INTRODUCTORY STANZAS.
THE THEMES OF SONG.

        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.

RHINE SONG
OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.

"I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his!— the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. 'At the first gleam of the river,' he said 'they all burst forth into the national chaunt, 'Am Rhein! Am Rhein!' They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time;—for each band renewed it while crossing; and the Cossacks, with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus 'Am Rhein! Am Rhein!' "— MANUSCRIPT LETTER.

RHINE SONG
OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.

    SINGLE VOICE.

IT is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving,
    I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood shine!
Sing on the march, with every banner waving—
    Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine! Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine!

    CHORUS.

The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial River!
    Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track!
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver;—
    We bear thee Freedom back, we bear thee Freedom back!

    SINGLE VOICE.

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

    CHORUS.

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

    SINGLE VOICE.

Home!—Home!—thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,
    Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home:
Even now my children count the hours 'till meeting,
    O ransomed ones, I come! O ransomed ones, I come!

    CHORUS.

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

A SONG OF DELOS.

The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the Ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.

ANCIENT GREEK CHAUNT OF VICTORY.

        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
    Thro' the blue, triumphant sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
    The sons of Victory.

With the offering of bright blood
    They have ransomed 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 murmured 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 e'er 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!

NAPLES.
SONG OF THE SYREN.

                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 extacy,
Fills thy soft summer's 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.

"Favored and crowned of the earth and sky!
Thine are all voices of melody,
Wandering in moonlight through lane and tower,
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower;
Hark! now 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 chaunt. 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!"

THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.
A BALLAD OF FRANCE.

The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly whilst reconnoitering a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He had left his Regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, and calling aloud "A moi, Auvergne! ce sont les ennemids!" fell, pierced with mortal blows.

THE
BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR,
AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY.—1087.

"At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude of clergy and people, assembled in the Church of St. Stephen, which the Conqueror had founded. The mass had been performed, the corse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd exclaimed,—'He whom you have praised was a robber. The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.' The speaker was Asceline Fitz Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shillings for the grave, and promised that he should receive the full value of his land. The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of stone."
LINGARD, VOL. II. p. 98.

THE
BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR,
AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY.—1087.

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 streamed,
Altar and tomb the while
    Through mists of incense gleamed.

And by the torches' blaze.
    The stately priest had said
High words of power and praise
    To the glory of the dead.

They lowered him, with the sound
    Of requiems, to repose;
When from the throngs around
    A solemn voice arose:—

"Forbear! forbear!" it cried,
    "In the holiest name forbear!
He hath conquered regions wide,
    But he shall not slumber there!

"By the violated hearth
    Which made way for yon proud shrine;
By the 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 birth-place not!

"Will my sire's unransomed field,
    O'er which your censers wave,
To the buried spoiler yield
    Soft slumbers in the grave?

"The tree before him fell,
    Which we cherished many a year,
But its deep root yet shall swell,
    And heave against his bier.

"The land that I have tilled
    Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home's white ashes filled,
    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 glowed 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?

ANCIENT SPANISH BATTLE SONG.*

        THE Moor is on his way!
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,†
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out,
        He hath marshalled his dark array!

        Shout through the vine-clad land!
That her sons on all their hills may hear,
And sharpen the point of the red wolf spear,
        And the sword for the brave man's hand!

[Note *:]

Reprinted from the "Siege of Valentia."

[Note †:]

Tecbir, the Moorish war-cry.

        Banners are in the field!
The chief must rise from his joyous board,
And turn from the feast e'er the wine be poured,
        And take up his father's shield.

        The Moor is on his way!
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground,
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods round—
        —There is nobler work to-day!

        Send forth the trumpet's call!
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down,
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown,
        And arm in the banquet-hall!

        And stay the funeral-train!
Bid the chanted mass be hushed a while,
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle,
        And the mourners girt for Spain!

        Ere night must swords be red!
It is not an hour for knells and tears,
But for helmets braced, and serried spears!
        To-morrow for the dead!

        The Cid is in array!
His steed is barbed, his plume waves high,
His banner is up in the sunny sky,
        Now, joy for the Cross to-day!

THE DEATH SONG OF ALCESTIS.

SHE came forth in her bridal robes arrayed,
And midst the graceful statues, round the hall
Shedding the calm of their celestial mein,
Stood pale, yet proudly beautiful, as they:
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair,
And death upon her brow!—but glorious death!
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal
Of love, o'ermastering love; which, 'till that hour,
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight
Of its unutterable tenderness,
Had burdened her full soul. But now, oh! now,

                                The soft pure air,
Came floating through that hall; the Grecian air,
Laden with music—flute-notes from the vales,
Echoes of song—the last sweet sounds of life;
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime
Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form,
The glorified of love! But she—she look'd
Only to him for whom 'twas joy to die,
Deep—deepest, holiest joy! —or if a thought
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze,
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide
Of her unswerving soul—'twas but a thought
That owned the summer-loveliness of life
For him a worthy offering!—So she stood,
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile,

                                "I go, I go!
                Thou Sun, thou golden Sun, I go,
                    Far from thy light to dwell;
                Thou shalt not find my place below,
Dim is that world—bright Sun of Greece, farewell!"

                The Laurel and the glorious Rose
                    Thy glad beam yet may see,
                But where no purple summer glows,
O'er the dark wave I haste from them and thee.

                Yet doth my spirit faint to part?
                    —I mourn thee not, O Sun!
                Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart,
Sing me triumphal songs!—my crown is won!

                Let not a voice of weeping rise!
                    My heart is girt with power!
                Let the green earth and festal skies
Laugh as to grace a conqueror's closing hour!

                For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord!
                    Thee, my soul's lov'd! I die;
                Thine is the torch of life restor'd,
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory!

                Now may the boundless love, that lay
                    Unfathom'd still before,
                In one consuming burst find way,
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour!

                Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now!
                    Its glory and its might—
                Are they not written on my brow?
And will that image ever quit thy sight?

                No! deathless in thy faithful breast,
                    There shall my memory keep
                Its own bright altar-place of rest,
While o'er my grave the cypress-branches weep.

                —Oh! the glad light!—the light is fair,
                    The soft breeze warm and free,
                And rich notes fill the scented air,
And all are gifts—my love's last gifts to thee!

                Take me to thy warm heart once more!
                    Night falls—my pulse beats low—
                Seek not to quicken, to restore,
Joy is in every pang—I go, I go!

                I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath,
                    I meet thy fond look still;
                Keen is the strife of love and death;
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill.

                Yet swells the tide of rapture strong,
                    Tho' mists o'ershade mine eye;
                —Sing, Pæan! sing a conqueror's song!
For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die!"

CHORUS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.

    (ATTENDANTS OF ALCESTIS.)

        PEACE, mourners, peace!
Be hushed, be silent, in this hour of dread!
        Our cries would but increase
The sufferer's pangs; let tears unheard be shed,
        Cease, voice of weeping, cease!

        Alas! how long a strife!
What anguish struggles in the parting breath,
        Ere yet immortal life
        Be won by death!
Death! Death! thy work complete!
Let thy sad hour be fleet,
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh!
        No more keen pangs impart
        To her, the high in heart,
The adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die.

    (ATTENDANTS OF ADMETUS.)

        'Tis not enough, oh! no!
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes;
        Still must our silent band
        Around him watchful stand,
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow,
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries.

        Yet, yet hope is not dead,
        All is not lost below,
While yet the gods have pity on our woe.
        Oft when all joy is fled,
        Heaven lends support to those
Who on its care in pious hope repose.
        Then to the blessed skies
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise.

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
I.

NEAR thee, still near thee!—o'er thy path-way 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;

[Note *:]

This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the author's songs were written.

            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 thro' the forest sweeping,
    Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore;

            When every thought and prayer
            We lov'd 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!
Ev'n when I soar where fiery stars are beaming,
Thine image wanders with me thro' 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!

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
II.

        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 thro' death, to brighter lands above,
                My thoughts of thee.

Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears,
                Our mingled prayer,
Our suffering love, thro' long devoted years,
                Went with me there.

It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried—
                It was not vain!
Still, tho' 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, lov'd one! and around thee,
                Where'er thou art;
Tho' 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!

MIGNON'S SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.

THE SISTERS.*
A BALLAD.

"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!

[Note *:]

This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.

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?
Thro' 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 pressed 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,

"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 lov'd, 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, ev'n from our father's knee.
Oh sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the strain,
Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?"

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.

DIRGE.

WHERE shall we make her grave?
—Oh! where the wild-flowers wave
            In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are 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!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

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.

PIETRO 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 arrayed
                    For triumphal hours,
                Look'st thou thro' the shade
                    Of these mortal bowers,
Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all flowers!

                As an eagle soaring
                    Thro' 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, oh! festal rose,
                    I have seen thee lying
                In thy bright repose
                    Pillowed 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.

                Smil'st 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 cloth'd, 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!

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
                    To solemn things and deep,
                    To spirit-haunted sleep,
                    To thoughts, all purified
                    From earth, ye seem allied;
                            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.

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.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

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 couched 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 day-spring'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!"

ECHO-SONG.

                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 hy rocky dwelling;

                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.*

[Note *:]

This song is in the possession of Mrs. Power.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.*

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.

[Note *:]

Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq.

The oaks of England wav'd
    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,
Ev'n then were breathing prayer for him,
    In that home beyond the deep:

While the muffled drum was heard
    In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
    And the dark pines mourn'd round,
        O'er the soldier's burial-rite.

THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK.

        Adieu, adieu! my 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,

                        "Summer, I depart!
    O light and laughing summer, fare thee well!
    No song the less thro' 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 thro' 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-chaunt 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 heaven
Ev'n then a Sky-lark 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 thro' 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 thro' the echoing heav'n!

"Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine are the fresh gales with day-spring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high—
                        —Sing, sing thro' 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
—Aye, 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 Sky-Lark's—Triumph and Despair!"

SONGS OF SPAIN.*

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

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,
Anal 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 cheered the board with the mirthful word,
    And the red wine's foaming flow!

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 liv'd 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 lov'd in pain lay low,
    In pain and sleepless dread!

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.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

        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 chocking sighs
        Which ne'er might be repeated.

BYRON.

    THE vesper-bell, from church and tower,
        Had sent its dying sound;
    And the household, in the hush of eve,
        Were met, their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet's power—
''We rise on all our hills! come forth! 'tis thy country's gathering hour—

    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 stirred.
Bear but the memory of thy 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 past, 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.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

                                That voice re-measures
        Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
        The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
        Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves,
        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 passed, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
—At times the passion-kindled melody

    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 filled 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?

    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 filled 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;

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 AT A DEATH-BED.

            "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-whispered 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 weaned heart hath said farewell,
    And passed the gates of strife.

Let not a sigh of human love
    Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
    One that must die alone!

But pour a solemn-breathing strain
    Filled 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 stilled!
Far in another land ere long
    My dream shall be fulfilled.

WHERE IS THE SEA?
SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempé, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied—"The sea— where is it?"

WHERE IS THE SEA?

WHERE is the sea?—I languish here—
    Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks in fleet career,
    And flags, and breezes free.

I miss that voice of waves which first
    Awoke my childhood's glee;
The measured chime —the thundering burst—
    Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
    Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies—
    Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute—
    I hear the whispering tree;—
The echoes of my soul are mute:
    —Where is my own blue sea?

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

"I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin—a plain quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here at eighty years of age, at the head of his own Regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle—his foot in the iron stirrup —his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last."
Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

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 crowned 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 leaped 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 mayest 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 flowed:—
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
    Thou art couch'd in a still abode!

A quiet home from the noonday's glare,
    And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil thro' the days of thy silvery hair,
    To win thee but this at last?

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been set to music by the author's sister, and are in the possession of Mr. Willis, by whose permission they are here published.

THE BIRD AT SEA.

BIRD of the greenwood!
    Oh! why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
    Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
    Far hence are at 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.

Or art thou seeking
    Some brighter land,
Where by the south-wind
    Vine leaves are fanned?
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;

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more?—whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould."
Conversations with an Ambitious Student in ill health.

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

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 coloured 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 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 gushed her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore, in the lily's leaf,
She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore, once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom,
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no Death can touch the rose!

THE IVY-SONG.

Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves, gathered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels on the Rhine.

THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.

The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill.—The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the Church itself; which, though small, yet with its dark rich fret-work, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognize it as a fitting for high solemnities of old;—a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike King.

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH
MOTHER OVER HER SON.

This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

Son of the Ocean Isle!
    Where sleep your mighty dead
Show me what high and stately pile
    Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, Stranger! track the deep,
    Free, free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
    Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
    By the Pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
    And the Palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun
    From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!
     There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
    Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night
    Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!
    It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone—
    —There slumber England's dead!

Loud rush the torrent floods
    The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
    The hunter's bow is strong.

But let the floods rush on!
    Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?
    —There slumber England's dead.

The mountain storms rise high
    In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs thro' the sky,
    Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!
    Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won—
    —There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose,
    'Tis a dark and dreadful hour
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
    And the northern night-clouds lower.

But let the ice drift on!
    Let the cold blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done—
    —Ev'n there sleep England's dead!

The warlike of the Isles,
    The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles?
    The seas and shores their grave?

Go, Stranger! track the deep!
    Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
    Where rest not England's dead!*

[Note *:]

Set to music by the Author's sister.

FAR AWAY.*

FAR away!—my home is far away,
    Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
    Midst the flowers my sister sings once more.
                                Far away!

Far away! my dreams are far away,
    When at midnight, stars and shadows reign;
"Gentle child," my mother seems to say
    "Follow me where home shall smile again!"
                                Far away!

[Note *:]

This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann, and H. F. C., and are published in a set by Mr. Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this Volume.

Far away! my hope is far away,
    Where love's voice young gladness may restore;
—O thou dove! now soaring thro' the day,
    Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
                                Far away!

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour'd
    Forth on the wild wind's track;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord,
    But gave no music back.
        —Oh! child of song!
            Bear hence to heaven thy fire!
        What hop'st 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.

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

SISTER! since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Thro' 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 followed by a dream;

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 stirred!
Home alone can give thee rest.
—Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!

THE LONELY BIRD.

From a ruin thou art singing,
    Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,
    By thy summer music stirr'd;
But all is dark and cold beneath,
    Where harps no more are heard:
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath,
    Oh! lonely, lonely bird?

Thy song flows richly swelling,
    To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern dwelling
    A stream in glory bounds!

How can that flood of gladness
    Rush thro' thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,
    From the bosom of decay?
While dirge-notes in the breeze's moan,
    Thro' the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
    Oh! lonely, lonely bird!

There's many a heart, wild singer,
    Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,
    Where love hath left his bower:

DIRGE AT SEA.

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 reared, or brother's head
                        Bowed to weep.

Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne thro' battle high and free,
Long the red cross flag shall be.
                        Sleep! O sleep!

PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

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, tho' no sweet eyes
    Look forth to watch for me!

THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.

"The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle," says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made "to the Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders." The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur."
Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.

THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.

'TWAS morn upon the Grecian hills,
    Where peasants dress'd the vines,
Sunlight was on Cithœron's rills,
    Arcadia's rocks and pines.

And brightly, thro' his reeds and flowers,
    Eurotas wandered by,
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers
    Of solemn harmony.

Was it the hunter's choral strain
    To the woodland-goddess pour'd?
Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane
    Strike the full sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream,
    Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
    To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain echoes of the land
    Swell'd through the deep blue sky,
While to soft strains moved forth a band
    Of men that moved to die.

They marched not with the trumpet's blast,
    Nor bade the horn peal out,
And the laurel-groves, as on they passed,
    Rung with no battle shout!

They asked no clarion's voice to fire
    Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre
    For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes, their path around,
    Sent forth Æolian breath:
They needed not a sterner sound
    To marshal them for death!

So moved they calmly to their field,
    Thence never to return,
Save bringing back the Spartan shield,
    Or on it proudly borne!

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

"We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments;—and then days, months, years intervene—and we see and know nothing of each other."
Washington Irving.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

TWO barks met on the deep mid-sea,
    When calms had stilled 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 linked, 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 formed below!

THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.

A LEGEND OF WALES.

It is an old tradition of the Welch Bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration. This song is one of a "Selection of Welch Melodies, arranged by John Parry, and published by Mr. Power."

A FAREWELL TO WALES.
FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE ASH GROVE."
ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.

THE sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear—
    —Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain-air,
    On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand!
            From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
            As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee!—yet not for the beauty which dwells
    In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells,
    Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore;
            And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
            —Green land, Poet-land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
    Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies,
For thy cottage hearths, burning the strangers to greet,
    For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes!
            May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread,
            Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.*

            "All is not lost—the unconquerable will
            And courage never to submit or yield."

MILTON.

The Hall of Harps is lone to-night.
    And cold the chieftain's hearth;
It hath no mead, it hath no light,
    No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

The bow lies broken on the floor
    Whence the free step is gone;
The pilgrim turns him from the door
    Where minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold stone.

[Note *:]

At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward the First.

And I too go—my wound is deep,
    My brethren long have died—
Yet ere my soul grow dark with sleep,
    Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!

Bear it, where on his battle plain,
    Beneath the setting sun,
He counts my country's noble slain—
    Say to him—Saxon! think not all is won.

Thou hast laid low the warrior's head,
    The minstrel's chainless hand;
—Dreamer! that number'st with the dead,
    The burning spirit of the mountain land!

Think'st thou because the song hath ceas'd,
    The soul of song is flown?
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast,
    It liv'd beside the ruddy hearth alone?

No! by our wrongs, and by our blood,
    We leave it pure and free—
Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood
    Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.

We leave it midst our country's woe,
    The birth-right of her breast—
We leave it as we leave the snow
    Bright and eternal on * Eryri's crest.

We leave it with our fame to dwell
    Upon our children's breath.
Our voice in theirs thro' time shall swell—
    The Bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.

He dies—but yet the mountains stand,
    Yet sweeps the torrent's tide;
And this is yet † Aneurin's land—
    Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!

[Note *:]

Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains.

[Note †:]

Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards.

COME AWAY!*

COME away!—the child, where flowers are springing
    Round its footsteps on the mountain slope,
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing,
    Like the sky-lark'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!

[Note *:]

This song is in the possession of Mr. Power, to be set to music

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is failing
    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 prov'd each hope untrue;
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
    Tho' 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!

FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.

"Fair Helen of Kirconnel," as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her bethrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.

MUSIC FROM SHORE.

A sound comes on the rising breeze,
    A sweet and lovely sound!
Piercing the tumult of the seas
    That wildly dash around.

From land, from sunny land it comes,
    From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy 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 fair in happy homes
    Give sweet sounds to the breeze!

‡ LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS
EYES.

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
Truth in their dark transparence lies;
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!

[Note ‡:]

The songs marked thus ‡ are in the possession of Mr. Willis, to be published by him with music.

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!

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS.

I go, sweet friends! yet think of me
    When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers;
For we have wandered far and free,
    In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go—but when you pause to hear,
    From distant hills, the Sabbath bell
On summer winds float silvery clear,
    Think on me then—I lov'd it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
    When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
For dear hath been its evening mirth
    To me, sweet friends! in other days.

And oh! when music's voice is heard
    To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd—
    —Think of me then! I go, I go!

IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER.

                                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 crushed a flower,
    The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quenched 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 filled—oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavished wealth
    To cool thy parched 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 strain of harp or lute
    Whence the sweet sound is scattered:—
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
    So soon for ever shattered!

‡BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.

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 dew-drop, borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
                        Brightly thou hast fled!

‡SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

Sing to me, Gondolier!
    Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
    Night seems but softer day:
The gale is gently falling
    As if it paus'd 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.

O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.*

O'ER the far blue mountains,
    O'er the white sea foam,
Come, thou long parted one!
    Back to thine home!

When the bright fire shineth,
    Sad looks thy place,
While the true heart pineth
    Missing thy face.

[Note *:]

Set to music by the Author's sister.

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!*

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!

[Note *:]

Set to music by John Lodge, Esq.

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
    Bowered in leafy gloom,
Ev'n 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.

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!

[Note *:]

Set to music by Miss Graves.

GOOD NIGHT.*

                        DAY is past!
Stars have set their watch at last,
Founts that thro' 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!

[Note *:]

For a melody of Eisenhofer's.

                        Joy be thine!
Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine!
Go, and in the spirit-land
Meet thy home's long parted band,
Be thine 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!

LET HER DEPART.

HER home is far, oh! far away!
    The clear light in her eyes
Hath nought to do with earthly day,
    'Tis kindled from the skies.
                        Let her depart!

She looks upon the things of earth,
    E'vn 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

WATER-LILIES.

A FAIRY-SONG.

COME away, Elves! while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O'er all the pools in our forest-dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water's breast,
Catching the sunshine thro' leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.

‡THE BROKEN FLOWER.

OH! wear it on thy heart, my love!
    Still, still a little while!
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves,
    Tho' faded be their smile.
Yet, for the sake of what hath been,
    Oh! cast it not away!
'Twas born to grace a summer scene,
    A long, bright, golden day,
                                My love!
    A long, bright, golden day!

A little while around thee, love!
    Its fragrance yet shall cling,
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain,
    A fair, tho' faded thing.

‡ I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.

I would we had not met again!
    —I had a dream of thee,
Lovely, tho' sad, on desert plain,
    Mournful on midnight sea.

What tho' it haunted me by night,
    And troubled thro' the day?
It touched all earth with spirit-light,
    It glorified my way!

Oh! what shall now my faith restore
    In holy things and fair?
We met—I saw thy soul once more—
    —The world's breath had been there!

Yes! it was sad on desert-plain,
    Mournful on midnight sea,
Yet would I buy with life again
    That one deep dream of thee!

FAIRIES' RECALL.

WHILE the blue is richest
    In the starry sky,
While the softest shadows
    On the greensward lie,
While the moonlight slumbers
    In the lily's urn,
Bright elves of the wild wood!
    Oh! return, return!

Round the forest fountain,
    On the river shore,
Let your silvery laughter
    Echo yet once more;

Oberon, Titania,
    Did your starlight mirth,
With the song of Avon,
    Quit this work-day earth?
Yet while green leaves glisten,
    And while bright stars burn,
By that magic memory,
    Oh, return, return!

[Note *:]

See the chorus of Fairies in the "Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer.

THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.

OH! tell me not the woods are fair
    Now Spring is on her way;
Well, well I know how brightly there
    In joy the young leaves play;
How sweet on winds of morn or eve
    The violet's breath may be;—
—Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
    My lone rock by the sea.

The wild wave's thunder on the shore,
    The curlew's restless cries,
Unto my watching heart are more
    Than all earth's melodies.

O YE VOICES GONE.*

OH! ye voices gone,
    Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
    Melt me not to tears!
All around forget,
    All who loved you well,
Yet, sweet voices, yet
    O'er my soul ye swell.

With the winds of spring,
    With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
    Thoughts of vanished hours.

[Note *:]

Set to music by Miss H. Corbett.

Hence your music take,
    Oh! ye voices gone!
This lone heart ye make
    But more deeply lone.

‡BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.

By a mountain stream at rest,
    We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
    A banner, clasp'd in dying:
                Dark and still
                Was every hill,
And the winds of night were sighing.

Last of his noble race,
    To a lonely bed we bore him;
'Twas a green, still, solemn place
    Where the mountain heath waves o'er him.
                Woods alone
                Seem to moan,
    Wild streams to deplore him.

Yet, from festive hall and lay
    Our sad thoughts oft are flying,
To those dark hills far away,
    Where in death we found him lying;
                On his breast
                A banner press'd,
    And the night-wind o'er him sighing.

‡IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.

Is there some spirit sighing
    With sorrow in the air,
Can weary hearts be dying,
    Vain love repining there?
If not, then how can that wild wail,
    O sad Æolian lyre!
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale,
    From thy deep thrilling wire?

No, no!—thou dost not borrow
    That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow
    In thee, O harp! enshrined;

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

THE trumpet of the battle
    Hath a high and thrilling tone;
And the first deep gun of an ocean fight
    Dread music all its own.

But a mightier power, my England!
    Is in that name of thine,
To strike the fire from every heart
    Along the banner'd line.

Proudly it woke the spirits
    Of yore, the brave and true,
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,
    And the yeoman's arrow flew.

And proudly hath it floated
    Through the battles of the sea,
When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths play'd
    Like the lightning in its glee.

On rock, on wave, on bastion,
    Its echoes have been known,
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low,
    That have answered to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains
    Its pealing note hath stirr'd;
—Sound on, and on, for evermore,
    O thou victorious word!

OLD NORWAY.
A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

"To a Norwegian the words Gamlé Norgé (Old Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. Gamlé Norgé is heard, in an instant repeated by every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained; not a drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus "For Norgé!" the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression Gamlé Norgé. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment, that the party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom."—Derwent Conway's Personal Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden.

The following words were written to the national air, as contained in the work above cited.

ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY.

SING, sing in memory of the brave departed,
    Let song and wine be poured!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
    Our brethren of the sword!

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices
    Have mingled with our own;
Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices,
    Forget not who are gone!

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying,
    On Albuera's plain;
They that beside us cheerly tracked the flying,
    Far o'er the hills of Spain:

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering,
    From old Rodrigo's wall,
The rampart sealed, thro' clouds of battle towering,
    First, first at victory's call!

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,
    In Roncesvalles' dell;
—With England's blood the southern vineyards laving,
    Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,
    Let song and wine be poured!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
    Our brethren of the sword!

‡COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP.

COME to me, gentle sleep!
    I pine, I pine for thee;
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
    And set my spirit free!
Each lonely, burning thought,
    In twilight langour steep—
Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought,
    O gentle, gentle sleep!

Come with thine urn of dew,
    Sleep, gentle sleep! yet bring
No voice, love's yearning to renew,
    No vision on thy wing!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.