The works of Mrs. Hemans :: :: University of Virginia Library

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!”

II.—THE ZEGRI MAID.

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.

III.—THE RIO VERDE SONG.

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 should'st have echoes
For grief's deepest tone—
Flow, Rio Verde,
Softly flow on!

IV.—SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

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 grey hairs left lonely?
—Weep! her bright soul is fled.

V.—SPANISH EVENING HYMN.

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!

VI.—BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE.

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.

VII.—MOORISH GATHERING SONG.

ZORZICO.

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.

The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorish melody.

VIII.—THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

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.

IX.—MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

[_]

A CANCION.

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!

X.—THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

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!

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,
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-fagots 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!

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 choking 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—

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 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.

Written for a set of airs, entitled Peninsular Melodies, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs Goulding and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume.