glow That steeps the wood when the sun is low, The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still— I hear them!—around me they rise, they swell, They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell— They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, And waken my youth in its hour of prime. The white foam dashes high—away, away! Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray! It is there!—down the 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 play— I 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.

“Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann: Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen Der überbliebnen, der verlass’nen Frau, Zählt keine Nachwelt.” Goethe.

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb, With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom By the stain’d window shed; The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone, Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace What thou hast been and done. A banner, from its flashing spear, Flung out o’er many a fight; A war-cry ringing far and clear, And strong to turn the flight; An arm that bravely bore the lance On for the holy shrine; A haughty heart and a kingly glance— Chief! were not these things thine? A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was pour’d; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard: Surely these things were all thine own— So hadst thou thy reward. Woman! whose sculptured form at rest By the arm’d knight is laid, With meek hands folded o’er a breast In matron robes array’d; What was thy tale?—O gentle mate Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate, What bard hath sung of thee? He woo’d a bright and burning star— Thine was the void, the gloom, The straining eye that follow’d far His fast-receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang—but when did Fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these? Thy silent and secluded hours Through many a lonely day While bending o’er thy broider’d flowers, With spirits far away; Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains, Thy watchings till the torch grew dim— These fill no minstrel strains. A still, sad life was thine!—long years With tasks unguerdon’d fraught— Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, Vigils of anxious thought; Prayer at the cross in fervour pour’d, Alms to the pilgrim given— Oh! happy, happier than thy lord, In that lone path to heaven!

“Look now abroad! Another race has fill’d Those populous borders—wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms 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 and 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 anthem 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’d— This 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 mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— They sought a faith’s pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trode. They have left unstain’d what there they found— Freedom to worship God.

“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever;—it may be a sound— A tone of music—summer’s breath, or spring— A flower—a leaf—the ocean—which may wound— Striking th’ electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” Childe Harold.

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor’s for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way? The sudden images of vanish’d things, That o’er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp’s deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by; A rippling wave—the dashing of an oar— A flower-scent floating past our parents’ door; A word—scarce noted in its hour perchance, Yet back returning with a plaintive tone; A smile—a sunny or a mournful glance, Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And press vain tears in gushes from the heart? And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread; And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear— These are night’s mysteries—who shall make them clear? And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which naught can drown or still, Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus? ’Tis mystery all! Darkly we move—we press upon the brink Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made— Let us walk humbly on, but undismay’d! Humbly—for 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 entwin’d?— So let us deem! and e’en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature’s sake.

“Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise—the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.” Bryant.

And shrink ye from the way To the spirit’s distant shore?— Earth’s mightiest men, in arm’d array, Are thither gone before. 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 lore— Can 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 burn, They 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 departed flowers, 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 gone— 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 spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before— And 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!

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 mould, And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange look’d it there! The willow stream’d Where silvery waters near it gleam’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. There came an eve of festal hours— Rich music fill’d that garden’s bowers; Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colour flung; And bright forms glanced—a fairy show— Under the blossoms to and fro. But one, a lone one, midst the throng, Seem’d reckless all of dance or song: He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been, Of crested brow and long black hair— A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. He 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 him 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 oar— The conch-note heard along the shore; All through his wakening bosom swept— He 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 hills, These have one fountain deep and clear— The same whence gush’d that childlike tear!

Thou sleepest—but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark’s wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born?— Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes; Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see— When will the hour of thy rising be? Not when the fawn wakes—not when the lark On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee. Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!—that thou shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly![365] Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough: Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How may we love but in doubt and fear, How may we anchor our fond hearts here; How should e’en joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

Thou art no lingerer in monarch’s hall— A joy thou art, and a wealth to all! A bearer of hope unto land and sea— Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee? Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast 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 quivering leaves that have caught thy glow Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I look’d on the mountains—a vapour lay Folding their heights in its dark array: Thou brakest forth, and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame. I look’d on the peasant’s lowly cot— Something 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 guest thou art, Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart; And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed A tender smile on the ruin’s head. Thou tak’st 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 scatter’st its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest 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!

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 murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters—they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers—the fairy-peopled world of flowers! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And penciling the wood anemone: Silent they seem—yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy. But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring! The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies! Fresh songs and scents break forth where’er thou art— What wakest thou in the heart? Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul’s deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see! How 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 feet— Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why revivest thou these? Vain longings for the dead!—why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes, gentle Spring! no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there!

The hills all glow’d with a festive light, For the royal city rejoiced by night: There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, Banners were lifted and streaming free; Every tall pillar was wreath’d with fire; Like a shooting meteor was every spire; And the outline of many a dome on high Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. I pass’d through the streets. There were throngs on throngs— Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; There was music forth from each palace borne— A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn; The forests heard it, the mountains rang, The hamlets woke to its haughty clang; Rich and victorious was every tone, Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown. Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain? Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain! Gallant and true were the hearts that fell— Grief in the homes they 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 not the face of a weeper there— Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps’ glare! I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd— The 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 by: How could I listen for moan or sigh? Turn then away from life’s pageants—turn, If its deep story thy heart would learn! Ever too bright is that outward show, Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal:— So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

“There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours 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 thrown. And bless that gift!—it hath gentle might, A guardian power and a guiding light. It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the mountain-battles of his land; It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze; And back to the gates of his father’s hall It hath led the weeping prodigal. Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray From the pure first-loves of its youth away— When the sullying breath of the world would come O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’shome— Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made— Think of the tree at thy father’s door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

“Roma, Roma, Roma! Non e piu 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 seen— Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now?— Thou hast thy skies! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar With colour’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, While night, o’er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute’s low swell, On thy soft air Lingers and loves to dwell With summer there. Thou hast the south’s rich gift Of sudden song— A charm’d fountain, swift, Joyous and strong. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber’s shore A mournful mien:— Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

The sea-bird’s wing o’er ocean’s breast Shoots like a glancing star, While the red radiance of the west Spreads kindling fast and far; And yet that splendour wins thee not— Thy 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 solemn glory broods; A fire hath touch’d 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 not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, Crowd her frail world even now, 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 way— For human hearts are there.

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’d— Silent 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-trees or monarch’s dome.” And what have ye found in the monarch’s dome, Since last ye traversed the blue sea’s foam?— “We have found a change, we have found a pall, And a gloom o’ershadowing the banquet’s hall, And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt— Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!” O joyous birds! it hath still been so; Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, And the hills o’er their quiet a vigil keep: Say what have ye found in the peasant’s cot, Since last ye 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 play’d— Naught 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 guide, and shall we despair? Ye over desert and deep have pass’d— So may we reach our bright home at last!

They 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 sight— Where are those dreamers now? One, midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid— The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar-shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one— He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O’er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red 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 same 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 hearth!— Alas, for love! if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth!

“These birds of Paradise but long to flee Back to their native mansion.” “Prophecy of Dante.”

A requiem!—and for whom? For beauty in its bloom? For valour 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 enthrall! And let me breathe my dower Of passion and of power Full into that deep lay—the last of all! The last!—and I must go From this bright world below, This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! Must leave its festal skies, With all their melodies, That ever in my breast glad echoes found! 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; I 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 far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. Shall I then fear the tone That breathes from worlds unknown?— Surely these feverish aspirations there Shall grasp their full desire, And this unsettled fire Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. One more then, one more strain; To earthly joy and pain A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! I pour each fervent thought, With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o’er my dust shall swell.

Thou thing of years departed! What ages have gone by Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony? Temple and tower have moulder’d, Empires from earth have pass’d, And woman’s heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast! And childhood’s fragile image, Thus fearfully 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 pangs— Yet 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, naught remain’d But thorns on which to lean. Far better, then, to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion’d grasp. Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, To gaze on this rude monument Cast in affection’s mould. Love! human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust! Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holiness— It must, it must be so!