Part 2 — NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. TO MRS LAWRENCE

“Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, And melancholy fear subdued by faith.” Wordsworth.

Where shall the minstrel find a theme? —Where’er, for freedom shed, Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, Amidst the mountains, red. Where’er a rock, a fount, a grove, Bears record to the faith Of love—deep, holy, fervent love, Victor o’er fear and death. Where’er a chieftain’s crested brow Too soon hath been struck down, Or a bright virgin head laid low, Wearing its youth’s first crown. Where’er a spire points up to heaven, Through storm and summer air, Telling, that all around have striven Man’s heart, and hope, and prayer. Where’er a blessed home hath been, That now is home no more: A place of ivy, darkly green, Where laughter’s light is o’er. Where’er by some forsaken grave, Some nameless greensward heap, A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave, A star its vigil keep. Or where a yearning heart of old, A dream of shepherd men, With forms of more than earthly mould Hath peopled grot or glen. There may the bard’s high themes be found— We die, we pass away; But faith, love, pity—these are bound To earth without decay. The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, The tear from hidden springs, The thorn and glory of the rose— These are undying things. Wave after wave of mighty stream To the deep sea hath gone: Yet not the less, like youth’s bright dream, The exhaustless flood rolls on.

It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving, I see the bright flood shine! (bis.) Sing on the march with every banner waving— Sing, brothers! ’tis the Rhine! (bis.)

The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river! Be glory on thy track! We left thy shores, to die or to deliver— We bear thee freedom back!

Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water, Even as my mother’s song; That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, And heart and arm grew strong!

Roll proudly on!—brave blood is with thee sweeping, Pour’d out by sons of thine, Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, Like thee, victorious Rhine!

Home! Home! Thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, Thy path is by my home, Even now my children count the hours till meeting: O ransom’d ones! I come.

Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never! Sound on by hearth and shrine! Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever— Lift up thy voice, O Rhine!

“Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature, Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau; L’air est si parfume! la lumiere est si pure! Aux regards d’un Mourant le soleil est si beau!” Lamartine.

A song was heard of old—a low, sweet song, On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle, The Sun-god’s own domain, a gentle girl— Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien, Lit with a life too perilously bright— Was borne away to die. How beautiful Seems this world to the dying!—but for her, The child of beauty and of poesy, And of soft Grecian skies—oh! who may dream Of all that from her changeful eye flash’d forth, Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears, As on her land’s rich vision, fane o’er fane Colour’d with loving light, she gazed her last, Her young life’s last, that hour! From her pale brow And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back, And bending forward, as the spirit sway’d The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell O’er dancing waves:—“Oh, linger yet!” she cried, “Oh, linger, linger on the oar! Oh, pause upon the deep! That I may gaze yet once, once more, Where floats the golden day o’er fane and steep! Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore— Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar! “I see the laurels fling back showers Of soft light still on many a shrine; I see the path to haunts of flowers Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line; I hear a sound of flutes—a swell of song— Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng! “Oh! linger, linger on the oar Beneath my native sky! Let my life part from that bright shore With day’s last crimson—gazing let me die! Thou bark, glide slowly!—slowly should be borne The voyager that never shall return. “A fatal gift hath been thy dower, Lord of the Lyre! to me; With song and wreath from bower to bower, Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free; While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, Have lain and listen’d to my beating heart. “Now, wasted by the inborn fire, I sink to early rest; The ray that lit the incense-pyre Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. —O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go, While round me thus triumphantly ye glow! “Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep A tone of my farewell, One tender accent, low and deep, Shrined midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell! Might my last breath send music to thy shore! —Oh, linger, seamen! linger on the oar!”

“Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade.” Byron.

Io! they come, they come! Garlands for every shrine! Strike lyres to greet them home; Bring roses, pour ye wine! Swell, swell the Dorian flute Through the blue triumphant sky! Let the cittern’s tone salute The sons of victory. With the offering of bright blood They have ransom’d hearth and tomb, Vineyard, and field, and flood;— Io! they come, they come! Sing it where olives wave, And by the glittering sea, And o’er each hero’s grave— Sing, sing, the land is free! Mark ye the flashing oars, And the spears that light the deep? How the festal sunshine pours Where the lords of battle sweep! Each hath brought back his shield;— Maid, greet thy lover home! Mother, from that proud field, Io! thy son is come! Who murmur’d of the dead? Hush, boding voice! We know That many a shining head Lies in its glory low. Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise ere long, And a power all hearts to sway, In ever-burning song. But now shed flowers, pour wine, To hail the conquerors home! Bring wreaths for every shrine— Io! they come, they come!

“Then gentle winds arose, With many a mingled close Of wild Æolian sound and mountain-odour keen, Where the clear Baian ocean Welters with air-like motion Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.” Shelley.

Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, Bright city of the waves! Her magic song Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy, Fills thy soft summer air:—and while my glance Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay Floats thus o’er fancy’s ear; and thus to thee, Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing. “Thine is the glad wave’s flashing play, Thine is the laugh of the golden day— The golden day, and the glorious night, And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light! —Forget, forget, that thou art not free! Queen of the Summer sea. “Favour’d and crown’d of the earth and sky! Thine are all voices of melody, Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower, Floating o’er fountain and myrtle bower; Hark! how they melt o’er thy glittering sea— Forget that thou art not free! “Let the wine flow in thy marble halls! Let the lute answer thy fountain-falls! And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, And cover with roses thy glowing brow! Queen of the day and the summer sea, Forget that thou art not free!” So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully, O city of the deep! from Sybil grots And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore Take up the cadence of her strain alone, Murmuring—“Thou, art not free!”

Alone through gloomy forest-shades A soldier went by night; No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, No star shed guiding light. Yet on his vigil’s midnight round The youth all cheerly pass’d; Uncheck’d by aught of boding sound That mutter’d in the blast. Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? —In his far home, perchance; His father’s hall, his mother’s bower, Midst the gay vines of France: Wandering from battles lost and won, To hear and bless again The rolling of the wide Garonne, Or murmur of the Seine. Hush! hark!—did stealing steps go by? Came not faint whispers near? No! the wild wind hath many a sigh, Amidst the foliage sere. Hark, yet again!—and from his hand, What grasp hath wrench’d the blade? —Oh, single midst a hostile band, Young soldier! thou’rt betray’d! “Silence!” in under-tones they cry— “No whisper—not a breath! The sound that warns thy comrades nigh Shall sentence thee to death.” Still, at the bayonet’s point he stood, And strong to meet the blow; And shouted, midst his rushing blood, “Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!” The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call— He heard their tumults grow; And sent his dying voice through all— “Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!”

Lowly upon his bier The royal conqueror lay; Baron and chief stood near, Silent in war-array. Down the long minster’s aisle Crowds mutely gazing stream’d; Altar and tomb the while Through mists of incense gleam’d. And, by the torches’ blaze, The stately priest had said High words of power and praise To the glory of the dead. They lower’d him, with the sound Of requiems, to repose; When from the throngs around A solemn voice arose:— “Forbear! forbear!” it cried; “In the holiest name, forbear! He hath conquer’d regions wide, But he shall not slumber there! “By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine; By the harvests which this earth Hath borne for me and mine; “By the house e’en here o’erthrown, On my brethren’s native spot; Hence! with his dark renown, Cumber our birthplace not! “Will my sire’s unransom’d field, O’er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumbers in the grave! “The tree before him fell Which we cherish’d many a year; But its deep root yet shall swell, And heave against his bier. “The land that I have till’d Hath yet its brooding breast With my home’s white ashes fill’d, And it shall not give him rest! “Each pillar’s massy bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes— Away! bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries.” Shame glow’d on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader’s dust e’en then. A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant’s tale could dim The name, a nation’s star! One deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had riven: Oh! who shall number those That were but heard in heaven?

Near thee, still near thee!—o’er thy pathway gliding, Unseen I pass thee with the wind’s low sigh; Life’s veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, Yet viewless love floats round thee silently! Not midst the festal throng, In halls of mirth and song; But when thy thoughts are deepest, When holy tears thou weepest, Know then that love is nigh! When the night’s whisper o’er thy harp-strings creeping, Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore; When every thought and prayer We loved to breathe and share, On thy full heart returning, Shall wake its voiceless yearning; Then feel me near once more! Near thee, still near thee!—trust thy soul’s deep dreaming! Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die! Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, Thine image wanders with me through the sky. The fields of air are free, Yet lonely, wanting thee; But when thy chains are falling, When heaven its own is calling, Know then, thy guide is nigh!

“They sin who tell us love can die! With life all other passions fly— All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; Earthly these passions, as of earth— They perish where they drew their birth. But love is indestructible! Its holy flame for ever burneth— From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.” Southey.

Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love! Mine still to be! I bore through death, to brighter lands above, My thoughts of thee. Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears, Our mingled prayer, Our suffering love, through long devoted years, Went with me there. It was not vain, the hallow’d and the tried— It was not vain! Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, I watch again! From our own paths, our love’s attesting bowers, I am not gone; In the deep calm of midnight’s whispering hours, Thou art not lone: Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest —That stream whose tone Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, We two have known: Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking Of days long past, From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, Silent and fast: Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning Thy dreamy glance, Thou seek’st my home, where solemn stars are burning O’er night’s expanse. My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee, Where’er thou art; Though still mortality’s thick cloud hath bound thee, Doubt not thy heart! Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken: Let faith be given To the still tones which oft our being waken— They are of heaven.

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again! Let the high word Castile! go resounding through Spain! And thou, free Asturias! encamp’d on the height, Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight! Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes! The voices are mighty that swell from the past, With Arragon’s cry on the shrill mountain-blast; The ancient sierras give strength to our tread, Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed. —Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, And shout ye “Castile! to the rescue for Spain!”

The summer leaves were sighing Around the Zegri maid, To her low, sad song replying As it fill’d the olive shade. “Alas! for her that loveth Her land’s, her kindred’s foe! Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, Should a Zegri’s spirit go? “From thy glance, my gentle mother! I sink, with shame oppress’d, And the dark eye of my brother Is an arrow to my breast.”— Where summer leaves were sighing Thus sang the Zegri maid, While the crimson day was dying In the whispery olive shade. “And for all this heart’s wealth wasted, This woe in secret borne, This flower of young life blasted, Should I win back aught but scorn? By aught but daily dying Would my lone truth be repaid?”— Where the olive leaves were sighing, Thus sang the Zegri maid.

“Gentle river, gentle river! Lo! thy streams are stain’d with gore.”]

Flow, Rio Verde! In melody flow; Win her that weepeth To slumber from woe; Bid thy wave’s music Roll through her dreams— Grief ever loveth The kind voice of streams. Bear her lone spirit Afar on the sound Back to her childhood, Her life’s fairy ground; Pass like the whisper Of love that is gone— Flow, Rio Verde! Softly flow on! Dark glassy water So crimson’d of yore! Love, death, and sorrow Know thy green shore. Thou shouldst have echoes For grief’s deepest tone— Flow, Rio Verde! Softly flow on!

Seek by the silvery Darro, Where jasmine flowers have blown: There hath she left no footsteps? —Weep, weep! the maid is gone! Seek where Our Lady’s image Smiles o’er the pine-hung steep: Hear ye not there her vespers? —Weep for the parted, weep! Seek in the porch where vine-leaves O’ershade her father’s head: Are his gray hairs left lonely? —Weep! her bright soul is fled.

Ave! now let prayer and music Meet in love on earth and sea! Now, sweet Mother! may the weary Turn from this cold world to thee! From the wide and restless waters Hear the sailor’s hymn arise? From his watch-fire midst the mountains, Lo! to thee the shepherd cries! Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, If o’erburden’d souls there be, Dark and silent in their anguish, Aid those captives! set them free! Touch them, every fount unsealing Where the frozen tears lie deep; Thou, the Mother of all sorrows, Aid! oh, aid to pray and weep!

Bird that art singing on Ebro’s side! Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, Doth sorrow dwell midst the leaves with thee? Doth song avail thy full heart to free? —Bird of the midnight’s purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody. Bird! is it blighted affection’s pain Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain? And is the wound of that arrow still’d When thy lone music the leaves hath fill’d? —Bird of the midnight’s purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Chains on the cities! gloom in the air! Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there. Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers! Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. Come from the Darro!—changed is its tone; Come where the streams no bondage have known; Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, Singing of freedom from steep to steep. Come from Alhambra!—garden and grove Now may not shelter beauty or love. Blood on the waters! death midst the flowers! —Only the spear and the rock are ours.

We heard thy name, O Mina! Far through our hills it rang; A sound more strong than tempests, More keen than armour’s clang. The peasant left his vintage, The shepherd grasp’d the spear— We heard thy name, O Mina! —The mountain-bands are here. As eagles to the dayspring, As torrents to the sea, From every dark sierra So rush’d our hearts to thee. Thy spirit is our banner, Thine eye our beacon-sign, Thy name our trumpet, Mina! —The mountain-bands are thine.

Mother! oh, sing me to rest As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress’d. Lay this tired head on thy breast! Flowers from the night-dew are closing, Pilgrims and mourners reposing: Mother! oh, sing me to rest! Take back thy bird to its nest! Weary is young life when blighted, Heavy this love unrequited; —Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, There are echoes on Biscay’s wild shore; There are murmurs—but not of the torrent, Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest’s roar. ’Tis a day of the spear and the banner, Of armings and hurried farewells; Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards! Or start from your old battle-dells. There are streams of unconquer’d Asturias That have roll’d with your father’s free blood: Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty Proud marks where their children have stood!

They have wander’d in their glee With the butterfly and bee; They have climb’d o’er heathery swells, They have wound through forest dells; Mountain-moss hath felt their tread, Woodland streams their way have led; Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, Unto them have yielded up Fragrant bell and starry cup: Chaplets are on every brow— What hath staid the wanderers now? Lo! a gray and rustic tomb, Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, —“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.” There is many a summer sound That pale sepulchre around; Through the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing; Glimpses of blue festal skies Pouring in when soft winds rise; Violets o’er the turf below Shedding out their warmest glow; Yet a spirit not its own O’er the greenwood now is thrown! Something of an under-note Through its music seems to float, Something of a stillness gray Creeps across the laughing day: Something dimly from those old words felt, —“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.” Was some gentle kindred maid In that grave with dirges laid? Some fair creature, with the tone Of whose voice a joy is gone, Leaving melody and mirth Poorer on this alter’d earth? Is it thus? that so they stand, Dropping flowers from every hand— Flowers, and lyres, and gather’d store Of red wild-fruit prized no more? —No! from that bright band of morn Not one link hath yet been torn: ’Tis the shadow of the tomb Falling o’er the summer-bloom— O’er the flush of love and life Passing with a sudden strife; ’Tis the low prophetic breath Murmuring from that house of death, Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, —“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

The Wind, the wandering Wind Of the golden summer eves— Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones among the leaves? Oh! is it from the waters, Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The Wind, the wandering Wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Nor the fir-trees whispering low; They are not of the waters, Nor of the cavern’d hill: ’Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill. They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind!

Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot; There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding— The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not. Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter, There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone. And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d. Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving, A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss’d! Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list, Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, To say earth’s human flowers not more are miss’d.

Willow! in thy breezy moan, I can hear a deeper tone; Through thy leaves come whispering low, Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. Willow, sighing willow! Many a mournful tale of old Heart-sick love to thee hath told, Gathering from thy golden bough Leaves to cool his burning brow. Willow! sighing willow! Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree! Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. Willow! sighing willow! Therefore, wave and murmur on! Sigh for sweet affections gone, And for tuneful voices fled, And for love, whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow! willow!

Leave me not yet! through rosy skies from far, But now the song-birds to their nests return; The quivering image of the first pale star On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn: Leave me not yet! Not yet! oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams, Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise; Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, They are of vesper’s hymns and harmonies: Leave me not yet! My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love! By day shut up in their own still recess; They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness: Leave me not yet!

Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough, To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, And bind it, mother! on my breast! Go, seek the grove along the shore, Whose odours I must breathe no more; The grove where every scented tree Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, And wild farewell, are lingering there: Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone My faint heart, even in death, would own. Then bear me thence one bough, to shed Life’s parting sweetness round my head; And bind it, mother! on my breast When I am laid in lonely rest.

Flow on, rejoice, make music, Bright living stream set free! The troubled haunts of care and strife Were not for thee! The woodland is thy country, Thou art all its own again; The wild birds are thy kindred race, That fear no chain. Flow on, rejoice, make music Unto the glistening leaves! Thou, the beloved of balmy winds And golden eaves! Once more the holy starlight Sleeps calm upon thy breast, Whose brightness bears no token more Of man’s unrest. Flow, and let freeborn music Flow with thy wavy line, While the stock-dove’s lingering, loving voice Comes blent with thine. And the green reeds quivering o’er thee, Strings of the forest-lyre, All fill’d with answering spirit-sounds, In joy respire. Yet, midst thy song’s glad changes, Oh! keep one pitying tone For gentle hearts, that bear to thee Their sadness lone. One sound, of all the deepest, To bring, like healing dew, A sense that nature ne’er forsakes The meek and true. Then, then, rejoice, make music, Thou stream, thou glad and free! The shadows of all glorious flowers Be set in thee!

Come away! The sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers! O’er the very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding beauty’s glow— Come away! Where the lily’s tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream, Come away! All the air is fill’d with sound, Soft, and sultry, and profound; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray; Faint winds whisper as they pass— Come away! Where the bee’s deep music swells From the trembling foxglove bells, Come away! In the skies the sapphire blue Now hath won its richest hue; In the woods the breath of song Night and day Floats with leafy scents along— Come away! Where the boughs with dewy gloom Darken each thick bed of bloom, Come away! In the deep heart of the rose Now the crimson love-hue glows; Now the glow-worm’s lamp by night Sheds a ray, Dreamy, starry, greenly bright— Come away! Where the fairy cup-moss lies, With the wild-wood strawberries, Come away! Now each tree by summer crown’d, Sheds its own rich twilight round; Glancing there from sun to shade, Bright wings play; There the deer its couch hath made— Come away! Where the smooth leaves of the lime Glisten in their honey-time, Come away—away![411]

Oh! Skylark, for thy wing! Thou bird of joy and light, That I might soar and sing At heaven’s empyreal height! With the heathery hills beneath me, Whence the streams in glory spring, And the pearly clouds to wreathe me, O Skylark! on thy wing! Free, free, from earth-born fear, I would range the blessed skies, Through the blue divinely clear, Where the low mists cannot rise! And a thousand joyous measures From my chainless heart should spring, Like the bright rain’s vernal treasures, As I wander’d on thy wing. But oh! the silver cords That around the heart are spun, From gentle tones and words, And kind eyes that make our sun! To some low, sweet nest returning, How soon my love would bring There, there the dews of morning, O Skylark! on thy wing!

One hour for distant homes to weep Midst Afric’s burnings sands, One silent sunset hour was given To the slaves of many lands. They sat beneath a lonely palm, In the gardens of their lord; And, mingling with the fountain’s tune, Their songs of exile pour’d. And strangely, sadly did those lays Of Alp and ocean sound, With Afric’s wild, red skies above, And solemn wastes around. Broken with tears were oft their tones, And most when most they tried To breathe of hope and liberty, From hearts that inly died. So met the sons of many lands, Parted by mount and main; So did they sing in brotherhood, Made kindred by the chain.

In the proud old fanes of England My warrior-fathers lie, Banners hang drooping o’er their dust With gorgeous blazonry. But thou, but thou, my brother! O’er thee dark billows sweep— The best and bravest heart of all Is shrouded by the deep. In the old high wars of England My noble fathers bled; For her lion-kings of lance and spear, They went down to the dead. But thou, but thou, my brother! Thy life-drops flow’d for me— Would I were with thee in thy rest, Young sleeper of the sea! In a shelter’d home of England Our sister dwells alone, With quick heart listening for the sound Of footsteps that are gone. She little dreams, my brother! Of the wild fate we have found; I, midst the Afric sands a slave, Thou, by the dark seas bound.

The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn! Oh! through my native sky, Might I but hear its deep notes borne Once more—but once—and die! Yet, no! Midst breezy hills thy breath, So full of hope and morn, Would win me from the bed of death— O joyous Alpine horn! But here the echo of that blast, To many a battle known, Seems mournfully to wander past, A wild, shrill, wailing tone! Haunt me no more! for slavery’s air Thy proud notes were not born; The dream but deepens my despair— Be hush’d, thou Alpine horn!

O ye voices round my own hearth singing, As the winds of May to memory sweet! Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet, Once again? Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted Oft since then your fond farewell was said; O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed, Oft again! Or if still around my heart ye linger, Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come: Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer, Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home Ne’er again!

I dream of all things free! Of a gallant, gallant bark That sweeps through storm and sea, Like an arrow to its mark! Of a stag that o’er the hills Goes bounding in his glee; Of a thousand flashing rills— Of all things glad and free. I dream of some proud bird, A bright-eyed mountain-king! In my visions I have heard The rushing of his wing. I follow some wild river, On whose breast no sail may be; Dark woods around it shiver— I dream of all things free! Of a happy forest child, With the fawns and flowers at play; Of an Indian midst the wild, With the stars to guide his way; Of a chief his warriors leading, Of an archer’s greenwood tree— My heart in chains is bleeding, And I dream of all things free!

Where are the vintage songs Wandering in glee? Where dance the peasant bands Joyous and free? Under a kind blue sky, Where doth my birthplace lie? —Far o’er the sea. Where floats the myrtle-scent O’er vale and lea, When evening calls the dove Homewards to flee! Where doth the orange gleam Soft on my native stream? —Far o’er the sea! Where are sweet eyes of love Watching for me? Where o’er the cabin roof Waves the green tree? Where speaks the vesper-chime Still of a holy time? —Far o’er the sea. Dance on, ye vintage bands! Fearless and free; Still fresh and greenly wave, My father’s tree! Still smile, ye kind, blue skies! Though your son pines and dies Far o’er the sea!

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love? My only love! Or smiling in a brighter home, Far, far above? Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love? Thy light step gone? And art thou not, in earth or heaven, Still, still my own? I see thee with thy gleaming hair, In midnight dreams! But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, Thy soft eye seems. Peace in thy saddest hour, my love! Dwelt on thy brow; But something mournfully divine There shineth now! And silent ever is thy lip, And pale thy cheek;— Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s? Speak to me, speak!

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain— We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain; A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea, A ransom approaches—we yet shall be free! Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps, Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps; Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam, Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam. Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met, Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet! Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea— Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!

“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking signs, Which ne’er might be repeated.” Byron.

The vesper-bell, from church and tower, Had sent its dying sound; And the household, in the hush of eve, Were met their porch around. A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power— “We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s gathering-hour: There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell. Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!” Then the father gave his son the sword Which a hundred fights had seen— “Away! and bear it back, my boy! All that it still hath been! “Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land? Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast, With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.” Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears That o’er his dark locks fell: “I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er, Yet I stay thee not—Farewell!” “One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word! It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d. Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight, To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might. And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard, Though deep, yet brief and low: “In the vigil, in the conflict, love! My prayer shall with thee go!” “Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst! So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed. The night is pass’d, the silence o’er—on all our hills we rise: We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.” There were sad hearts in a darken’d home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour.

Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. Know’st thou it well? There, there, with thee, O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee. Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise, Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes To say—“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?” Know’st thou it well? There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee! Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung, Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way; There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray. Know’st thou it well? With thee, with thee, There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

“I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain, And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain: Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear, And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair! Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.” “Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love? Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move! How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng? I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song. Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.” “Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain? Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again? Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong. It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.” “Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee— It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be; With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine. O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d, Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?” “Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears. But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.” “Yes! I will take the silvery lute—and I will sing to thee A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee. O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things? Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings? Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain? Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”

“Leave us not, leave us not! Say not adieu! Have we not been to thee Tender and true? “Take not thy sunny smile Far from our hearth! With that sweet light will fade Summer and mirth. “Leave us not, leave us not! Can thy heart roam? Wilt thou not pine to hear Voices from home? “Too sad our love would be If thou wert gone! Turn to us, leave us not! Thou art our own!”

“O sister! hush that thrilling lute!—oh, cease that haunting lay! Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes—yet, yet I cannot stay: For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper’d call In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell Where the world’s voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee!—Fare thee well!”

Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea! My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee To its own ceaseless cry—“Alone, alone!” Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease! Oh! let your secret caves be stirr’d, And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace? Away! my weary soul hath sought In vain one echoing sigh, One answer to consuming thought In human hearts—and will the wave reply? Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea! Sound in thy scorn and pride! I ask not, alien world! from thee What my own kindred earth hath still denied. And yet I loved that earth so well, With all its lovely things! Was it for this the death-wind fell On my rich lyre, and quench’d its living strings? Let them lie silent at my feet! Since, broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet Hath pour’d on desert sands its wealth away. Yet glory’s light hath touch’d my name, The laurel-wreath is mine— With a lone heart, a weary frame— O restless deep! I come to make them thine! Give to that crown, that burning crown, Place in thy darkest hold! Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. Thou sea-bird on the billow’s crest! Thou hast thy love, thy home; They wait thee in the quiet nest, And I, th’ unsought, unwatch’d-for—I too come! I, with this wingèd nature fraught, These visions wildly free, This boundless love, this fiery thought— Alone I come—oh! give me peace, dark sea!

Where shall we make her grave? Oh! where the wild-flowers wave In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard— There—lay her there! Harsh was the world to her— Now may sleep minister Balm for each ill: Low on sweet nature’s breast Let the meek heart find rest, Deep, deep and still! Murmur, glad waters! by; Faint gales! with happy sigh, Come wandering o’er That green and mossy bed, Where, on a gentle head, Storms beat no more! What though for her in vain Falls now the bright spring-rain, Plays the soft wind? Yet still, from where she lies, Should blessed breathings rise, Gracious and kind. Therefore let song and dew Thence in the heart renew Life’s vernal glow! And o’er that holy earth Scents of the violet’s birth Still come and go! Oh! then, where wild flowers wave Make ye her mossy grave, In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard— There—lay her there!

“Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace All ’acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno D’ una stagion volubile e fugace; E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo, Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace, Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.” Metastasio.

Rose! what dost thou here? Bridal, royal rose! How, midst grief and fear, Canst thou thus disclose That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows? Rose! too much array’d For triumphal hours, Look’st thou through the shade Of these mortal bowers, Not to disturb my soul, thou crown’d one of all flowers! As an eagle soaring Through a sunny sky, As a clarion pouring Notes of victory, So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high. Thoughts of rapture, flushing Youthful poet’s cheek; Thoughts of glory, rushing Forth in song to break, But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak. Yet, O festal rose! I have seen thee lying In thy bright repose Pillow’d with the dying, Thy crimson by the lip whence life’s quick blood was flying. Summer, hope, and love O’er that bed of pain, Met in thee, yet wove Too, too frail a chain In its embracing links the lovely to detain. Smilest thou, gorgeous flower? Oh! within the spells Of thy beauty’s power, Something dimly dwells, At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells. All the soul forth flowing In that rich perfume, All the proud life glowing In that radiant bloom— Have they no place but here, beneath th’ o’ershadowing tomb? Crown’st thou but the daughters Of our tearful race? Heaven’s own purest waters Well might wear the trace Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. Will that clime enfold thee With immortal air? Shall we not behold thee Bright and deathless there? In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair! Yes! my fancy sees thee In that light disclose, And its dream thus frees thee From the mist of woes, Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal royal rose!

Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To solemn things and deep, To spirit-haunted sleep, To thoughts, all purified From earth, ye seem allied; O dedicated flowers! Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. —So doth love’s dreaming heart Dwell from the throng apart, And but to shades disclose The inmost thought, which glows With its pure life entwined. Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, To no triumphant song your petals thrill, But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. —So doth lone prayer arise, Mingling with secret sighs, When grief unfolds, like you, Her breast, for heavenly dew In silent hours to fill.

“Call back your odours, lovely flowers! From the night-winds call them back; And fold your leaves till the laughing hours Come forth in the sunbeam’s track! “The lark lies couch’d in her grassy nest, And the honey-bee is gone, And all bright things are away to rest— Why watch ye here alone? “Is not your world a mournful one, When your sisters close their eyes, And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone Of song in the starry skies? “Take ye no joy in the dayspring’s birth When it kindles the sparks of dew? And the thousand strains of the forest’s mirth, Shall they gladden all but you? “Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out On the sunny turf to play, And the woodland child with a fairy shout Goes dancing on its way!” “Nay! let our shadowy beauty bloom When the stars give quiet light, And let us offer our faint perfume On the silent shrine of night. “Call it not wasted, the scent we lend To the breeze, when no step is nigh: Oh, thus for ever the earth should send Her grateful breath on high! “And love us as emblems, night’s dewy flowers, Of hopes unto sorrow given, That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours Looking alone to heaven!”

In thy cavern-hall, Echo! art thou sleeping? By the fountain’s fall Dreamy silence keeping? Yet one soft note borne From the shepherd’s horn, Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping! —Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping. Then the woods rejoice, Then glad sounds are swelling From each sister-voice Round thy rocky dwelling; And their sweetness fills All the hollow hills, With a thousand notes, of one life telling! —Softly mingled notes, of one life telling. Echo! in my heart Thus deep thoughts are lying, Silent and apart, Buried, yet undying; Till some gentle tone Wakening haply one, Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! —Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.[414]

The muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, Which told the hamlets round Of a soldier’s burial-rite. But it told them not how dear, In a home beyond the main, Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour By a mountain-stream of Spain. The oaks of England waved O’er the slumbers of his race, But a pine of the Ronceval made moan Above his last, lone place; When the muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, Which call’d strange echoes round To the soldier’s burial-rite. Brief was the sorrowing there, By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head: But a mother—soon to die, And a sister—long to weep, Even then were breathing prayers for him In that home beyond the deep; While the muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, And the dark pines mourn’d round, O’er the soldier’s burial-rite.

“Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades.” Keats.

“Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.” Shelley.

Midst the long reeds that o’er a Grecian stream Unto the faint wind sigh’d melodiously, And where the sculpture of a broken shrine Sent out thro’ shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers Dim alabaster gleams—a lonely swan Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood Listening to that strange music, as it shook The lilies on the wave; and made the pines And all the laurels of the haunted shore Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet, Even painfully—as with the sweetness wrung From parting love; and to the poet’s thought This was their language. “Summer! I depart— O light and laughing summer! fare thee well: No song the less through thy rich woods will swell, For one, one broken heart. “And fare ye well, young flowers! Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still, And wave in glory, colouring every rill, Known to my youth’s fresh hours. “And ye, bright founts! that lie Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep— Sweet waters! I must die. “Will ye not send one tone Of sorrow through the pines?—one murmur low? Shall not the green leaves from your voices know That I, your child, am gone? “No! ever glad and free Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell: Waves, joyous waves! flow on, and fare ye well? Ye will not mourn for me. “But thou, sweet boon! too late Pour’d on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why com’st thou thus, o’ermastering, rich and strong, In the dark hour of fate? “Only to wake the sighs Of echo-voices from their sparry cell; Only to say—O sunshine and blue skies! O life and love! farewell.” Thus flow’d the death-chant on; while mournfully Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream— Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy— Woke to respond: and all the air was fill’d With that one sighing sound—Farewell! farewell! Fill’d with that sound? High in the calm blue heav’n Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds Were floating round him, all transpierced with light, And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings Quiver’d with song: such free, triumphant song, As if tears were not,—as if breaking hearts Had not a place below; and thus that strain Spoke to the poet’s ear exultingly:— “The summer is come; she hath said Rejoice! The wild-woods thrill to her merry voice; Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high: Sing, sing through the echoing sky! “There is joy in the mountains! The bright waves leap Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along— Let the heavens ring with song! “There is joy in the forests! The bird of night Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; But mine is the glory to sunshine given— Sing, sing through the echoing heaven! “Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born: Only young rapture can mount so high— Sing, sing through the echoing sky!” So those two voices met; so Joy and Death Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,— “Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, Mysterious nature! Not in thy free range Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus The dirge-note and the song of festival; But in one heart, one changeful human heart— Ay, and within one hour of that strange world— Thou call’st their music forth, with all its tones, To startle and to pierce!—the dying swan’s, And the glad skylark’s—triumph and despair!”

Hark! from the dim church-tower, The deep, slow Curfew’s chime! —A heavy sound unto hall and bower In England’s olden time! Sadly ’twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth-flame In his children’s eyes make light. Sternly and sadly heard, As it quench’d the wood-fire’s glow, Which had cheer’d the board with the mirthful word, And the red wine’s foaming flow! Until that sullen, boding knell, Flung out from every fane, On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell, With a weight and with a chain. Woe for the pilgrim then In the wild-deer’s forest far! No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, Might guide him, as a star. And woe for him whose wakeful soul, With lone aspirings fill’d, Would have lived o’er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still’d! And yet a deeper woe For the watcher by the bed, Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread! For the mother, doom’d unseen to keep By the dying babe, her place, And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Yet not behold its face! Darkness in chieftain’s hall! Darkness in peasant’s cot! While freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o’er her lot. Oh! the fireside’s peace we well may prize! For blood hath flow’d like rain, Pour’d forth to make sweet sanctuaries Of England’s homes again. Heap the yule-faggots high Till the red light fills the room! It is home’s own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth, And by its gladdening blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days!

“That voice re-measures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of nature utter; birds or trees, Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.” Coleridge.

I heard a song upon the wandering wind, A song of many tones—though one full soul Breathed through them all imploringly; and made All nature as they pass’d, all quivering leaves And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill As with the consciousness of human prayer. —At times the passion-kindled melody Might seem to gush from Sappho’s fervent heart, Over the wild sea-wave;—at times the strain Flow’d with more plaintive sweetness, as if born Of Petrarch’s voice, beside the lone Vaucluse; And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, A graver sound was mingled, a deep note Of Tasso’s holy lyre. Yet still the tones Were of a suppliant—“Leave me not!” was still The burden of their music; and I knew The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, Its own still world, amidst th’ o’erpeopled world, Hath ever breathed to Love. “They crown me with the glistening crown, Borne from a deathless tree; I hear the pealing music of renown— O Love! forsake me not! Mine were a lone, dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o’er the earth; From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow! Shed by thy gentle eyes, It gives to flower and skies A bright, new birth! “Thence gleams the path of morning Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning With lustre not its own! Thence every wood-recess Is fill’d with loveliness, Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known. “I see all beauty by the ray That streameth from thy smile;= Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Can that sweet light beguile? Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, To linger long by earthly streams; I clasp it with th’ alloy Of fear midst quivering joy. Yet must I perish if the gift depart— Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart! “The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world’s cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul—a temple fill’d with thee! Seal’d would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free! “Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken, Whence the oracle hath fled; Like a harp which none might waken But a mighty master dead; Like the vase of a perfume scatter’d. Such would my spirit be— So mute, so void, so shatter’d, Bereft of thee! “Leave me not, Love! or if this earth Yield not for thee a home, If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth Send thee a silvery voice that whispers ‘Come!’ Then, with the glory from the rose, With the sparkle from the stream, With the light thy rainbow-presence throws Over the poet’s dream; With all th’ Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!”

“Music! why thy power employ Only for the sons of joy? Only for the smiling guests At natal or at nuptial feasts? Rather thy lenient numbers pour On those whom secret griefs devour; And with some softly-whisper’d air Smooth the brow of dumb despair!” Warton from Euripides.

Bring music! stir the brooding air With an ethereal breath! Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear Up from the couch of death! A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, Such as the southern breeze Might waft, at golden fall of day, O’er blue, transparent seas! Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell Would lure me back to life, When my wean’d heart hath said farewell, And pass’d the gates of strife. Let not a sigh of human love Blend with the song its tone! Let no disturbing echo move One that must die alone! But pour a solemn-breathing strain Fill’d with the soul of prayer! Let a life’s conflict, fear, and pain, And trembling hope be there. Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought Lies more prevailing sound, A harmony intensely fraught With pleading more profound: A passion unto music given, A sweet, yet piercing cry; A breaking heart’s appeal to Heaven, A bright faith’s victory! Deeper! Oh! may no richer power Be in those notes enshrined? Can all which crowds on earth’s last hour No fuller language find? Away! and hush the feeble song, And let the chord be still’d! Far in another land ere long My dream shall be fulfill’d.

Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, And a banner in thy hand; Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, By a proudly mournful band. In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle’s blast, Thy long bright years had sped; And a warrior’s bier was thine at last, When the snows had crown’d thy head. Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! Brothers and friends, perchance; But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, And light was in thy glance. The soldier’s heart at thy step leapt high, And thy voice the war-horse knew; And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, Wert thou, the bold and true. Now may’st thou slumber—thy work is done— Thou of the well-worn sword! From the stormy fight in thy fame thou’rt gone, But not to the festal board. The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, Where fiery blood hath flow’d: O lover of battle and trumpet-sound! Thou art couch’d in a still abode! A quiet home from the noonday’s glare, And the breath of the wintry blast— Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair To win thee but this at last?

O joy of the peasant! O stately lime! Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time! Thou whose wavy shadows, Long and long ago, Screen’d our gray forefathers From the noontide’s glow; Thou, beneath whose branches, Touch’d with moonlight gleams, Lay our early poets Wrapt in fairy dreams. O tree of our fathers! O hallow’d tree! A glory is gone from our home with thee. Where shall now the weary Rest through summer eves? Or the bee find honey, As on thy sweet leaves? Where shall now the ringdove Build again her nest? She so long the inmate Of thy fragrant breast! But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee! These may yet find coverts Leafy and profound, Full of dewy dimness, Odour, and soft sound: But the gentle memories Clinging all to thee, When shall they be gather’d Round another tree? O pride of our fathers! O hallow’d tree! The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

Bird of the greenwood! Oh, why art thou here? Leaves dance not o’er thee, Flowers bloom not near. All the sweet waters Far hence are at play— Bird of the greenwood! Away, away! Where the mast quivers Thy place will not be, As midst the waving Of wild-rose and tree. How shouldst thou battle With storm and with spray? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away! Or art thou seeking Some brighter land, Where by the south wind Vine leaves are fann’d? ’Midst the wild billows Why then delay? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away! “Chide not my lingering Where storms are dark; A hand that hath nursed me Is in the bark— A heart that hath cherish’d Through winter’s long day: So I turn from the greenwood, Away, away!”

“Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.”

Bear them not from grassy dells Where wild bees have honey-cells; Not from where sweet water-sounds Thrill the greenwood to its bounds; Not to waste their scented breath On the silent room of Death! Kindred to the breeze they are, And the glow-worm’s emerald star, And the bird whose song is free, And the many-whispering tree: Oh! too deep a love, and vain, They would win to earth again. Spread them not before the eyes Closing fast on summer skies! Woo thou not the spirit back From its lone and viewless track, With the bright things which have birth Wide o’er all the colour’d earth! With the violet’s breath would rise Thoughts too sad for her who dies; From the lily’s pearl-cup shed, Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; Dreams of youth—of spring-time’s eves— Music—beauty—all she leaves! Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art, Calmer is her gentle heart. Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove, Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love; But that passion, deep and true, Knows not of a last adieu. Types of lovelier forms than these In their fragile mould she sees; Shadows of yet richer things, Born beside immortal springs, Into fuller glory wrought, Kindled by surpassing thought! Therefore, in the lily’s leaf, She can read no word of grief; O’er the woodbine she can dwell, Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell! And her dim, yet speaking eye Greets the violet solemnly. Therefore once, and yet again, Strew them o’er her bed of pain; From her chamber take the gloom With a light and flush of bloom: So should one depart, who goes Where no death can touch the rose!

Oh! how could fancy crown with thee, In ancient days, the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the Vine? Ivy! thy home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o’er; Where song and beaker once went round, But now are known no more; Where long-fallen gods recline, There the place is thine. The Roman, on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, With thee, amidst exulting strains, Shadow’d the victor’s tent. Though, shining there in deathless green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, Better thou lovest the silent scene Around the victor’s grave— Urn and sculpture half divine Yield their place to thine. The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread— Ivy! they know thee well! And far above the festal vine Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine— The Rhine, still fresh and young! Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, Ivy! all are thine! High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanish’d race, Where harp, and battle, and renown, Have pass’d, and left no trace. But thou art there!—serenely bright, Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom, Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, Or crown the lowliest tomb! Ivy! Ivy! all are thine, Palace, hearth, and shrine. ’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread O’er classic plains, through deserts free, On the mute path of ages fled, Still meets decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, stern in power— Days pass—thou Ivy never sere,[417] And thou shalt have thy dower. All are thine, or must be thine— Temple, pillar, shrine!

“All the choir Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”—Milton.

Again! oh! send that anthem-peal again Through the arch’d roof in triumph to the sky! Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, The banners thrill as if with victory! Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown: Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown! Those notes once more!—they bear my soul away, They lend the wings of morning to its flight; No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay Whispers one tone to win me from that height. All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source, Even while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course? Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower! —Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark! There is blood upon the threshold Whence thy step went forth at morn Like a dancer’s in its fleetness, O my bright first-born! At the glad sound of that footstep My heart within me smiled;— Thou wert brought me back all silent On thy bier, my child! Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark! I thought to see thy children Laugh on me with thine eyes; But my sorrow’s voice is lonely Where my life’s flower lies. I shall go to sit beside thee, Thy kindred’s graves among; I shall hear the tall grass whisper— I shall not hear it long. Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark! And I, too, shall find slumber With my lost one in the earth;— Let none light up the ashes Again on our hearth! Let the roof go down!—let silence On the home for ever fall, Where my boy lay cold, and heard not His lone mother’s call! Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

Far away!—my home is far away, Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore; In the woods I hear my brothers play, Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, Far away! Far away!—my dreams are far away, When at midnight stars and shadows reign: “Gentle child!” my mother seems to say, “Follow me where home shall smile again, Far away!” Far away!—my hope is far away, Where love’s voice young gladness may restore. —O thou dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that better shore, Far away!

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d Forth on the wild wind’s track; The stormy wanderer jarr’d the chord, But gave no music back.— O child of song! Bear hence to heaven thy fire: What hopest thou from the reckless throng? Be not like that lost lyre! Not like that lyre! A flower its leaves and odours cast On a swift-rolling wave; Th’ unheeding torrent darkly pass’d, And back no treasure gave.— O heart of love! Waste not thy precious dower: Turn to thine only home above! Be not like that lost flower! Not like that flower!

Sister! since I met thee last, O’er thy brow a change hath past. In the softness of thine eyes, Deep and still a shadow lies; From thy voice there thrills a tone Never to thy childhood known; Through thy soul a storm hath moved, —Gentle sister! thou hast loved! Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught Hues too bright from troubled thought; Far along the wandering stream Thou art follow’d by a dream; In the woods and valleys lone Music haunts thee, not thine own: Wherefore fall thy tears like rain? —Sister! thou hast loved in vain! Tell me not the tale, my flower! On my bosom pour that shower! Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted; Tell me not of young hopes blasted; Wring not forth one burning word, Let thy heart no more be stirr’d! Home alone can give thee rest. —Weep, sweet sister! on my breast!

From a ruin thou art singing, O lonely, lonely bird! The soft blue air is ringing, By thy summer music stirr’d. But all is dark and cold beneath, Where harps no more are heard: Whence win’st thou that exulting breath, O lonely, lonely bird? Thy songs flow richly swelling To a triumph of glad sounds, As from its cavern-dwelling A stream in glory bounds! Though the castle-echoes catch no tone Of human step or word, Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done, O lonely, lonely bird? How can that flood of gladness Rush through thy fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, From the bosom of decay— While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan, Through the ivy garlands heard, Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, O lonely, lonely bird? There’s many a heart, wild singer! Like thy forsaken tower, Where joy no more may linger, Where Love hath left his bower: And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee, To mirth as lightly stirr’d, Though it soar from ruins in its glee, O lonely, lonely bird!

Sleep!—we give thee to the wave, Red with life-blood from the brave. Thou shalt find a noble grave. Fare thee well! Sleep! thy billowy field is won: Proudly may the funeral gun, Midst the hush at set of sun, Boom thy knell! Lonely, lonely is thy bed, Never there may flower be shed, Marble rear’d, or brother’s head Bow’d to weep. Yet thy record on the sea, Borne through battle high and free, Long the red-cross flag shall be. Sleep! oh, sleep!

O soft star of the west! Gleaming far, Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Thou bring’st from rock and wave The sea-bird to her nest, The hunter from the hills, The fisher back to rest. Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming far! O soft star of the west! Blessed star! No bowery roof is mine, No hearth of love and rest, Yet guide me to my shrine, O soft star of the west! There, there my home shall be, Heaven’s dew shall cool my breast, When prayer and tear gush free, O soft star of the west! O soft star of the west, Gleaming far! Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Shine from thy rosy heaven, Pour joy on earth and sea! Shine on, though no sweet eyes Look forth to watch for me! Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming afar! O soft star of the west! Blessed star!

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, When calms had still’d the tide; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side. And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth; And sweetly floated o’er the wave The melodies of earth. Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept; While dancing step, and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept. And hands were link’d, and answering eyes With kindly meaning shone; Oh! brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown! A little while such joy was cast Over the deep’s repose, Till the loud singing winds at last Like trumpet-music rose. And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore; In calm or storm, by rock or bay, To meet—oh, never more! Never to blend in victory’s cheer, To aid in hours of woe: And thus bright spirits mingle here, Such ties are form’d below!

Come away!—the child, where flowers are springing Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope, Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, Like the skylark’s with its tone of hope: Come away! Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, All the wealth of glowing life outspread, Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o’er him, By that strain the youth in joy is led: Come away! Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling O’er the sweetness of the voice within; Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, Urge the hunter still to chase, to win: Come away! Come away!—the heart at last forsaken, Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue; Yet a breath can still those words awaken, Though to other shores far hence they woo: Come away! In the light leaves, in the reed’s faint sighing, In the low, sweet sounds of early spring, Still their music wanders—till the dying Hears them pass, as on a spirit’s wing: Come away!

Hold me upon thy faithful heart, Keep back my flitting breath; ’Tis early, early to depart, Beloved!—yet this is death! Look on me still—let that kind eye Be the last light I see! Oh! sad it is in spring to die, But yet I die for thee! For thee, my own!—thy stately head Was never thus to bow: Give tears when with me love hath fled, True love, thou know’st it now! Oh, the free streams look’d bright, where’er We in our gladness roved; And the blue skies were very fair, O friend! because we loved. Farewell!—I bless thee—live thou on When this young heart is low! Surely my blood thy life hath won— Clasp me once more—I go!

A sound comes on the rising breeze, A sweet and lovely sound! Piercing the tumult of the seas That wildly dash around. From land, from sunny land it comes, From hills with murmuring trees, From paths by still and happy homes— That sweet sound on the breeze. Why should its faint and passing sigh Thus bid my quick pulse leap? No part in earth’s glad melody Is mine upon the deep. Yet blessing, blessing on the spot Whence those rich breathings flow! Kind hearts, although they know me not, Like mine there beat and glow. And blessing, from the bark that roams O’er solitary seas, To those that far in happy homes Give sweet sounds to the breeze!

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, Truth in their dark transparence lies; Their sweetness gives me back the tears And the free trust of early years, My gentle child! The spirit of my infant prayer Shines in the depths of quiet there; And home and love once more are mine. Found in that dewy calm divine, My gentle child! Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, Its light by day around thee gleams— Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies: Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, My gentle child!

“Oh, cast thou not Affection from thee! In this bitter world Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast; Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dim The bright gem’s purity!”

If thou hast crush’d a flower, The root may not be blighted; If thou hast quench’d a lamp, Once more it may be lighted: But on thy harp, or on thy lute, The string which thou hast broken Shall never in sweet sound again Give to thy touch a token! If thou hast loosed a bird Whose voice of song could cheer thee, Still, still he may be won From the skies to warble near thee: But if upon the troubled sea Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed. If thou hast bruised a vine, The summer’s breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow Through the leaves their bloom revealing: But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown With a bright draught fill’d—oh! never Shall earth give back that lavish’d wealth To cool thy parch’d lip’s fever! The heart is like that cup, If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone, Which the deep will not restore thee; And like that string of harp or lute Whence the sweet sound is scatter’d,— Gently, oh! gently touch the chords, So soon for ever shatter’d!

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled! Ere one grief had bow’d thy head! Brightly didst thou part! With thy young thoughts pure from spot, With thy fond love wasted not, With thy bounding heart. Ne’er by sorrow to be wet, Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, Ere with dust o’erspread: Lilies ne’er by tempest blown, White rose which no stain hath known, Be about thee shed! So we give thee to the earth, And the primrose shall have birth O’er thy gentle head; Thou that, like a dewdrop borne On a sudden breeze of morn, Brightly thus hast fled!

“Soldier, awake! the night is past; Hear’st thou not the bugle’s blast? Feel’st thou not the dayspring’s breath? Rouse thee from thy bed of heath! Arm, thou bold and strong! Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee? Fiery steeds are neighing round thee— Banners to the fresh wind play: Rise, and arm—’tis day,’tis day! And thou hast slumber’d long.” “Brother! on the heathery lea Longer yet my sleep must be; Though the morn of battle rise, Darkly night rolls o’er my eyes— Brother, this is death! Call me not when bugles sound, Call me not when wine flows round; Name me but amidst the brave, Give me but a soldier’s grave— But my bed of heath!”

Have ye left the greenwood lone, Are your steps for ever gone? Fairy King and Elfin Queen, Come ye to the sylvan scene, From your dim and distant shore, Never more? Shall the pilgrim never hear With a thrill of joy and fear, In the hush of moonlight hours, Voices from the folded flowers, Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore, Never more? “Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth Hear again our midnight mirth: By our brooks and dingles green Since unhallow’d steps have been, Ours shall thread the forests hoar Never more. “Ne’er on earth-born lily’s stem Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem; Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head Quiver to our dancing tread, By sweet fount or murmuring shore— Never more!”

What woke the buried sound that lay In Memnon’s harp of yore? What spirit on its viewless way Along the Nile’s green shore? Oh! not the night, and not the storm, And not the lightning’s fire; But sunlight’s torch, the kind, the warm— This, this awoke the lyre. What wins the heart’s deep chords to pour Thus music forth on life— Like a sweet voice prevailing o’er The truant sounds of strife? Oh! not the conflict midst the throng, Not e’en the trumpet’s hour; Love is the gifted and the strong, To wake that music’s power!

Sing to me, Gondolier! Sing words from Tasso’s lay; While blue, and still, and clear, Night seems but softer day. The gale is gently falling, As if it paused to hear Some strain the past recalling— Sing to me, Gondolier! “Oh, ask me not to wake The memory of the brave; Bid no high numbers break The silence of the wave. Gone are the noble-hearted, Closed the bright pageants here; And the glad song is departed From the mournful Gondolier!”

It is thy pity makes me weep, My soul was strong before; Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep From vainly gushing o’er. Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes! In this fond gaze my spirit dies: Look on me thus no more! Too late that softness comes to bless, My heart’s glad life is o’er; It will but break with tenderness, Which cannot now restore! The lyre-strings have been jarr’d too long, Winter hath touch’d the source of song! Look on me thus no more!

O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home. When the bright fire shineth, Sad looks thy place, While the true heart pineth Missing thy face. Music is sorrowful Since thou art gone; Sisters are mourning thee— Come to thine own! Hark! the home-voices call Back to thy rest; Come to thy father’s hall, Thy mother’s breast! O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home.

O thou breeze of spring, Gladdening sea and shore! Wake the woods to sing, Wake my heart no more! Streams have felt the sighing Of thy scented wing, Let each fount replying Hail thee, breeze of spring! Once more! O’er long-buried flowers Passing not in vain, Odours in soft showers Thou hast brought again. Let the primrose greet thee, Let the violet pour Incense forth to meet thee— Wake my heart no more! No more! From a funeral urn Bower’d in leafy gloom, Even thy soft return Calls not song or bloom. Leave my spirit sleeping Like that silent thing; Stir the founts of weeping There, O breeze of spring! No more!

Come to me, dreams of heaven! My fainting spirit bear On your bright wings, by morning given, Up to celestial air. Away—far, far away, From bowers by tempests riven, Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, O blessed dreams of heaven! Come but for one brief hour, Sweet dreams! and yet again O’er burning thought and memory shower Your soft effacing rain! Waft me where gales divine, With dark clouds ne’er have striven, Where living founts for ever shine— O blessed dreams of heaven!

Day is past! Stars have set their watch at last; Founts that through the deep woods flow Make sweet sounds, unheard till now; Flowers have shut with fading light— Good-night! Go to rest! Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast! If within that secret cell One dark form of memory dwell, Be it mantled from thy sight— Good-night! Joy be thine! Kind looks o’er thy slumbers shine! Go, and in the spirit-land Meet thy home’s long-parted band; Be their eyes all love and light— Good-night! Peace to all! Dreams of heaven on mourners fall! Exile! o’er thy couch may gleams Pass from thine own mountain-streams; Bard! away to worlds more bright— Good-night!

Her home is far, oh! far away! The clear light in her eyes Hath naught to do with earthly day— ’Tis kindled from the skies. Let her depart! She looks upon the things of earth, Even as some gentle star Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, How softly, yet how far! Let her depart! Her spirit’s hope—her bosom’s love— Oh! could they mount and fly! She never sees a wandering dove, But for its wings to sigh. Let her depart! She never hears a soft wind bear Low music on its way, But deems it sent from heavenly air For her who cannot stay. Let her depart! Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, She breathes and moves alone, Pining for those bright bowers and streams Where her beloved is gone. Let her depart!