 | Songs and poems |  |
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“Tout me fait chanter------l'air, les prés, les monts, les bois.”
VICTOR HUGO.
VICTOR HUGO.
iii
TO
H. R. H. THE PRESIDENT,
THE VICE-PATRONESSES,
VICE-PRESIDENTS,
AND GUARDIANS,
OF
THE CALEDONIAN ASYLUM,
AS A SMALL TOKEN OF HIS GRATITUDE FOR THE BENEFITS
HE RECEIVED WHILE AN INMATE OF THEIR
EXCELLENT INSTITUTION,
THE FOLLOWING VOLUME IS INSCRIBED,
BY THEIR MUCH OBLIGED
AND VERY OBEDIENT HUMBLE SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
5
SPRING SONG.
The merry Spring, the bright, bright Spring,
What joys she shakes from her flowery wing!
When the young bird sings from its leafy nest,
How happy it sleeps on its loved one's breast;
How sweet to roam at beauty's side,
Through glens and dells and woodlands wide;
How sweet to sit by a fountain clear,
And whisper love to a maiden's ear!
O! the merry Spring! the bright, bright Spring,
What joys she shakes from her flowery wing!
What joys she shakes from her flowery wing!
When the young bird sings from its leafy nest,
How happy it sleeps on its loved one's breast;
How sweet to roam at beauty's side,
Through glens and dells and woodlands wide;
How sweet to sit by a fountain clear,
And whisper love to a maiden's ear!
O! the merry Spring! the bright, bright Spring,
What joys she shakes from her flowery wing!
At merry morn, or evening still,
How sweet to roam by the balmy hill,
To cull a wreath of flowerets rare,
To twine 'mid the locks of a maiden's hair;
How sweet to fly from care and strife,
And the dull cold round of city life.
To stray thro' wood and shady grove,
And plight our troth to the maid we love!
O! the merry Spring, the bright, bright Spring,
What joys she shakes from her flowery wing!
How sweet to roam by the balmy hill,
To cull a wreath of flowerets rare,
To twine 'mid the locks of a maiden's hair;
How sweet to fly from care and strife,
And the dull cold round of city life.
10
And plight our troth to the maid we love!
O! the merry Spring, the bright, bright Spring,
What joys she shakes from her flowery wing!
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EVENING.
'Tis sweet at morn among the corn,
When air and earth are jolly,
But sweeter far, at evening's star,
Among the woods of holly.
The morn, though fair, is tinged with care,
Pain wakens with the morrow;
But evening's light, though not so bright,
Is not so full of sorrow.
When air and earth are jolly,
But sweeter far, at evening's star,
Among the woods of holly.
The morn, though fair, is tinged with care,
Pain wakens with the morrow;
But evening's light, though not so bright,
Is not so full of sorrow.
O, pensive star, that shin'st afar,
Why dost thou beam so sweetly?
O, bird of eve, why dost thou grieve
So mournfully and featly?
The pale star shines, the bird repines
Among the woods of holly,
To soothe away the cares of day,
And cleanse the heart from folly.
Why dost thou beam so sweetly?
O, bird of eve, why dost thou grieve
So mournfully and featly?
The pale star shines, the bird repines
Among the woods of holly,
To soothe away the cares of day,
And cleanse the heart from folly.
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THE DAYS OF YORE.
Deep in the shade of the wild woods free,
There standeth alone an old oak tree;
And ever at night, 'mong its branches dead,
The cold wind mourneth its glories fled,
And the nightingale singeth her saddest tune,
To think that its strength should have died so soon;
And the old oak droopeth its branches hoar,
And maketh a moan for the days of yore.
There standeth alone an old oak tree;
And ever at night, 'mong its branches dead,
The cold wind mourneth its glories fled,
And the nightingale singeth her saddest tune,
To think that its strength should have died so soon;
And the old oak droopeth its branches hoar,
And maketh a moan for the days of yore.
Alas! alas! for that old oak tree,
And alas! O maiden, alas for thee!
Thy loved one sleeps in his quiet bed,
And thy grief, though pure, cannot wake the dead.
Vainly, alas, shall the spring time bloom
For the withered branch or the narrow tomb;
Weep then, O maid, like the oak tree hoar,
The love and the hope of the days of yore.
And alas! O maiden, alas for thee!
Thy loved one sleeps in his quiet bed,
And thy grief, though pure, cannot wake the dead.
Vainly, alas, shall the spring time bloom
For the withered branch or the narrow tomb;
Weep then, O maid, like the oak tree hoar,
The love and the hope of the days of yore.
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O! nothing endureth here below,
The smile of joy, or the tear of woe;
And love cannot bloom in this world for aye—
Like the autumn leaf it must fade away.
O oak tree sear! O maiden pale!
Remembrance borrows the night bird's wail,
I hear her voice in the wild wood hoar,
Making a moan for the days of yore.
The smile of joy, or the tear of woe;
And love cannot bloom in this world for aye—
Like the autumn leaf it must fade away.
O oak tree sear! O maiden pale!
Remembrance borrows the night bird's wail,
I hear her voice in the wild wood hoar,
Making a moan for the days of yore.
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INDIAN SONGS.
24
[_]
The idea which suggested the following Songs, descriptive of the tenets and manners of the North American Indians, was taken from Cooper's beautiful Romance, “The Last of the Mohicans;” in which he so ably and poetically describes the wild and simple grandeur of their savage life.
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I. THE HUNTERS.
In valleys where the white man's foot
Ne'er treads the early dew,
By mighty streams, whose waters deep
Ne'er bear his light canoe;
In wild woods, where the settler's axe
Ne'er fells the ancient tree,
There the Great Spirit wings our feet
To roam the forest free.
Ne'er treads the early dew,
By mighty streams, whose waters deep
Ne'er bear his light canoe;
In wild woods, where the settler's axe
Ne'er fells the ancient tree,
There the Great Spirit wings our feet
To roam the forest free.
When points the shadow to the west,
We string the ready bow;
Hark!—the wild stag is in the woods,
His foot is on the snow.
The deer are in the forest path,
Their speed outstrips the gale,
And through our pleasant hunting grounds
We follow on their trail.
We string the ready bow;
Hark!—the wild stag is in the woods,
His foot is on the snow.
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Their speed outstrips the gale,
And through our pleasant hunting grounds
We follow on their trail.
Far from the white man's corn and maize,
The ancient woods we roam;
The forest is the red man's ground,
The wilderness his home.
There the Good Spirit of our race,
The friendly Manitou,
Guides the red Indian's mocassin,
When bounding o'er the dew.
The ancient woods we roam;
The forest is the red man's ground,
The wilderness his home.
There the Good Spirit of our race,
The friendly Manitou,
Guides the red Indian's mocassin,
When bounding o'er the dew.
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II. THE MAIDEN PALE.
The earth is white with the falling snow,
And white is the forest tree,
And my mocassin leaves no tell-tale print,
As I come to visit thee.
O! swift is my foot on the war-path, love,
And fleet on the red deer's trail,
But swifter far when at eve I come
To visit my maiden pale.
And white is the forest tree,
And my mocassin leaves no tell-tale print,
As I come to visit thee.
O! swift is my foot on the war-path, love,
And fleet on the red deer's trail,
But swifter far when at eve I come
To visit my maiden pale.
When the sun shines from a sky serene,
It ripens the tall fruit tree;
O! maid that wast born in the sunny east,
Thy love is the sun to me!
But the sky is sad without its beam,
When bloweth the stormy gale,
And sadder my heart when I roam alone,
Afar from my maiden pale.
It ripens the tall fruit tree;
O! maid that wast born in the sunny east,
Thy love is the sun to me!
But the sky is sad without its beam,
When bloweth the stormy gale,
And sadder my heart when I roam alone,
Afar from my maiden pale.
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O! maiden that comest from distant lands,
Where setteth the morning star,
My hand is open in days of peace,
And strong in the days of war!
And I come from the wigwams of my race,
My mocassin leaves no trail,
And I bound through the woods like a startled deer,
To visit my maiden pale.
Where setteth the morning star,
My hand is open in days of peace,
And strong in the days of war!
And I come from the wigwams of my race,
My mocassin leaves no trail,
And I bound through the woods like a startled deer,
To visit my maiden pale.
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TO AN EAGLE.
O! for an eagle's wings,
To brave the rugged blast,
In spite of wind and storm to soar
O'er mount and meadow vast.
O! that I might, like thee,
O'er Alpine summits fly,
And travel, unconfined and free,
The nearest to the sky!
To brave the rugged blast,
In spite of wind and storm to soar
O'er mount and meadow vast.
O! that I might, like thee,
O'er Alpine summits fly,
And travel, unconfined and free,
The nearest to the sky!
O! that mine eye like thine
Upon the sun might gaze,
And revel in that living light,
Undazzled by the blaze!
O! that my rapid flight
O'er boundless ether driven,
Might never leave, for things of earth,
The brighter ones of heaven!
Upon the sun might gaze,
And revel in that living light,
Undazzled by the blaze!
O! that my rapid flight
O'er boundless ether driven,
Might never leave, for things of earth,
The brighter ones of heaven!
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Here, when the soul inspired
Would leave the world behind,
Forgetting its affinity
To sorrow and mankind,
With eye like thine to scan
The wonders of its birth,
Some petty care disturbs its flight,
And draws it back to earth.
Would leave the world behind,
Forgetting its affinity
To sorrow and mankind,
With eye like thine to scan
The wonders of its birth,
Some petty care disturbs its flight,
And draws it back to earth.
O! for an eagle's wings!
O, for an eagle's nest!
To dwell upon the mountain tops,
With Nature for my guest:
Fanned by the rushing wind,
Rejoicing in the blast,
And soaring in the light of morn
O'er woods and waters vast.
O, for an eagle's nest!
To dwell upon the mountain tops,
With Nature for my guest:
Fanned by the rushing wind,
Rejoicing in the blast,
And soaring in the light of morn
O'er woods and waters vast.
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THE NORTHERN STAR.
The rushing winds around us sweep,
The storms about us roar,
And we—we skim the foaming deep,
A thousand miles from shore.
Fierce o'er the wave the tempests ride,
And far from land are we,
Star of the North! with none to guide,
But Providence and thee!
The storms about us roar,
And we—we skim the foaming deep,
A thousand miles from shore.
Fierce o'er the wave the tempests ride,
And far from land are we,
Star of the North! with none to guide,
But Providence and thee!
When o'er our deck the billows dash,
And howls the rushing blast,
When from afar the thunder-flash
Has split our gallant mast;
When darkness deep has veiled the sky,
Star of the troubled sea!
The sailor turns his anxious eye
Confidingly to thee.
And howls the rushing blast,
When from afar the thunder-flash
Has split our gallant mast;
When darkness deep has veiled the sky,
Star of the troubled sea!
The sailor turns his anxious eye
Confidingly to thee.
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One beam of thine, O welcome star!
The seaman's beacon light,
Cheers his lone heart, when wandering far
In danger's lowering night.
Fierce o'er the deep the whirlwinds ride,
Far, far from land are we,
Star of the North! with none to guide,
But Providence and thee!
The seaman's beacon light,
Cheers his lone heart, when wandering far
In danger's lowering night.
Fierce o'er the deep the whirlwinds ride,
Far, far from land are we,
Star of the North! with none to guide,
But Providence and thee!
36
THE SYCAMORE TREE.
O! for the shade of the sycamore,That spreadeth its boughs at my cottage door!
O! for the kiss of my bonnie bride,
And the welcome glow of her warm fireside;
And O! for the smile of my bonnie boy,
And the pleasant sounds of its childish joy!
Here, rolling about on the pelting foam,
How my heart yearns for its quiet home!
O! I long to listen at morning's time
To the sweet lark's song, or the far bells' chime;
For sad to mine ear is the sea-bird's cry,
And the howl of the wind as it wanders by.
O! if ever I see my beloved one more,
And the friendly latch of her cottage door,
Never again from her trusting heart
Shall the sire of her bonnie babe depart!
Safe in the harbour of home at last
I'll tell the tale of my dangers past.
O! for my cottage beside the sea,
And the peaceful shade of my sycamore tree!
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WOOING.
'Tis sad to go a-roving
Through the weary world alone,
For the bliss of life is loving,
Ere the days of youth are flown:
And old age is Love's undoing,
Passion fades away with time,
So we'll go again a-wooing,
While our hearts are in their prime.
So we'll go again a-wooing, &c.&c.
Through the weary world alone,
For the bliss of life is loving,
Ere the days of youth are flown:
And old age is Love's undoing,
Passion fades away with time,
So we'll go again a-wooing,
While our hearts are in their prime.
So we'll go again a-wooing, &c.&c.
The frowns of Fortune grieve us,
And Ambition is a cheat,
And the lures of Hope deceive us,
Though her visions are so sweet.
Love alone, her roses strewing,
Smooths our pathway as we climb,
So we'll go again a-wooing,
While our hearts are in their prime.
So we'll go again a-wooing, &c.&c.
And Ambition is a cheat,
And the lures of Hope deceive us,
Though her visions are so sweet.
Love alone, her roses strewing,
Smooths our pathway as we climb,
So we'll go again a-wooing,
While our hearts are in their prime.
So we'll go again a-wooing, &c.&c.
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WASSAIL.
If thy bosom undaunted ne'er quailed before danger,
Or feared to stand forth for the right,
If thy doors were ne'er shut on the poor and the stranger,
Thy heart never false to its plight,
To thee we will drink, as a king among men—
Wassail, O wassail! a health to thee then!
Or feared to stand forth for the right,
If thy doors were ne'er shut on the poor and the stranger,
Thy heart never false to its plight,
To thee we will drink, as a king among men—
Wassail, O wassail! a health to thee then!
If Honour can dazzle, or Freedom inspire thee
To fight in her cause ere she sink,
If the wrongs of thy kind or thy country can fire thee,
A bumper to thee we will drink.
Though humble and poor, thou art king among men.
Wassail, O wassail! a health to thee then!
To fight in her cause ere she sink,
If the wrongs of thy kind or thy country can fire thee,
A bumper to thee we will drink.
Though humble and poor, thou art king among men.
Wassail, O wassail! a health to thee then!
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THE BOAR-HUNTERS' SONG.
Let others chase the timid deer
O'er field or level moor,
We've a braver sport, and a nobler here,
To chase the mighty boar.
Through forest dark, and tangled wood,
Where mountain torrents flow,
With hearts by danger ne'er subdued,
O! merrily we go!—
Hark! Hark!
How he roars, as he springs from his lair so dark!
Hark! Hark!
O'er field or level moor,
We've a braver sport, and a nobler here,
To chase the mighty boar.
Through forest dark, and tangled wood,
Where mountain torrents flow,
With hearts by danger ne'er subdued,
O! merrily we go!—
Hark! Hark!
How he roars, as he springs from his lair so dark!
Hark! Hark!
He bounds! he bounds! in his fury borne
Through glens and dingles green,
Where nought is heard but the hunter's horn,
Where none save we have been!
And lo! as he springs through copse and brake,
Our well-aimed arrows fly,
He falls! he falls! and the wild woods shake,
As he roars in his agony.
Hark! Hark!
The shaft has arrived at its destined mark!
Hark! Hark!
Through glens and dingles green,
Where nought is heard but the hunter's horn,
Where none save we have been!
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Our well-aimed arrows fly,
He falls! he falls! and the wild woods shake,
As he roars in his agony.
Hark! Hark!
The shaft has arrived at its destined mark!
Hark! Hark!
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THE ALDER TREE.
Alder tree, O alder tree,
Over his grave reclining;
I've braided a wreath of the fairest flowers
That ever were fed by the spring-time showers,
Or nursed by the summer shining.
Short, but lovely, their lives have been,
Like his in the damp sod sleeping,
And I strew them now on the hillock green,
Where a mournful watch I'm keeping.
Over his grave reclining;
I've braided a wreath of the fairest flowers
That ever were fed by the spring-time showers,
Or nursed by the summer shining.
Short, but lovely, their lives have been,
Like his in the damp sod sleeping,
And I strew them now on the hillock green,
Where a mournful watch I'm keeping.
Alder tree! O alder tree!
Is it a voice of sorrow
That sighs 'mong thy leaves in the silent night,
When the radiant hue of the moonshine bright
Announceth a pleasant morrow?
'Tis a voice of wailing, O alder tree,
'Tis the evening breeze that weepeth,
'Tis the nightingale singing a song like me,
O'er the grave where my loved one sleepeth!
Is it a voice of sorrow
That sighs 'mong thy leaves in the silent night,
When the radiant hue of the moonshine bright
Announceth a pleasant morrow?
'Tis a voice of wailing, O alder tree,
'Tis the evening breeze that weepeth,
'Tis the nightingale singing a song like me,
O'er the grave where my loved one sleepeth!
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“THE LASS WHO VOWED TO LOVE ME.”
She said she'd come at evening's fall,
By yon streamlet gently rolling,
When darkness dim was spread o'er all,
And the vesper bell was tolling;
But long that bell hath ceased its tone,
And the moon has risen above me,
And I have waited long and lone
For the lass who vowed to love me!
By yon streamlet gently rolling,
When darkness dim was spread o'er all,
And the vesper bell was tolling;
But long that bell hath ceased its tone,
And the moon has risen above me,
And I have waited long and lone
For the lass who vowed to love me!
The time is long, the hours are slow,
When the loving heart is waiting,
Ye sportive winds that round me blow,
Hie to her lattice grating.
Tell her 'tis past th' appointed hour,
And the bright stars peer above me,
That I linger still in our trysting bower
For the lass who vowed to love me.
When the loving heart is waiting,
Ye sportive winds that round me blow,
Hie to her lattice grating.
Tell her 'tis past th' appointed hour,
And the bright stars peer above me,
That I linger still in our trysting bower
For the lass who vowed to love me.
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WINTER.
When the tempests fly
O'er the cloudy sky,
And the piping blast sings wearily,
O! sweet is the mirth
Of the social hearth,
Where the flames are blazing cheerily.
O'er the cloudy sky,
And the piping blast sings wearily,
O! sweet is the mirth
Of the social hearth,
Where the flames are blazing cheerily.
The moonbeam bright
Of the summer night
Shineth but sad and wearily,
But jolly's the glow
Where the wine-cups flow,
And the bright fire blazes cheerily.
Of the summer night
Shineth but sad and wearily,
But jolly's the glow
Where the wine-cups flow,
And the bright fire blazes cheerily.
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Let the storms without,
In their midnight rout,
Howl through the casement drearily,
We're merry within,
Round the blazing linn,
Where the wine-cup circles cheerily.
In their midnight rout,
Howl through the casement drearily,
We're merry within,
Round the blazing linn,
Where the wine-cup circles cheerily.
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BALLAD.
He carved his name upon the tree,
Ere he hied him o'er the billow,
A token of love and memory
On that lone drooping willow;
And bade me come at twilight dim,
In summer's fragrant weather,
Beneath its shade to think of him,
And the joys we'd known together.
Ere he hied him o'er the billow,
A token of love and memory
On that lone drooping willow;
And bade me come at twilight dim,
In summer's fragrant weather,
Beneath its shade to think of him,
And the joys we'd known together.
Ah! little did we think, when last
We met in sad emotion,
That he'd find his fate on the blast,
His grave in the depths of ocean:
And many a lonely year has fled,
Since sadly here we parted,
And the willow tree is sear and dead,
And I am broken-hearted.
We met in sad emotion,
That he'd find his fate on the blast,
His grave in the depths of ocean:
And many a lonely year has fled,
Since sadly here we parted,
And the willow tree is sear and dead,
And I am broken-hearted.
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VINTAGERS' SONG TO THE SUN.
Peerless orb of life and light,
Here beneath the cloudless blue,
Lo! we quaff the liquor bright,
And pray for rain and pleasant dew.
Here beneath thy ruddy beam,
To thee we drain the goblet deep,
Where the Rhine's broad waters stream,
And the grapes in clusters creep.
Here beneath the cloudless blue,
Lo! we quaff the liquor bright,
And pray for rain and pleasant dew.
Here beneath thy ruddy beam,
To thee we drain the goblet deep,
Where the Rhine's broad waters stream,
And the grapes in clusters creep.
Sun, O sun, thy splendours pour
O'er the fruitful fields of earth,
And to her remotest shore
Give the jovial harvest birth.
O'er the land that yields the vine,
Let thy warmest radiance glow,
Ripened by those beams of thine,
Let the purple vintage flow.
O'er the fruitful fields of earth,
And to her remotest shore
Give the jovial harvest birth.
O'er the land that yields the vine,
Let thy warmest radiance glow,
Ripened by those beams of thine,
Let the purple vintage flow.
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ON THE CAPITULATION OF WARSAW,
SEPTEMBER 1831.
Soldier of Poland! wherefore sigh?Freedom, though crushed, shall never die;
Though for awhile her noble head
Be trampled by the Cossack's tread,
Though the proud Russian lay her low,
And laugh to scorn a nation's woe;
Though those whom free-born hearts deplore,
Be banished from their native shore,
And forced in foreign climes to roam,
To seek a shelter and a home;
Though thousand wrongs obscure her yet,
The sun of Freedom shall not set!
From Warsaw's ruins shall arise
A fire to blind the Tartars' eyes;
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To rouse the nations up again!
A flag of wrath shall be unfurled,
And Justice once more light the world!
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THE NORTH COUNTRIE.
Hurrah! for the land of the thistle!
The clime of the fair and free!
Where the lassies are bonnie
And loving as ony,
The pride of the North Countrie!
Where Liberty dwells on the mountain,
Where Beauty inhabits the plain,
The land that never yet bent to the yoke
Of the Roman, the Goth, or the Dane.
The clime of the fair and free!
Where the lassies are bonnie
And loving as ony,
The pride of the North Countrie!
Where Liberty dwells on the mountain,
Where Beauty inhabits the plain,
The land that never yet bent to the yoke
Of the Roman, the Goth, or the Dane.
Hurrah! for the land of the mountain!
Hurrah! for the North Countrie!
And joy to each laddie
That weareth the pladdie,
The badge of the bold and the free!
Hurrah! Caledonia trusty!
Hurrah! Caledonia true!
We'll pledge thy weal in thy native drink,
In a bicker of mountain dew.
Hurrah! for the North Countrie!
And joy to each laddie
That weareth the pladdie,
The badge of the bold and the free!
Hurrah! Caledonia trusty!
Hurrah! Caledonia true!
We'll pledge thy weal in thy native drink,
In a bicker of mountain dew.
78
CHORUS OF GUARDIAN SPIRITS.
We come! We come!
To soften the strokes of fate,
And lead the wanderer back in dreams
To his woodland cot, and his native streams,
And his long-expecting mate.
To soften the strokes of fate,
And lead the wanderer back in dreams
To his woodland cot, and his native streams,
And his long-expecting mate.
We come! We come!
To the pillow of him oppressed,
And send him a slumber deep and calm,
And pour in visions a healing balm
To his wounded and aching breast.
To the pillow of him oppressed,
And send him a slumber deep and calm,
And pour in visions a healing balm
To his wounded and aching breast.
We come! We come!
To the prisoner's dungeon deep,
And if he be innocent, pay him well
For the pains endured in his gloomy cell,
Where he waketh but to weep.
To the prisoner's dungeon deep,
And if he be innocent, pay him well
For the pains endured in his gloomy cell,
Where he waketh but to weep.
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We come! We come!
From our bright and happy sphere,
To keep a watch in the silence deep,
O'er the little couch of the babe asleep,
When none but its mother's near!
From our bright and happy sphere,
To keep a watch in the silence deep,
O'er the little couch of the babe asleep,
When none but its mother's near!
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MIRTH.
Come, soul-inspiring Mirth,
I'll twine a wreath for thee,
With flowers of spring-time birth,
Born amid Nature's glee:
Born when the cuckoo sung
Its notes of joy to God,
And the sunny day-beam flung
Smiles o'er the flowery sod.
I'll twine a wreath for thee,
With flowers of spring-time birth,
Born amid Nature's glee:
Born when the cuckoo sung
Its notes of joy to God,
And the sunny day-beam flung
Smiles o'er the flowery sod.
But, lord of jest and jeer,
Come in thy fairest trim,
Let smiling Wit be near,
With eye that's never dim:
Come with the flowing bowl
And the rosy wine to me,
And beam upon my soul,
Ere I twine a wreath for thee.
Come in thy fairest trim,
Let smiling Wit be near,
With eye that's never dim:
Come with the flowing bowl
And the rosy wine to me,
And beam upon my soul,
Ere I twine a wreath for thee.
81
SACRED MELODIES.
96
IX. STORM.
A mighty tempest rent the sky,
As if a god were passing by.
Bending to earth my humbled head,
In solemn and religious dread,
And kneeling on the sod,
I heard a voice proclaim aloud,
Whose echoes sprung from cloud to cloud,
“Great is the Lord our God!”
As if a god were passing by.
Bending to earth my humbled head,
In solemn and religious dread,
And kneeling on the sod,
I heard a voice proclaim aloud,
Whose echoes sprung from cloud to cloud,
“Great is the Lord our God!”
And ocean swelled its waters vast,
Repeating, as it roared,
In chorus with the furious blast,
“O! mighty is the Lord!”
While the fierce lightning, flashing high,
Traced the dread accents on the sky,
Writing, as with a fiery rod,
“O mighty is the Lord our God!”
Repeating, as it roared,
In chorus with the furious blast,
“O! mighty is the Lord!”
While the fierce lightning, flashing high,
Traced the dread accents on the sky,
Writing, as with a fiery rod,
“O mighty is the Lord our God!”
97
GIPSY CHAUNT.
When the sentinel mastiff keepeth guard,
And all is dark in the farmer's yard,
Ere the early cock hath begun to crow,
Abroad with the owl and the bat we go:
Thirst is mighty—hunger is strong—
Our sticks are stout, and our arms are long—
Hurra!
And woe to the chicken—ah, woe to the hen
That flappeth her wings on our pathway then!
Hurra!
And all is dark in the farmer's yard,
Ere the early cock hath begun to crow,
Abroad with the owl and the bat we go:
Thirst is mighty—hunger is strong—
Our sticks are stout, and our arms are long—
Hurra!
And woe to the chicken—ah, woe to the hen
That flappeth her wings on our pathway then!
Hurra!
No cautious latchet—no bolted door,
Receiveth at night the gipsy's store;
No wealthy hoards hath he to guard—
His only store is the farmer's yard:
And to visit that store whene'er he can,
Is the roving gipsy's nightly plan.
Hurra!
Weep, Hodge, weep, and scratch thy head,
Thy dog is bribed, and thy poultry fled!
Hurra!
Receiveth at night the gipsy's store;
No wealthy hoards hath he to guard—
His only store is the farmer's yard:
100
Is the roving gipsy's nightly plan.
Hurra!
Weep, Hodge, weep, and scratch thy head,
Thy dog is bribed, and thy poultry fled!
Hurra!
101
AURORA.
The morn gets up with a sparkling eye,
And a cheek like a hawthorn berry,
And sendeth her herald to the sky,
To twitter his song so merry:
He's the eldest born
Of his mother Morn,
And his voice is shrill and jolly;
And what saith he,
That herald free—
Philosophy, mirth, or folly?
And a cheek like a hawthorn berry,
And sendeth her herald to the sky,
To twitter his song so merry:
He's the eldest born
Of his mother Morn,
And his voice is shrill and jolly;
And what saith he,
That herald free—
Philosophy, mirth, or folly?
'Tis Wisdom's voice, though it speak in mirth,
'Tis a wise, wise lay—ah, very!
And he calls on all in air and earth
To join in his song so merry:
He saith that health
Is better than wealth,
And cheerfulness better than sorrow;
Calling on sloth,
If it prize them both,
To rise with the sun to-morrow.
'Tis a wise, wise lay—ah, very!
And he calls on all in air and earth
To join in his song so merry:
He saith that health
Is better than wealth,
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Calling on sloth,
If it prize them both,
To rise with the sun to-morrow.
These are the words of his mother Morn,
The hunter hears him singing,
And winds a blast on his mountain horn,
Till he sets the wild woods ringing:
And this is the lay
Of the lark so gay,
With his voice so shrill and merry;
When Morn doth rise
With her sparkling eyes,
And her cheek like the hawthorn berry.
The hunter hears him singing,
And winds a blast on his mountain horn,
Till he sets the wild woods ringing:
And this is the lay
Of the lark so gay,
With his voice so shrill and merry;
When Morn doth rise
With her sparkling eyes,
And her cheek like the hawthorn berry.
103
THE FALLING STARS.
Shepherd, thou say'st there is a star
Which rules our changeful destinies:
Can mortal vision soar so far,
Or pierce such mighty mysteries?
Shepherd, 'tis said thy mind recals
The lore of grey departed seers:
Say, what is yonder star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears?
Which rules our changeful destinies:
Can mortal vision soar so far,
Or pierce such mighty mysteries?
Shepherd, 'tis said thy mind recals
The lore of grey departed seers:
Say, what is yonder star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears?
My son, a child of joy expired,
Yon was his star which glided by,
The friendly feast, by mirth inspired,
Has witnessed his departing sigh;
He sang of wine and beauty's thralls,
Round went his jokes and witty jeers—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
Yon was his star which glided by,
The friendly feast, by mirth inspired,
Has witnessed his departing sigh;
He sang of wine and beauty's thralls,
Round went his jokes and witty jeers—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
104
My son, it is a star of light,
Of one beloved, and young and fair,
Preparing for her bridal night,
Wreathing white roses in her hair;
On her her frantic lover calls,
But vain his grief, and vain his tears—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
Of one beloved, and young and fair,
Preparing for her bridal night,
Wreathing white roses in her hair;
On her her frantic lover calls,
But vain his grief, and vain his tears—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
My son, yon was the rapid star,
The suddenly extinguished gleam,
Of one just born to wealth and power,
One born to bask in fortune's beam;
He has escaped the flatterers' thralls,
The weight of guilt, the load of years—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
The suddenly extinguished gleam,
Of one just born to wealth and power,
One born to bask in fortune's beam;
He has escaped the flatterers' thralls,
The weight of guilt, the load of years—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
My son, did'st see its guileful ray?
A monarch's favourite is no more!
Flattered in life—in death's dark day
No friends or mourners seek his door:
He was the cringing slave who crawls,
And fattens on a people's tears—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
A monarch's favourite is no more!
Flattered in life—in death's dark day
No friends or mourners seek his door:
105
And fattens on a people's tears—
There is another star which falls,
Which falls, falls, and disappears!
'Twas the last of a race of kings;—
But go, my son—for thou hast seen
That wealth and power are empty things,
Which leave no trace that they have been.
Glory and fame the heart enthral,
And grandeur courts the people's cheer;
All these are only stars which fall,
Which fall, fall, and disappear.
But go, my son—for thou hast seen
That wealth and power are empty things,
Which leave no trace that they have been.
Glory and fame the heart enthral,
And grandeur courts the people's cheer;
All these are only stars which fall,
Which fall, fall, and disappear.
106
SONG TO THE GERMANS.
1832.
When your rights are destroyed, and when freedom expires,
When your kings and your princes to crush ye combine,
O! shall it be said that no vengeance inspires
The land of the Oder, the Elbe, and the Rhine!
O! shall it be said that the Germans lay still,
While their puny oppressors were working their will?
When your kings and your princes to crush ye combine,
O! shall it be said that no vengeance inspires
The land of the Oder, the Elbe, and the Rhine!
O! shall it be said that the Germans lay still,
While their puny oppressors were working their will?
Forbid it, O Heaven, that the country of song,
The land of the steadfast, the noble, the fair,
Should tamely submit to the lash and the thong,
Or crouch to the rule which her despots prepare.
No! Freedom shall shine o'er the universe yet,
For a sun hath arisen which never shall set.
The land of the steadfast, the noble, the fair,
Should tamely submit to the lash and the thong,
Or crouch to the rule which her despots prepare.
No! Freedom shall shine o'er the universe yet,
For a sun hath arisen which never shall set.
109
Then arouse and combine, as your tyrants have done,
From the Rhine to the Danube arise in your might,
Be strong in the cause, and the battle is won,
And the prayers of the world shall ascend for the right.
O! land of the brave, in thy strife to be free,
The hopes of mankind shall be centred in thee.
From the Rhine to the Danube arise in your might,
Be strong in the cause, and the battle is won,
And the prayers of the world shall ascend for the right.
O! land of the brave, in thy strife to be free,
The hopes of mankind shall be centred in thee.
110
REPROACH.
Hast thou forgotten her to whom
You vowed such vows of truth,
She who was dearest to thy heart
In days of hope and youth?
Dost thou forget the parting prayer
I raised to Heaven for thee,
To guard thee in thy wanderings
In climes beyond the sea?
You vowed such vows of truth,
She who was dearest to thy heart
In days of hope and youth?
Dost thou forget the parting prayer
I raised to Heaven for thee,
To guard thee in thy wanderings
In climes beyond the sea?
The vows you breathed—the faith you swore—
Too fondly I believed;
Now I must hide my bitter grief,
And mourn my hopes deceived.
But vain my tears—Farewell! Farewell!
Go scorn me if thou wilt;
And though the anguish may be mine,
Remember thine's the guilt!
Too fondly I believed;
Now I must hide my bitter grief,
And mourn my hopes deceived.
But vain my tears—Farewell! Farewell!
Go scorn me if thou wilt;
And though the anguish may be mine,
Remember thine's the guilt!
111
THE SONG OF THE MOUNTAINEERS.
When Morning sheds her ruddy light
O'er heath and dusky dell,
Away we go to the mountain's height,
To chase the swift gazelle;
To chase afar the savage wolf,
Or light and bounding roe,
O'er slippery steep, o'er ravine deep,
With merry hearts we go.
While Echo still,
From some far hill,
Repeats our glad hallo!
Hallo!
O'er heath and dusky dell,
Away we go to the mountain's height,
To chase the swift gazelle;
To chase afar the savage wolf,
Or light and bounding roe,
O'er slippery steep, o'er ravine deep,
With merry hearts we go.
While Echo still,
From some far hill,
Repeats our glad hallo!
Hallo!
Where heart-inspiring danger dwells,
With fearless feet we roam,
And nimbly bound o'er craggy dells,
Where babbling waters foam.
O'er trackless wilds, at break of morn,
With right good will we go,
And merrily wind our bugle horn,
And chase the fleeting roe.
While Echo still,
From some far hill,
Repeats our glad Hallo!
Hallo!
With fearless feet we roam,
And nimbly bound o'er craggy dells,
Where babbling waters foam.
112
With right good will we go,
And merrily wind our bugle horn,
And chase the fleeting roe.
While Echo still,
From some far hill,
Repeats our glad Hallo!
Hallo!
113
SONG.
Cool breeze of summer's eve,
'Mid leafy branches playing,
Oh hasten to her bower,
And chide my love for staying:
Tell her, with anxious hope
My faithful heart is beating,
That long, long time hath past
The still sweet hour of meeting.
'Mid leafy branches playing,
Oh hasten to her bower,
And chide my love for staying:
Tell her, with anxious hope
My faithful heart is beating,
That long, long time hath past
The still sweet hour of meeting.
Ray of the patient moon,
That floatest on the billow,
Shine through her lattice high,
And beam upon her pillow:
Tell her that truth and love
A weary round are beating,
While Rosa, wrapt in sleep,
Forgets the hour of meeting.
That floatest on the billow,
Shine through her lattice high,
And beam upon her pillow:
Tell her that truth and love
A weary round are beating,
While Rosa, wrapt in sleep,
Forgets the hour of meeting.
119
GERMAN DRINKING SONG
“Rosen auf den Weg gestreut
“Und des Harm vergessen.”
“Und des Harm vergessen.”
Strew roses on the way,
And think no more of grief,
Short is the passing day,
Short-lived the summer leaf;
Short is our mortal span—
Then, ere the minutes die,
'Tis Wisdom's wisest plan
To gild them as they fly:
The present only is our own,
The future dark, and all unknown.
And think no more of grief,
Short is the passing day,
Short-lived the summer leaf;
Short is our mortal span—
Then, ere the minutes die,
'Tis Wisdom's wisest plan
To gild them as they fly:
The present only is our own,
The future dark, and all unknown.
Then, O give Grief and Care,
O give them to the blast,
And make the present fair
And brighter than the past!
And make the glasses ring,
As ye quaff the cheering wine,
And a merry chorus sing,
Beneath the clustering vine.—
Sorrow will sink, where Joy will swim;
Then fill the bicker to the brim.
O give them to the blast,
And make the present fair
And brighter than the past!
120
As ye quaff the cheering wine,
And a merry chorus sing,
Beneath the clustering vine.—
Sorrow will sink, where Joy will swim;
Then fill the bicker to the brim.
When underneath the stone
We sleep the final sleep,
We'll hear no more the tone
Of music's wildest sweep;
Nor hear the wine-cups meet
With tinkling sound of glee,
Nor the merry chorus sweet
Under the linden-tree:
Then let us, in the hope of Heaven,
Enjoy on earth what God has given!
We sleep the final sleep,
We'll hear no more the tone
Of music's wildest sweep;
Nor hear the wine-cups meet
With tinkling sound of glee,
Nor the merry chorus sweet
Under the linden-tree:
Then let us, in the hope of Heaven,
Enjoy on earth what God has given!
121
THE MANIAC'S SONG
TO THE WIND.
Why, O wind of summer,
Why that restless moan?
Weepest thou for pleasures
That are past and gone?
Mournest thou for visions
That have fled away,
Or hopes which only flourished
To wither and decay?
Why that restless moan?
Weepest thou for pleasures
That are past and gone?
Mournest thou for visions
That have fled away,
Or hopes which only flourished
To wither and decay?
Hath thy loved-one left thee
To misfortune's smart,
With a wounded spirit
And a broken heart?
Grievest thou like Ellen,
O, thou moaning wind,
For the scorn and pity
Of a world unkind?
To misfortune's smart,
With a wounded spirit
And a broken heart?
Grievest thou like Ellen,
O, thou moaning wind,
For the scorn and pity
Of a world unkind?
122
Let us mourn together,
O! thou midnight blast,
For the joys which wither,
For the woes which last!
For the scorn and falsehood
Which have seared my mind,
Weep and mourn with Ellen,
Sweet, sweet summer wind!
O! thou midnight blast,
For the joys which wither,
For the woes which last!
For the scorn and falsehood
Which have seared my mind,
Weep and mourn with Ellen,
Sweet, sweet summer wind!
THE END.
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