The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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| LAYS OF MANY LANDS. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
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LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
[_]
The following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each is intended to be commemorative of some national recollection, popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Herder's “Stimmen der Völker in Liedern;” the execution is, however, different, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations.
MOORISH BRIDAL SONG.
The citron-groves their fruit and flowers were strewing
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh
Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches wooing
With music through their shadowy bowers went by;
Music and voices, from the marble halls,
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh
Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches wooing
With music through their shadowy bowers went by;
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Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.
A song of joy, a bridal-song came swelling,
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids:
And thus it flow'd;—yet something in the lay
Belong'd to sadness, as it died away.
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids:
And thus it flow'd;—yet something in the lay
Belong'd to sadness, as it died away.
“The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling
To leave the chamber of her infant years;
Kind voices from a distant home are calling;
She comes like day-spring—she hath done with tears;
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers,
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!—
Pour the rich odours round!
To leave the chamber of her infant years;
Kind voices from a distant home are calling;
She comes like day-spring—she hath done with tears;
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers,
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!—
Pour the rich odours round!
“We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing;
Love still goes with her from her place of birth;
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing,
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth!
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years;
Her sisters weep—but she hath done with tears!—
Now may the timbrel sound!”
Love still goes with her from her place of birth;
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing,
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth!
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years;
Her sisters weep—but she hath done with tears!—
Now may the timbrel sound!”
Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal numbers?—
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more!
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers,
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore!
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread.—
Weep for the young, the beautiful,—the dead!
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more!
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Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore!
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread.—
Weep for the young, the beautiful,—the dead!
THE BIRD'S RELEASE.
Go forth, for she is gone!
With the golden light of her wavy hair,
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air;
She hath left her dwelling lone!
With the golden light of her wavy hair,
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air;
She hath left her dwelling lone!
Her voice hath pass'd away!
It hath pass'd away like a summer breeze,
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas,
Where we may not trace its way.
It hath pass'd away like a summer breeze,
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas,
Where we may not trace its way.
Go forth, and like her be free!
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye,
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky,
And what is our grief to thee?
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye,
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky,
And what is our grief to thee?
Is it aught even to her we mourn?
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed?
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head,
Or float, on the light wind borne?
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed?
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Or float, on the light wind borne?
We know not—but she is gone!
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song,
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;—
She hath left her dwelling lone!
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song,
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;—
She hath left her dwelling lone!
When the waves at sunset shine,
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more,
In the scented woods of our glowing shore;
But we shall not know 'tis thine!
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more,
In the scented woods of our glowing shore;
But we shall not know 'tis thine!
Even so with the loved one flown!
Her smile in the starlight may wander by,
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh,
Around us—but all unknown.
Her smile in the starlight may wander by,
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh,
Around us—but all unknown.
Go forth, we have loosed thy chain!
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers
Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers;
But thou will not be lured again.
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers
Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers;
But thou will not be lured again.
Even thus may the summer pour
All fragrant things on the land's green breast,
And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd,
But it wins her back no more!
All fragrant things on the land's green breast,
And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd,
But it wins her back no more!
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THE SWORD OF THE TOMB.
A NORTHERN LEGEND.
“Voice of the gifted elder time!
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme!
Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes;
Voice of the buried past!
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme!
Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes;
Voice of the buried past!
“Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour,
When night with her stars and dreams hath power,
And my step hath been soundless on the snows,
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose
On the billow and the blast.”
When night with her stars and dreams hath power,
And my step hath been soundless on the snows,
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose
On the billow and the blast.”
Then the torrents of the North,
And the forest pines were still,
While a hollow chant came forth
From the dark sepulchral hill.
And the forest pines were still,
While a hollow chant came forth
From the dark sepulchral hill.
“There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead;
But where the day looks not the brave may tread:
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour'd;
But the warrior may come to the silent board,
In the shadow of the night.
But where the day looks not the brave may tread:
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But the warrior may come to the silent board,
In the shadow of the night.
“There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb,
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom;
But soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom;
But soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
Then died the solemn lay,
As a trumpet's music dies,
By the night-wind borne away
Through the wild and stormy skies.
As a trumpet's music dies,
By the night-wind borne away
Through the wild and stormy skies.
The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast,
As on through the forest the warrior pass'd—
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old—
The dark place of visions and legends, told
By the fires of Northern pine.
As on through the forest the warrior pass'd—
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old—
The dark place of visions and legends, told
By the fires of Northern pine.
The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound;
And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades,
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,
Gave warning, with voice and sign.
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound;
And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades,
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,
Gave warning, with voice and sign.
But the wind strange magic knows,
To call wild shape and tone
From the grey wood's tossing boughs,
When Night is on her throne.
To call wild shape and tone
From the grey wood's tossing boughs,
When Night is on her throne.
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The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom,
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb:
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light;
But his road through dimness lay!
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb:
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light;
But his road through dimness lay!
He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood,
The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood;
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
Arose on his midnight way.
The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood;
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
Arose on his midnight way.
Then first a moment's chill
Went shuddering through his breast,
And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.
Went shuddering through his breast,
And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.
But he cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire
With a strange and solemn light.
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire
With a strange and solemn light.
Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again,
—“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
Like an omen rose on his soul again,
—“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
But the gleaming sword and shield
Of many a battle-day
Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray;
Of many a battle-day
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By the tomb-fire's waveless ray;
With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound,
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd,
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice
Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd,
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice
Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear,
—“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear,
—“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
And many a Saga's rhyme,
And legend of the grave,
That shadowy scene and time
Call'd back, to daunt the brave.
And legend of the grave,
That shadowy scene and time
Call'd back, to daunt the brave.
But he raised his arm—and the flame grew dim,
And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and swim,
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well—
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!
And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and swim,
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well—
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire,
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire
Was strewn on the Champion's head.
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire,
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire
Was strewn on the Champion's head.
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One moment—and all was still
In the slumberer's ancient hall,
When the rock had ceas'd to thrill
With the mighty weapon's fall.
In the slumberer's ancient hall,
When the rock had ceas'd to thrill
With the mighty weapon's fall.
The stars were just fading, one by one,
The clouds were just tinged by the early sun,
When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's flame,
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came
To seek him in the tomb.
The clouds were just tinged by the early sun,
When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's flame,
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came
To seek him in the tomb.
Stretch'd on his shield, like the steel-girt slain,
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there;
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare
Burst on him through the gloom.
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there;
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare
Burst on him through the gloom.
“The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth with me!
What do'st thou, Sigurd, here?”
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth with me!
What do'st thou, Sigurd, here?”
“I have put out the holy sepulchral fire,
I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o'er the restless deep!
I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o'er the restless deep!
“In the mantle of death he was here with me now—
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell
With an icy ray and a withering spell—
Oh! chill is the house of sleep!”
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;
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With an icy ray and a withering spell—
Oh! chill is the house of sleep!”
“The morning wind blows free,
And the reddening sun shines clear;
Come forth, come forth with me!
It is dark and fearful here!”
And the reddening sun shines clear;
Come forth, come forth with me!
It is dark and fearful here!”
“He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown!
But gone from his head is the kingly crown—
The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand—
They have chased him far from the glorious land
Where the feast of the gods is spread!
But gone from his head is the kingly crown—
The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand—
They have chased him far from the glorious land
Where the feast of the gods is spread!
“He must go forth alone on his phantom steed,
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed:
His place is no longer at Odin's board,
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword;
But the slayer shall avenge the dead!”
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed:
His place is no longer at Odin's board,
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword;
But the slayer shall avenge the dead!”
That sword its fame had won
By the fall of many a crest;
But its fiercest work was done
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast.
By the fall of many a crest;
But its fiercest work was done
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast.
88
VALKYRIUR SONG.
“Tremblingly flash'd th' inconstant meteor light,
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth;
Save that all signs of human joy or grief,
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem'd
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek
Strange and unnatural.”
Milman.
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth;
Save that all signs of human joy or grief,
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem'd
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek
Strange and unnatural.”
Milman.
The sea-king woke from the troubled sleep
Of a vision-haunted night,
And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep,
And counted the streaks of light;
For the red sun's earliest ray
Was to rouse his bands that day
To the stormy joy of fight!
Of a vision-haunted night,
And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep,
And counted the streaks of light;
For the red sun's earliest ray
Was to rouse his bands that day
To the stormy joy of fight!
But the dreams of rest were still on earth,
And the silent stars on high,
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth
'Midst the quiet of the sky;
And along the twilight bay,
In their sleep the hamlets lay,
For they knew not the Norse were nigh!
And the silent stars on high,
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth
'Midst the quiet of the sky;
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In their sleep the hamlets lay,
For they knew not the Norse were nigh!
The Sea-king look'd o'er the brooding wave:
He turn'd to the dusky shore,
And there seem'd, through the arch of a tide-worn cave,
A gleam, as of snow, to pour;
And forth, in watery light,
Moved phantoms, dimly white,
Which the garb of woman bore.
He turn'd to the dusky shore,
And there seem'd, through the arch of a tide-worn cave,
A gleam, as of snow, to pour;
And forth, in watery light,
Moved phantoms, dimly white,
Which the garb of woman bore.
Slowly they moved to the billow side;
And the forms, as they grew more clear,
Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride,
And a shadowy crest to rear,
And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
And to point a gleaming spear.
And the forms, as they grew more clear,
Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride,
And a shadowy crest to rear,
And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
And to point a gleaming spear.
Then a stillness on his spirit fell,
Before th' unearthly train,
For he knew Valhalla's daughters well,
The Choosers of the slain!
And a sudden rising breeze
Bore, across the moaning seas,
To his ear their thrilling strain.
Before th' unearthly train,
For he knew Valhalla's daughters well,
The Choosers of the slain!
And a sudden rising breeze
Bore, across the moaning seas,
To his ear their thrilling strain.
“There are songs in Odin's Hall
For the brave ere night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray?—
He must bring a wrathful day!
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?—
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner!—Sea-king!—thee we call!—
There is joy in Odin's Hall.
For the brave ere night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray?—
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Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?—
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner!—Sea-king!—thee we call!—
There is joy in Odin's Hall.
“At the feast and in the song,
Thou shalt be remember'd long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
'Tis enough,—the war-gods call,—
There is mead in Odin's Hall!
Thou shalt be remember'd long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
'Tis enough,—the war-gods call,—
There is mead in Odin's Hall!
“Regner! tell thy fair-hair'd bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,—
There is room in Odin's Hall!
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,—
There is room in Odin's Hall!
“Lo! the mighty sun looks forth—
Arm! thou leader of the north!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly,—
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows not fear,
Sea-king! nobly shalt thou fall!—
There is joy in Odin's Hall!”
Arm! thou leader of the north!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly,—
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows not fear,
Sea-king! nobly shalt thou fall!—
There is joy in Odin's Hall!”
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There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread,
And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave
With the mists of morning fled;
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand
Lay cold on a pile of dead!
When afar the sunlight spread,
And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave
With the mists of morning fled;
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand
Lay cold on a pile of dead!
THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.
A SWISS TRADITION.
Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave
With freshness fill the air:
For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array'd,
By their native Forest-sea,
On a rocky couch are laid.
Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave
With freshness fill the air:
For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array'd,
By their native Forest-sea,
On a rocky couch are laid.
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The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore
In the name of liberty!
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep
Till their country's hour of need.
Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore
In the name of liberty!
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep
Till their country's hour of need.
They start not at the hunter's call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;
When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose;
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;
When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose;
When Uri's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light;—
Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung!
In the burning hamlet's light;—
Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
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When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung!
They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore;
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore;
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crowned casques, o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!
As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crowned casques, o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!
For the Kühreihen's
notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain!
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain!
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For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!
The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung.
SWISS SONG, ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land
Where Freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,—
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle dell!
If yet they gird a land
Where Freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,—
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle dell!
If yet, the wilds among,
Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung,
And home our steps may turn,—
Home!—home!—if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish'd here!
Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung,
And home our steps may turn,—
Home!—home!—if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish'd here!
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Look on the white Alps round!
Up to their shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,
The sound of battle, rose!
Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd!
Up to their shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,
The sound of battle, rose!
Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd!
They saw the princely crest,
They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,
Borne down, and trampled here!
They saw—and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!
They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,
Borne down, and trampled here!
They saw—and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!
Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire's lance and shield!
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire's lance and shield!
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet, along their steeps,
Our children's fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!
If yet, along their steeps,
Our children's fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!
If, by the wood-fire's blaze,
When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd race,
Who made the hearth a holy place!
When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
96
Who made the hearth a holy place!
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath-bell
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound.
Think on the battle dell!
For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!
If yet the Sabbath-bell
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound.
Think on the battle dell!
For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!
THE MESSENGER BIRD.
Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirit's land:
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!
Thou art come from the spirit's land:
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!
We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there—and they weep no more!
In the light of that summer shore,
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there—and they weep no more!
97
And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst
From the Fountain of youth ere now,
For there must the stream in its freshness burst
Which none may find below!
From the Fountain of youth ere now,
For there must the stream in its freshness burst
Which none may find below!
And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours:
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours:
Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to others now!
And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to others now!
But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call—and they answer not again—
Do they love—do they love us yet?
Can those who have loved forget?
We call—and they answer not again—
Do they love—do they love us yet?
Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?
And the chief, of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?
And the father of his child?
And the chief, of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?
98
We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?
ANSWER TO THE MESSENGER BIRD.
BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.
Yes, I came from the spirits' land,
From the land that is bright and fair;
I came with a voice from the shadowy band,
To tell that they love you there.
From the land that is bright and fair;
I came with a voice from the shadowy band,
To tell that they love you there.
To say, if a wish or a vain regret
Could live in Elysian bowers,
'Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget,
The beloved of their youthful hours.
Could live in Elysian bowers,
'Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget,
The beloved of their youthful hours.
To whisper the dear deserted band,
Who smiled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land,
Are the friends they have loved so dear.
Who smiled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land,
Are the friends they have loved so dear.
'Tis true, in the silent night you call,
And they answer you not again;
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all—
Sound only was made for pain.
And they answer you not again;
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all—
Sound only was made for pain.
That their land is bright and they weep no more,
I have warbled from hill to hill;
But my plaintive strain should have told before,
That they love, oh! they love you still.
I have warbled from hill to hill;
But my plaintive strain should have told before,
That they love, oh! they love you still.
They bid me say that unfading flowers
You'll find in the path they trode;
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers,
Pronounced by the voice of God.
You'll find in the path they trode;
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers,
Pronounced by the voice of God.
1827.
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THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd—he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still—he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step—but the step was thine.
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd—he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still—he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step—but the step was thine.
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song—
Mournful, though sweet—she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him—she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest—yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step—but the step was shine!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song—
100
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him—she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest—yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step—but the step was shine!
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!—
Where are they?—thou'rt seeking some distant coast—
O ask of them, stranger!—send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step—but the step was thine!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!—
Where are they?—thou'rt seeking some distant coast—
O ask of them, stranger!—send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step—but the step was thine!
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THE ISLE OF FOUNTS.
AN INDIAN TRADITION.
Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west winds play?—
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west winds play?—
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
102
Lull but the mighty serpent king,
'Midst the grey rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,—
Thy step that lake's green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is pass'd,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!
'Midst the grey rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,—
Thy step that lake's green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is pass'd,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!
Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the Isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the Isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!
And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.
Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies
To which the ancient rocks gave birth?
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves.
From the deep chambers of the earth?
103
To which the ancient rocks gave birth?
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves.
The emerald waves!—they take their hue
And image from that sunbright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,—
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!
And image from that sunbright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,—
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!
Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!
But woe for him who sees them burst
With their bright spray-showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams,
The gush of those untasted streams!
With their bright spray-showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams,
The gush of those untasted streams!
Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parch'd with the fever's agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
The waters of our deserts lie,
104
Parch'd with the fever's agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
E'en thus our hunters came of yore
Back from their long and weary quest;—
Had they not seen th' untrodden shore,
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!
Back from their long and weary quest;—
Had they not seen th' untrodden shore,
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!
They lay beside our glittering rills,
With visions in their darken'd eye,
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
With visions in their darken'd eye,
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
They bent no more the forest-bow,
They arm'd not with the warrior-band,
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow—
They left us for the spirits' land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
They arm'd not with the warrior-band,
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow—
They left us for the spirits' land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
Son of the stranger! if at eve
Silence be 'midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
Silence be 'midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded to in a former note.
105
THE BENDED BOW.
There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
“Heard you not the battle-horn?—
Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
Leave it for the birds of heaven,
Swords must flash, and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed—
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!”
Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
Leave it for the birds of heaven,
Swords must flash, and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed—
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!”
And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
“Hunter! leave the mountain-chase!
Take the falchion from its place!
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey!
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by,—
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!”
Take the falchion from its place!
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey!
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by,—
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!”
And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
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“Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall—
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall.”
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall—
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall.”
And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
“Prince! thy father's deeds are told,
In the bower and in the hold!
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea—
Give our bards a tale of thee!”
In the bower and in the hold!
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea—
Give our bards a tale of thee!”
And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on.
“Mother! stay thou not thy boy!
He must learn the battle's joy.
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part,
Britain calls the strong in heart!”
He must learn the battle's joy.
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part,
Britain calls the strong in heart!”
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on;
And the bards made song for a battle won.
And the bards made song for a battle won.
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HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.
The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll'd on;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived—for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death to those who mourn?—
He never smiled again!
The sweeping waves roll'd on;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived—for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death to those who mourn?—
He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass'd the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train;
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair—
He never smiled again!
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass'd the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train;
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair—
He never smiled again!
He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney's victor crown'd,
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep—
He never smiled again!
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney's victor crown'd,
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
108
He never smiled again!
Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour'd,
And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!
Of vows once fondly pour'd,
And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!
CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.
Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as noon's broad light was flung
On the settled face of death.
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as noon's broad light was flung
On the settled face of death.
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On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply furrow'd trace
Of earthly years to show,—
Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely closed in woe!
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply furrow'd trace
Of earthly years to show,—
Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely closed in woe!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests, round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul:
And solemn were the strains they pour'd
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests, round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul:
And solemn were the strains they pour'd
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile,
As, by the torch's flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile,
As, by the torch's flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp'd hands o'er it raised;—
For his father lay before him low,
It was Cœur de Lion gazed!
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
110
And clasp'd hands o'er it raised;—
For his father lay before him low,
It was Cœur de Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast;
But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress'd!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,—
Men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he reck'd not that they saw.
With the workings of his breast;
But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress'd!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,—
Men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he reck'd not that they saw.
He look'd upon the dead,
And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd—and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words—yet all too weak—
Gave his soul's passion way.
And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd—and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words—yet all too weak—
Gave his soul's passion way.
“Oh, father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again,
I weep—behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!
Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again,
I weep—behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!
Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
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“Speak to me! mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr'd!
Hear me, but hear me!—father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!—
Hush'd, hush'd—how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus, woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
Ere now the dust hath stirr'd!
Hear me, but hear me!—father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!—
Hush'd, hush'd—how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus, woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
“Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart! at last,
No longer couldst thou strive;—
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say—‘forgive!’
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart! at last,
No longer couldst thou strive;—
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say—‘forgive!’
“Thou wert the noblest king,
On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart—
Oh! ever the renown'd and loved
Thou wert—and there thou art!
On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart—
Oh! ever the renown'd and loved
Thou wert—and there thou art!
“Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!—
The times I've sported at thy side,
And climb'd thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,—
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”
Didst take fond joy to be!—
The times I've sported at thy side,
And climb'd thy parent knee!
112
My sire! I see thee lie,—
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”
THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.
Yes! I have seen the ancient oak
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.
I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might!
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew!
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might!
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew!
'Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep
For the forest's pride o'erthrown;
An old man's tears lie far too deep
To be pour'd for this alone!
But by that sign too well I know,
That a youthful head must soon be low!
For the forest's pride o'erthrown;
113
To be pour'd for this alone!
But by that sign too well I know,
That a youthful head must soon be low!
A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye—
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set—
Oh! could my life redeem him yet!
And its bright quick-flashing eye—
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set—
Oh! could my life redeem him yet!
He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem'd like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine!
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life—but he must die!
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem'd like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine!
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life—but he must die!
He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water's side,
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he—there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice—yet he must die!
By that dark water's side,
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he—there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice—yet he must die!
I've borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!—yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!—yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!
114
The noble boy!—how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!
It seem'd like youth to see him young,
A flower in his father's land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fall'n, and the flower must die.
The falcon from his hand!
It seem'd like youth to see him young,
A flower in his father's land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fall'n, and the flower must die.
Say not 'tis vain!—I tell thee, some
Are warn'd by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go!—and he too, he—
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!
Are warn'd by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go!—and he too, he—
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!
THE WILD HUNTSMAN.
Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour,
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn from the mountain tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by,
Through the dark unquiet sky!
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn from the mountain tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by,
Through the dark unquiet sky!
115
The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!
The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll'd
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill'd with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!
And the pine in its desert place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll'd
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill'd with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!
From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle's festive board,
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell
Of the harp's triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger's thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.
At the castle's festive board,
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell
Of the harp's triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger's thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.
The convent's chanted rite was stay'd,
And the hermit dropp'd his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal'd to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd.
And the hermit dropp'd his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal'd to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd.
The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky;
But the mother looks on her son to-day,
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care
'Midst the gleam of her golden hair!
There is stillness in the sky;
116
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care
'Midst the gleam of her golden hair!
The Rhine flows bright; but its waves erelong
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,
For the Huntsman hath gone by!
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,
For the Huntsman hath gone by!
117
THE SHADE OF THESEUS.
AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.
Know ye not when our dead
From sleep to battle sprung?—
When the Persian charger's tread
On their covering greensward rung.
When the trampling march of foes
Had crush'd our vines and flowers,
When jewel'd crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers;
From sleep to battle sprung?—
When the Persian charger's tread
On their covering greensward rung.
When the trampling march of foes
Had crush'd our vines and flowers,
When jewel'd crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers;
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
There was one, a leader crown'd,
And arm'd for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle's front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood,
Though their path was through his breast.
And arm'd for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle's front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood,
Though their path was through his breast.
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When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
His sword was seen to flash
Where the boldest deeds were done;
But it smote without a clash:
The stroke was heard by none!
His voice was not of those
That swell'd the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush'd like snows—
'Twas the Shade of Theseus pass'd!
Where the boldest deeds were done;
But it smote without a clash:
The stroke was heard by none!
His voice was not of those
That swell'd the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush'd like snows—
'Twas the Shade of Theseus pass'd!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the shade of Theseus pass'd!
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the shade of Theseus pass'd!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
119
ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.
Where is the summer, with her golden sun?—
That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
—Far in my own bright land?
That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
—Far in my own bright land?
Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?—the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves?
—Far in my own bright land!
On the green hills?—the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?
—Far in my own bright land!
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
—Far in my own bright land!
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams?—
Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams?—
120
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!
GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.
121
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young,
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.—
“Ianthis! dost thou sleep?—Thou sleep'st!—but this is not the rest,
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd on my breast!
I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done!—
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.—
“Ianthis! dost thou sleep?—Thou sleep'st!—but this is not the rest,
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd on my breast!
I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done!—
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?
“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave!
Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,—‘Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch'd by slow decay,—
And I, the wither'd stem, remain—I would that grief might slay!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave!
Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,—‘Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch'd by slow decay,—
And I, the wither'd stem, remain—I would that grief might slay!
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“Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be!
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;—
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.—
Why doth a mother live to say—My first-born and my dead?
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won—
Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, Ianthis! my sweet son!”
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;—
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.—
Why doth a mother live to say—My first-born and my dead?
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won—
Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, Ianthis! my sweet son!”
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young,
A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung.—
“Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?—Can love indeed be fled?
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had follow'd thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved!
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side—
It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!
A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung.—
“Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?—Can love indeed be fled?
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had follow'd thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved!
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side—
It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!
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“But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board?
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine?
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring!—and couldst thou thus depart?
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?—
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board?
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine?
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring!—and couldst thou thus depart?
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?—
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!
“Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread!
But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where sounding javelins flew—
Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last adieu?
What now can breathe of gladness more,—what scene, what hour, what tone?
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone!
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved—
Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread!
But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where sounding javelins flew—
Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last adieu?
What now can breathe of gladness more,—what scene, what hour, what tone?
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone!
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved—
Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”
124
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young,
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mounrnful sister sung.
“Ianthis! brother of my soul!—oh! where are now the days
That laugh'd among the deep green hills, on all our infant plays?
When we two sported by the streams, or track'd them to their source,
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!—
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,
I see thy bounding step no more—my brother and my friend!
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mounrnful sister sung.
“Ianthis! brother of my soul!—oh! where are now the days
That laugh'd among the deep green hills, on all our infant plays?
When we two sported by the streams, or track'd them to their source,
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!—
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,
I see thy bounding step no more—my brother and my friend!
“I come with flowers—for Spring is come! Ianthis! art thou here?
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier!
Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown—but oh! more meet they seem,
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream!
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low—
Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow:
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send,—
Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!—my brother and my friend!”
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier!
Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown—but oh! more meet they seem,
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream!
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low—
Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow:
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send,—
Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!—my brother and my friend!”
125
THE PARTING SONG.
A Youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love;—a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer;—a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left!—Yet many leave
Far more:—the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.—He left not these.
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love!—a bitterer grief
Was his—to part unloved!—of her unloved
That should have breath'd upon his heart, like spring
Fostering its young faint flowers!
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love;—a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer;—a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left!—Yet many leave
Far more:—the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.—He left not these.
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love!—a bitterer grief
Was his—to part unloved!—of her unloved
126
Fostering its young faint flowers!
Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot;—and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach'd:—a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of youre, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue still upper heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.—Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot;—and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach'd:—a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of youre, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue still upper heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.—Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.
“Farewell, farewell!
I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!—thou'rt from my native dell,
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell!
And fare thee well—flow on, my stream!—flow on, thou bright and free!
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears!
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!—thou'rt from my native dell,
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell!
And fare thee well—flow on, my stream!—flow on, thou bright and free!
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears!
127
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
“I see thee once again, my home! thou'rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves,
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!—
The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come—
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves,
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!—
The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come—
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
“Not as the dead!—no, not the dead!—We speak of them—we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!
We hallow even the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among!
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice.—Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!
We hallow even the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among!
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
128
I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice.—Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
“And farewell, mother!—I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak!—within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!
Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own!
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak!—within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!
Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own!
“Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine,
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine!
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a tone
Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone!
And thou, perchance, may'st weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smiled,
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child!
Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love's free tears!—'Tis all a dream—farewell!”
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine!
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a tone
Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone!
129
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child!
Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love's free tears!—'Tis all a dream—farewell!”
“Farewell!”—the echo died with that deep word;
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
“Return, return, my son!”—The echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring—“Return, my son!”—
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
“Return, return, my son!”—The echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring—“Return, my son!”—
THE SULIOTE MOTHER.
She stood upon the loftiest peak,
Amidst the clear blue sky:
A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye.
Amidst the clear blue sky:
A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye.
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“Dost thou see them, boy?—through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast!
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy?
—That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!”
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast!
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy?
—That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!”
For in the rocky strait beneath,
Lay Suliote sire and son:
They had heap'd high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.
Lay Suliote sire and son:
They had heap'd high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.
“They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come!
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”
And now the horn's loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal's clang,
Till even the upper air was stirr'd,
As cliff and hollow rang.
And now the cymbal's clang,
Till even the upper air was stirr'd,
As cliff and hollow rang.
“Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild!
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armed sire?—
Still!—be thou still!—there are brave men low—
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!”
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild!
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armed sire?—
Still!—be thou still!—there are brave men low—
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!”
131
But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swell'd the horn,
And farther yet the tambour's peal
Through the dark pass was borne.
And louder swell'd the horn,
And farther yet the tambour's peal
Through the dark pass was borne.
“Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth?—
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,—
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son!
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done!
Ay, and unchain'd must his loved ones be—
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!”
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,—
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son!
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done!
Ay, and unchain'd must his loved ones be—
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!”
And from the arrowy peak she sprung,
And fast the fair child bore:—
A veil upon the wind was flung,
A cry—and all was o'er!
And fast the fair child bore:—
A veil upon the wind was flung,
A cry—and all was o'er!
THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.
—“'Tis hard to lay into the earth
A countenance so benign! a form that walk'd
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth!”
Wilson.
A countenance so benign! a form that walk'd
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth!”
Wilson.
Come near!—ere yet the dust
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother; and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust!
Come near!—once more let kindred lips be press'd
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother; and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust!
Come near!—once more let kindred lips be press'd
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!
132
Look yet on this young face!
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, even where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd—
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, even where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd—
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!
Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth's partings!—Yesterday,
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seem'd to dwell
Where'er he moved—the welcome and the bless'd!—
Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!
For tears befit earth's partings!—Yesterday,
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seem'd to dwell
Where'er he moved—the welcome and the bless'd!—
Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!
Look yet on him whose eye
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth!
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The beings born to die?—
But not where death has power may love be bless'd—
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth!
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The beings born to die?—
But not where death has power may love be bless'd—
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!
How may the mother's heart
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
The lovely must depart!
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-call'd to rest!
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
The lovely must depart!
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-call'd to rest!
Look on him! is he laid
To slumber from the harvest or the chase?—
Too still and sad the smile upon his face;
Yet that, even that must fade!
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest!—
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
To slumber from the harvest or the chase?—
Too still and sad the smile upon his face;
133
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest!—
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
His voice of mirth hath ceased
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast;
Come near! weep o'er him! bear him to his rest!
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast;
Come near! weep o'er him! bear him to his rest!
Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirit's light is quench'd!—for him the past
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birth-right's hope away!
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd—
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!
Whose spirit's light is quench'd!—for him the past
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birth-right's hope away!
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd—
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |