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

The works of Mrs. Hemans

With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne (1793-1835)

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

SONGS OF SPAIN.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE; WITH OTHER RELIGIOUS POEMS.

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.

[section]

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

JUVENILE POEMS

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

I.—NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE!

Near thee, still near thee!—o'er thy pathway gliding,
Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh;
Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing,
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently!

Not 'midst the festal throng,
In halls of mirth and song;
But when thy thoughts are deepest,
When holy tears thou weepest,
Know then that love is nigh!

When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings creeping,
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore,
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping,
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore;

When every thought and prayer
We loved to breathe and share,
On thy full heart returning,
Shall wake its voiceless yearning;
Then feel me near once more!

Near thee, still near thee!—trust thy soul's deep dreaming!
—Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die!
Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming,
Thine image wanders with me through the sky.

The fields of air are free;
Yet lonely, wanting thee;
But when thy chains are falling,
When heaven its own is calling,
Know then, thy guide is nigh!

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

II.—OH! DROOP THOU NOT.

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

Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love!
Mine still to be!
I bore through death, to brighter lands above,
My thoughts of thee.

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

It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried—
It was not vain!
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side,
I watch again!

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers,
I am not gone;
In the deep calm of Midnight's whispering hours,
Thou art not lone:

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest,
That stream whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest,
We two have known:

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking
Of days long past,
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking,
Silent and fast:

Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning
Thy dreamy glance,
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are burning,
O'er night's expanse.

My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee,
Where'er thou art;
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee,
Doubt not thy heart!

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken—
Let faith be given
To the still tones which oft our being waken—
They are of heaven!

THE SISTERS.

A BALLAD.

“I go, sweet sister; yet, my heart would linger with thee fain,
And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain:
Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear,
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair!
Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent cell.”

“Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love?
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone—my steps no more shall move!
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng?
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone of song;
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”

“Oh, would'st thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain?
Or would'st thou call a spirit freed, to weary life again?—
Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have worn so long,
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong.
It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign
Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press'd to thine!”

“Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother's gift to thee,
It would but of this parting hour, a bitter token be;
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine!

Oh sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress'd,
Where would'st thou pour it forth so well, as on my faithful breast?”

“Urge me no more! a blight hath fallen upon my summer years!
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears;
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake!
Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own sweet vesper hymn,
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”

“Yes, I will take the silvery lute—and I will sing to thee
A song we heard in childhood's days, even from our father's knee.
Oh, sister, sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the strain,
Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”

SONG.

“Leave us not, leave us not!
Say not adieu!
Have we not been to thee
Tender and true?

“Take not thy sunny smile
Far from our hearth!
With that sweet light will fade
Summer and mirth.

“Leave us not, leave us not!
Can thy heart roam?
Wilt thou not pine to hear
Voices from home?

“Too sad our love would be,
If thou wert gone!
Turn to us, leave us not!
Thou art our own!”

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

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

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry—“Alone, alone!”

Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease!
Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?

Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts—and will the wave reply?

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride!
I ask not, alien world, from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things!
—Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

—Let them lie silent at my feet!
Since broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away,

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine—
—With a lone heart, a weary frame—
O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for—I too come!

I, with this winged nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought—
—Alone I come—oh! give me peace, dark sea!

DIRGE.

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

'Midst the young leaves are heard—
There—lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her—
Now may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:
Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,
Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind?
Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew
Thence, in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow!
And o'er that holy earth
Scents of the violet's birth
Still come and go!

Oh! then where wild-flowers wave,
Make ye her mossy grave

In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
'Midst the young leaves are heard—
There, lay her there!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

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

Rose! what dost thou here?
Bridal, royal rose?
How, 'midst grief and fear,
Canst thou thus disclose
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leafglows?

Rose! too much array'd
For triumphal hours,
Look'st thou through the shade
Of these mortal bowers,
Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all flowers!

As an eagle soaring
Through a sunny sky,
As a clarion pouring
Notes of victory,
So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high.

Thoughts of rapture, flushing
Youthful poet's cheek;
Thoughts of glory, rushing
Forth in song to break,
But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak.

Yet, oh, festal rose!
I have seen thee lying
In thy bright repose
Pillow'd with the dying,
Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood was flying.

Summer, hope, and love
O'er that bed of pain,
Met in thee, yet wove
Too, too frail a chain
In its embracing links the lovely to detain.

Smilest thou, gorgeous flower?
—Oh! within the spells
Of thy beauty's power,
Something dimly dwells,
At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.

All the soul forth flowing
In that rich perfume,
All the proud life glowing
In that radiant bloom,—
Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb?

Crown'st thou but the daughters
Of our tearful race?
—Heaven's own purest waters
Well might wear the trace
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee
With immortal air?
Shall we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there?
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair?

Yes! my fancy sees thee
In that light disclose,
And its dream thus frees thee
From the mist of woes,
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal rose!

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

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

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
—So doth love's dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

Call back your odours, lovely flowers,
From the night-winds call them back;
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours
Come forth in the sunbeam's track!

The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest,
And the honey bee is gone,
And all bright things are away to rest,
Why watch ye here alone?

Is not your world a mournful one,
When your sisters close their eyes,
And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone
Of song in the starry skies?

Take ye no joy in the dayspring's birth,
When it kindles the sparks of dew?
And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth,
Shall they gladden all but you?

Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out
On the sunny turf to play,
And the woodland child with a fairy shout
Goes dancing on its way!

“Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom
When the stars give quiet light,
And let us offer our faint perfume
On the silent shrine of night.

“Call it not wasted, the scent we lend
To the breeze, when no step is nigh;
Oh thus for ever the earth should send
Her grateful breath on high!

“And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers,
Of hopes unto sorrow given,
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours,
Looking alone to heaven!”

ECHO-SONG.

In thy cavern-hall,
Echo! art thou sleeping?
By the fountain's fall
Dreamy silence keeping?
Yet one soft note borne
From the shepherd's horn,
Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping!
—Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping

Then the woods rejoice,
Then glad sounds are swelling
From each sister-voice
Round thy rocky dwelling;
And their sweetness fills
All the hollow hills,
With a thousand notes, of one life telling!
—Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.

Echo! in my heart
Thus deep thoughts are lying,
Silent and apart,
Buried, yet undying.
Till some gentle tone
Wakening haply one,
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying!
—Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.

This song is in the possession of Mr Power.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.

The muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier's burial rite.

But it told them not how dear,
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior youth laid low that hour,
By a mountain-stream of Spain.

The oaks of England waved
O'er the slumbers of his race,
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above his last lone place;

When the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound
Which call'd strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial rite.

Brief was the sorrowing there,
By the stream from battle red,
And tossing on its wave the plumes
Of many a stately head:

But a mother—soon to die,
And a sister—long to weep,
Even then were breathing prayers for him,
In that home beyond the deep;

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

Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

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

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

'Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out thro' shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers
Dim alabaster gleams—a lonely swan
Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore

Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet,
Even painfully—as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the poet's thought
This was their language.

“Summer, I depart!
O light and laughing summer, fare thee well!
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell,
For one, one broken heart.

“And fare ye well, young flowers!
Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still,
And wave in glory, colouring every rill,
Known to my youth's fresh hours.

“And ye, bright founts, that lie
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep—
Sweet waters! I must die.

“Will ye not send one tone
Of sorrow through the pines?—one murmur low?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?

“No, ever glad and free!
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell,
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.

“But thou, sweet boon, too late
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song!

Why comest thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong,
In the dark hour of fate?

“Only to wake the sighs
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say—O sunshine and blue skies!
O life and love, farewell!”

Thus flow'd the death-chant on; while mournfully
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy,
Woke to respond: and all the air was fill'd
With that one sighing sound—“Farewell, Farewell!”
—Fill'd with that sound? high in the calm blue heaven
Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light,
And 'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings
Quiver'd with song:—such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not,—as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below—and thus that strain
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly.

“The summer is come; she hath said, ‘Rejoice!’
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice;
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high;
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!

“There is joy in the mountains; the bright waves leap,
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep;

Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along—
—Let the heavens ring with song!

“There is joy in the forests; the bird of night
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But mine is the glory to sunshine given—
Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!

“Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high—
—Sing, sing through the echoing sky!”

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,—
“Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heart—
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world—
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones
To startle and to pierce!—the dying swan's,
And the glad skylark's—triumph and despair!”

SONGS OF SPAIN.

I.—ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again!
Let the high word “Castile!” go resounding through Spain!
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!

The voices are mighty that swell from the past,
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed.
—Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again,
And shout ye “Castile! to the rescue for Spain!”

II.—THE ZEGRI MAID.

The summer leaves were sighing
Around the Zegri maid,
To her low sad song replying
As it fill'd the olive shade.
“Alas! for her that loveth
Her land's, her kindred's foe!
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri's spirit go?

“From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress'd,
And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast.”
—Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.

“And for all this heart's wealth wasted,
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,
Should I win back aught but scorn?
By aught but daily dying
Would my lone truth be repaid?”
—Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.

III.—THE RIO VERDE SONG.

Flow, Rio Verde!
In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth
To slumber from woe;
Bid thy wave's music
Roll through her dreams,
Grief ever loveth
The kind voice of streams.

Bear her lone spirit
Afar on the sound
Back to her childhood,
Her life's fairy ground;
Pass like the whisper
Of love that is gone—
Flow, Rio Verde!
Softly flow on!

Dark glassy water
So crimson'd of yore!
Love, death, and sorrow
Know thy green shore.

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

IV.—SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

Seek by the silvery Darro,
Where jasmine flowers have blown;
There hath she left no footsteps?
—Weep, weep, the maid is gone!

Seek where our lady's image
Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep;
Hear ye not there her vespers?
—Weep for the parted, weep!

Seek in the porch where vine-leaves
O'ershade her father's head?
—Are his grey hairs left lonely?
—Weep! her bright soul is fled.

V.—SPANISH EVENING HYMN.

Ave! now let prayer and music
Meet in love on earth and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
Turn from this cold world to thee!

From the wide and restless waters
Hear the sailor's hymn arise?

From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains,
Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices,
If o'erburden'd souls there be,
Dark and silent in their anguish,
Aid those captives! set them free!

Touch them, every fount unsealing,
Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,
Aid, oh! aid to pray and weep!

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

Bird, that art singing on Ebro's side!
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,
Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee?
Doth song avail thy full heart to free?
—Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Bird! is it blighted affection's pain,
Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?
And is the wound of that arrow still'd,
When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd?
—Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.

VII.—MOORISH GATHERING SONG.

ZORZICO.

Chains on the cities! gloom in the air!
Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there.
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers!
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.

Come from the Darro!—changed is its tone;
Come where the streams no bondage have known;
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap,
Singing of freedom from steep to steep.

Come from Alhambra! garden and grove
Now may not shelter beauty or love.
Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers!
—Only the spear and the rock are ours.

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

VIII.—THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

We heard thy name, O Mina!
Far through our hills it rang;
A sound more strong than tempests,
More keen than armour's clang.

The peasant left his vintage,
The shepherd grasp'd the spear—
—We heard thy name, O Mina!
The mountain bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring,
As torrents to the sea,
From every dark sierra
So rush'd our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner,
Thine eye our beacon-sign,
Thy name our trumpet, Mina!
—The mountain bands are thine.

IX.—MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

[_]

A CANCION.

Mother! oh, sing me to rest
As in my bright days departed:
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted,
Songs for a spirit oppress'd.

Lay this tired head on thy breast!
Flowers from the night-dew are closing
Pilgrims and mourners reposing—
—Mother, oh, sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest!
Weary is young life when blighted,
Heavy this love unrequited;—
—Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

X.—THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles,
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore;
There are murmurs—but not of the torrent,
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar.

'Tis a day of the spear and the banner,
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards;
Or start from your old battle-dells.

There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias,
That have roll'd with your father's free blood;
Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty,
Proud marks where their children have stood!

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

Hark! from the dim church tower,
The deep slow curfew's chime!
—A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,
As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,
Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word,
And the red wine's foaming flow!
Until that sullen boding knell
Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then,
In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill'd,
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!

And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!
Darkness in peasant's cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-fagots high
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home's own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

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

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

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

There's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each old battle-dell—
Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”

Then the father gave his son the sword,
Which a hundred fights had seen—
“Away! and bear it back, my boy!
All that it still hath been!

“Haste, haste! the hunters of the foe are up, and who shall stand
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion's blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages past.”

Then the mother kiss'd her son with tears
That o'er his dark locks fell:
“I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er,
Yet I stay thee not—Farewell!”

“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's heart is stirred.
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the fight,
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might.

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
“In the vigil, in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!”

“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter's chain is burst!
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursed—
The night is past, the silence o'er—on all our hills we rise—
We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home,
When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.

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

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

I.—AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

They have wander'd in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;
They have climb'd o'er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow—
What hath staid the wand'rers now?

Lo! a grey and rustic tomb,
Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

There is many a summer sound
That pale sepulchre around;
Through the shade young birds are glancing,
Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;
Glimpses of blue festal skies
Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o'er the turf below
Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own
O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something, dimly from those old words felt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus? that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?

—No! from that bright band of morn,
Not one link hath yet been torn;
'Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer-bloom,
O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
'Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,
Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,
“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

II.—THE WANDERING WIND.

The Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves—
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices
Of all in one combined,
That it wins the tone of mastery?
The Wind, the wandering Wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low.

They are not of the waters,
Nor of the cavern'd hill:
'Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill,
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the wind, the Wandering Wind!

III.—YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.

Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot;
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding,
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water,
O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.

And thou, meeek hyacinth! afar is roving
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd;
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! 'midst all things loving,
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss'd!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say—earth's human flowers not more are miss'd.

IV.—WILLOW SONG.

Willow! in thy breezy moan,
I can hear a deeper tone;
Through thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long ago.
Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow, sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent:
Willow, sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on!
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, willow!

V.—LEAVE ME NOT YET.

Leave me not yet—through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;

The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!

Not yet!—oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise;
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies:
Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love!
By day shut up in their own still recess,
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness:
Leave me not yet!

VI.—THE ORANGE BOUGH.

Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!

Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.

Oh! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone,
My faint heart, even in death, would own.

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed
Life's parting sweetness round my head,
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.

VII.—THE STREAM SET FREE.

Flow on, rejoice, make music,
Bright living stream set free!
The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!

The woodland is thy country,
Thou art all its own again;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.

Flow on, rejoice, make music
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds,
And golden eves.

Once more the holy starlight
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man's unrest.

Flow, and let freeborn music
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee,
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.

Yet, 'midst thy song's glad changes,
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.

One sound, of all the deepest,
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes
The meek and true.

Then, then, rejoice, make music,
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!

VIII.—THE SUMMER'S CALL.

Come away! the sunny hours
Woo thee far to founts and bowers!
O'er the very waters now,
In there play,
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow—
Come away!
Where the lily's tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing stream—
Come away!

All the air is filled with sound,
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray;
Faint winds whisper as they pass—
Come away;
Where the bee's deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells—
Come away!

In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day
Floats with leafy scents along—
Come away!
Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloom—
Come away!

In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night
Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright—
Come away!
Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!

Now each tree by summer crown'd,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;

Glancing there from sun to shade,
Bright wings play;
There the deer its couch hath made—
Come away!
Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-time—
Come away—away!

IX.—OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

Oh! Skylark, for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven's empyreal height!
With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreath me,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!

Free, free from earth-born fear,
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures,
As I wander'd on thy wing.

But oh! the silver chords,
That around the heart are spun,

From gentle tones and words,
And kind eyes that make our sun!
To some low sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring,
There, there the dews of morning,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

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

I heard a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones—though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
—At times the passion-kindled melody
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;—at times the strain
Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre;—yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant;—“Leave me not!” was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.

They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown—
O Love! forsake me not!
Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes
It gives to flower and skies,
A bright new birth!

Thence gleams the path of morning,
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone!
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own!
Thence every wood-recess
Is filled with loveliness,
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.

I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th' alloy
Of fear 'midst quivering joy,

Yet must I perish if the gift depart—
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee;
The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul—a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal'd would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst free!

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,
Such would my spirit be;
So mute, so void, so shatter'd,
Bereft of thee!

Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers—“Come!”
Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse,
With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.

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

Bring music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!

Oh no! not such! that lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,
And pass'd the gates of strife.

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

But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Fill'd with the soul of prayer;

Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain,
And trembling hope be there.

Deeper, yet deeper! in my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:

A passion unto music given,
A sweet, yet piercing cry:
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?

Away! and hush the feeble song,
And let the chord be still'd!
Far in another land erelong
My dream shall be fulfill'd.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.

The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.

Now may'st thou slumber—thy work is done—
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.

The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!

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

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

Oh, joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time.
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen'd our grey forefathers
From the noontide's glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch'd with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets,
Wrapt in fairy dreams.
O tree of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate
Of thy fragrant breast?
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!

These may yet find coverts
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odour and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gather'd
Round another tree?
O pride of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

Of these songs, the ones entitled, “Ye are not missed, fair Flowers,” the “Willow Song,” “Leave me not yet,” and the “Orange Bough,” are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whom they will be published with music.

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

INTRODUCTION.

One hour for distant homes to weep
'Midst Afric's burning sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.

They sat beneath a lonely palm,
In the gardens of their lord;
And mingling with the fountain's tune,
Their songs of exile pour'd.

And strangely, sadly, did those lays
Of Alp and ocean sound,
With Afric's wild red skies above,
And solemn wastes around.

Broken with tears were oft their tones,
And most when most they tried
To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.

So met the sons of many lands,
Parted by mount and main;
So did they sing in brotherhood,
Made kindred by the chain.

I.—THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.

In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior-fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep,
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.

In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled;
For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-drops flow'd for me—
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea.

In a shelter'd home of England
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone,

She little dreams, my brother!
Of the wild fate we have found;
I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.

II.—THE ALPINE HORN.

The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more—but once—and die!

Yet, no! 'midst breezy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of death—
O joyous Alpine horn!

But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!

Haunt me no more! for slavery's air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair—
Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn!

III.—O YE VOICES.

O ye voices round my own hearth singing!
As the winds of May to memory sweet,
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?

Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again!

Or if still around my heart ye linger,
Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come
Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer,
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home,
Ne'er again!

IV.—I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I dream of all things free!
Of a gallant, gallant bark,
That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills—
Of all things glad and free.

I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver—
—I dream of all things free!

Of a happy forest child,
With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian 'midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way:
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer's greenwood tree:—
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free!

V.—FAR O'ER THE SEA.

Where are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee?
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,
Where doth my birthplace lie?
—Far o'er the sea.

Where floats the myrtle-scent
O'er vale and lea,

When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee?
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
—Far o'er the sea!

Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me?
Where o'er the cabin roof
Waves the green tree?
Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?
—Far o'er the sea.

Dance on, ye vintage bands,
Fearless and free!
Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father's tree!
Still smile, ye kind blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o'er the sea!

VI.—THE INVOCATION.

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love?
My only love!
Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?

Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love?
Thy light step gone?
And art thou not, in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?

I see thee with thy gleaming hair.
In midnight dreams!
But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love!
Dwelt on thy brow;
But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!

And silent ever is thy lip,
And pale thy cheek;—
Oh! art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's,
Speak to me, speak!

VII.—THE SONG OF HOPE.

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain—
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night's chain;
A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches—we yet shall be free!

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps;

Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam.

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea—
Droop not, my Brothers! we yet shall be free!

THE BIRD AT SEA.

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

Where the mast quivers,
Thy place will not be,
As 'midst the waving
Of wild rose and tree.
How should'st thou battle
With storm and with spray?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,

Where by the south wind
Vine leaves are fann'd?
'Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

“Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark;
A heart that hath cherish'd
Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!”

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

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

Bear them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,

And the bird, whose song is free
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.

Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth!

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth—of spring-time eves—
Music—beauty—all she leaves!

Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.
Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower hath gush'd her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

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

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

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

THE IVY-SONG.

Oh! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?
Ivy! thy home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more,
Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victors tent:
Though shining there in deathless green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave—
Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead,
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread—
Ivy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine,
Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine,
—The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down—
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.
But thou art there!—serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.

'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread
O'er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,
—Days pass—thou Ivy never sere,
And thou shalt have thy dower.
All are thine, or must be thine—
Temple, pillar, shrine!

This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.

“Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”—Lycidas.

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S.

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

Again! oh, send that anthem peal again
Through the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!

Such sounds the warrior awestruck might have heard,
While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown:
Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr'd,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

Those notes once more!—they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay,
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven!—Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source?
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
—Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?

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

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

There is blood upon the threshold
Whence thy step went forth at morn,
Like a dancer's in its fleetness,
Oh, my bright first-born!

At the glad sound of that footstep,
My heart within me smiled;
—Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

I thought to see thy children
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow's voice is lonely
Where my life's flower lies.

I shall go to sit beside thee,
Thy kindred's graves among;
I shall hear the tall grass whisper—
I shall hear it not long!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

And I too shall find slumber
With my lost one, in the earth;
—Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!

Let the roof go down!—let silence
On the home for ever fall,
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother's call!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

FAR AWAY.

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

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

Far away! my hope is far away,
Where love's voice young gladness may restore;

—O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!

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

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour'd
Forth on the wild wind's track;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord,
But gave no music back.
—Oh, child of song!
Bear hence to heaven thy fire!
What hopest thou from the reckless throng;
Be not like that lost lyre!
Not like that lyre!

A flower its leaves and odours cast
On a swift-rolling wave;
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd,
And back no treasure gave.
—Oh! heart of love!
Waste not thy precious dower!
Turn to thine only home above,
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower!

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

Sister! since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
—Gentle sister, thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art follow'd by a dream:
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
—Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest.
—Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!

THE LONELY BIRD.

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

Thy song flows richly swelling,
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench'd and the feasting done,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!

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

There's many a heart, wild singer,
Like thy forsaken tower,

Where joy no more may linger,
Where love hath left his bower:
And there's many a spirit e'en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr'd,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!

DIRGE AT SEA.

Sleep!—we give thee to the wave,
Red with life-blood from the brave,
Thou shalt find a noble grave.
Fare thee well!

Sleep! thy billowy field is won.
Proudly may the funeral gun,
'Midst the hush at set of sun,
Boom thy knell!

Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
Never there may flower be shed,
Marble rear'd, or brother's head
Bow'd to weep.

Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the red-cross flag shall be.
Sleep! oh, sleep!

No bowery roof is mine,
No hearth of love and rest,
Yet guide me to my shrine,
O soft star of the west!
There, there my home shall be,
Heaven's dew shall cool my breast,
When prayer and tear gush free,
O soft star of the west!

O soft star of the west,
Gleaming far!
Thou'rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Shine from thy rosy heaven,
Pour joy on earth and sea!
Shine on, though no sweet eyes
Look forth to watch for me!

Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

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

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had still'd the tide;
A few bright days of summer glee
There found them side by side.

And voices of the fair and brave
Rose mingling thence in mirth;
And sweetly floated o'er the wave
The melodies of earth.

Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.

And hands were link'd, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown.

A little while such joy was cast
Over the deep's repose,
Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet music rose.

And proudly, freely on their way
The parting vessels bore;
In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet—oh, never more!

Never to blend in victory's cheer,
To aid in hours of woe;
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are formed below.

COME AWAY.

Come away!—the child where flowers are springing,
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope,
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing,
Like the skylark's with its tone of hope:
Come away!

Bounding on, with sunny lands before him,
All the wealth of glowing life outspread,
Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him,
By that strain the youth in joy is led:
Come away!

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling
O'er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win:
Come away!

Come away!—the heart, at last forsaken,
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue;
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
Though to other shores far hence they woo:
Come away!

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing,
In the low sweet sounds of early spring,
Still their music wanders—till the dying
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing:
Come away!

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

FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.

Hold me upon thy faithful heart,
Keep back my flitting breath;
'Tis early, early to depart,
Beloved!—yet this is death!

Look on me still:—let that kind eye
Be the last light I see!

Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!

For thee, my own! thy stately head
Was never thus to bow—
Give tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know'st it now!

Oh the free streams look'd bright, where'er
We in our gladness roved;
And the blue skies were very fair—
O friend! because we loved.

Farewell!—I bless thee—live thou on,
When this young heart is low!
Surely my blood thy life hath won—
Clasp me once more—I go!

MUSIC FROM SHORE.

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

From land, from sunny land it comes,
From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy homes—
That sweet sound on the breeze.

Why should its faint and passing sigh
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
No part in earth's glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine there beat and glow.

And blessing, from the bark that roams
O'er solitary seas,
To those that far in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!

LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
Truth in their dark transparence lies;
Their sweetness gives me back the tears,
And the free trust of early years—
My gentle child!

The spirit of my infant prayer
Shines in the depths of quiet there;
And home and love once more are mine,
Found in that dewy calm divine,
My gentle child!

Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams,
Its light by day around thee gleams:
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies;
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
My gentle child!

IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER.

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

If thou hast crush'd a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench'd a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted:
But on thy harp or on thy lute,
The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!

If thou hast loosed a bird
Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still he may be won
From the skies to warble near thee:
But if upon the troubled sea
Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave will bring
The treasure back when needed.

If thou hast bruised a vine,
The summer's breath is healing,
And its clusters yet may glow
Through the leaves their bloom revealing:
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown
With a bright draught fill'd—oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth
To cool thy parch'd lip's fever!

The heart is like that cup,
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that string of harp or lute
Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd:—
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shatter'd.

BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled,
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,
Brightly did'st thou part!
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,
With thy bounding heart.

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere with dust o'erspread:

Lilies ne'er by tempest blown,
White rose which no stain hath known,
Be about thee shed!

So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth
O'er thy gentle head;
Thou, that like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
Brightly thus hast fled!

THE BED OF HEATH.

Soldier, awake! the night is past;
Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast?
Feel'st thou not the dayspring's breath?
Rouse thee from thy bed of heath!
Arm, thou bold and strong!

Soldier, what deep spell hath bound thee?
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee;
Banners to the fresh wind play,—
Rise, and arm;—tis day, 'tis day!
And thou hast slumber'd long.

“Brother, on the heathery lea
Longer yet my sleep must be;
Though the morn of battle rise,
Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes.
Brother, this is death!

“Call me not when bugles sound,
Call me not when wine flows round;
Name me but amidst the brave;
Give me but a soldier's grave—
But my bed of heath!”

FAIRY SONG.

Have ye left the greenwood lone?
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,
From your dim and distant shore,
Never more?

Shall the pilgrim never hear
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?

“Mortal! ne'er shall bowers of earth
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow'd steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.

“Ne'er on earthborn lily's stem
Will we hang the dewdrop's gem;

Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's head
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore,
Never more!”

WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.

What woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way
Along the Nile's green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning's fire,
But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm,
This, this awoke the lyre.

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour
Thus music forth on life?
Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er
The truant sounds of strife.—
Oh! not the conflict 'midst the throng,
Not e'en the trumpet's hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong,
To wake that music's power!

OH! IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINE HEART.

Oh! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back mine own to me,

Or bid thine image thence depart,
And leave me lone, but free.

Yet no! this mournful love of mine,
I would not from me cast!
Let me but dream 'twill win me thine
By its deep truth at last.

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
Oh! if thine heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!

The first two lines of this song are literally translated from the German.

LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.

It is thy pity makes me weep,
My soul was strong before;
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep
From vainly gushing o'er!
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes—
In this fond gaze my spirit dies.
Look on me thus no more!

Too late that softness comes to bless,
My heart's glad life is o'er;
It will but break with tenderness,
Which cannot now restore!
The lyre-strings have been jarr'd too long,
Winter hath touch'd the source of song!
Look on me thus no more!

SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

Sing to me, Gondolier!
Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day:
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling—
Sing to me, Gondolier!

“Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!”

O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.

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

When the bright fire shineth,
Sad looks thy place,

While the true heart pineth
Missing thy face.

Music is sorrowful
Since thou art gone,
Sisters are mourning thee,
Come to thine own!

Hark! the home voices call
Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!

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

Set to music by the Author's sister.

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!

O thou breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying
Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!

O'er long buried flowers
Passing not in vain,
Odours in soft showers
Thou hast brought again.
—Let the primrose greet thee,
Let the violet pour
Incense forth to meet thee—
Wake my heart no more!
No more!

From a funeral urn
Bower'd in leafy gloom,
Even thy soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
There, O breeze of spring,
No more!

Set to music by John Lodge, Esq.

COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

Come to me, dreams of heaven!
My fainting spirit bear
On your bright wings, by morning given,
Up to celestial air.
Away, far, far away,
From bowers by tempests riven,
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!

Come but for one brief hour,
Sweet dreams! and yet again,
O'er burning thought and memory shower
Your soft effacing rain!
Waft me where gales divine,
With dark clouds ne'er have striven,
Where living founts for ever shine—
O blessed dreams of heaven!

Set to music by Miss Graves.

GOOD-NIGHT.

Day is past!
Stars have set their watch at last,
Founts that through the deep woods flow
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now,
Flowers have shut with fading light—
Good-night!

Go to rest!
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast!
If within that secret cell
One dark form of memory dwell,
Be it mantled from thy sight—
Good-night!

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

Be their eyes all love and light—
Good-night!

Peace to all!
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o'er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain streams;
Bard! away to worlds more bright—
Good-night!

For a melody of Eisenhofer's.

LET HER DEPART.

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

She looks upon the things of earth,
Even as some gentle star
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth,
How softly, yet how far!
Let her depart!

Her spirit's hope—her bosom's love—
Oh! could they mount and fly!
She never sees a wandering dove,
But for its wings to sigh.
Let her depart!

She never hears a soft wind bear
Low music on its way,

But deems it sent from heavenly air,
For her who cannot stay.
Let her depart!

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams,
She breathes and moves alone,
Pining for those bright bowers and streams
Where her beloved is gone.
Let her depart!

HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.

How can that love so deep, so lone,
So faithful unto death,
Thus fitfully in laughing tone,
In airy word, find breath?

Nay, ask how on the dark wave's breast,
The lily's cup may gleam,
Though many a mournful secret rest,
Low in the unfathom'd stream.

That stream is like my hidden love,
In its deep cavern's power,
And like the play of words above,
That lily's trembling flower.

WATER-LILIES.

A FAIRY SONG.

Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O'er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water's breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
—Come away! under arching boughs we'll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be,
And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow,
As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh,
Or water drops train'd into melody.
—Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be long

THE BROKEN FLOWER.

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

A little while around thee, love!
Its fragrance yet shall cling,
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain,
A fair, though faded thing.
But not even that warm heart hath power
To win it back from fate:
—Oh! I am like thy broken flower,
Cherish'd too late, too late,
My love!
Cherish'd alas! too late!

I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.

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

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

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

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

FAIRIES' RECALL.

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

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

While the joyous bounding
Of your dewy feet
Rings to that old chorus:
“The daisy is so sweet!”

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

See the chorus of Fairies in the “Flower and the Leaf” of Chaucer.

THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.

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

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

Come back my ocean rover! come!
There's but one place for me.
Till I can greet thy swift sail home—
My lone rock by the sea!

O YE VOICES GONE.

Oh! ye voices gone,
Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
Melt me not to tears!

All around forget,
All who loved you well,
Yet, sweet voices, yet
O'er my soul ye swell.

With the winds of spring,
With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
Thoughts of vanish'd hours.

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

Set to music by Miss H. Corbett.

BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.

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

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

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

IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.

Is there some spirit sighing
With sorrow in the air,

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

No, no!—thou dost not borrow
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow
In thee, O harp! enshrined;
But in our own hearts deeply set
Lies the true quivering lyre,
Whence love, and memory, and regret,
Wake answers from thy wire.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

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

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

Proudly it woke the spirits
Of yore, the brave and true,

When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,
And the yeoman's arrow flew.

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

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

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

OLD NORWAY.

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

100

Arise! old Norway sends the word
Of battle on the blast;
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd,
As if a storm went past;
Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.

Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,
The kingly chase of foes;
'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race,
Whose trampling shakes the snows;
Arm, arm! 'tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.

Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed;
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles,
Above the invader's head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!

These words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.

101

COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP.

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

Come with thine urn of dew,
Sleep, gentle sleep! yet bring
No voice, love's yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!
Come, as to folding flowers,
To birds in forests deep;
—Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle sleep!

102

THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.

103

I

'Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild horn,
Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone,
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone,
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd,
And the rock-eagle couch'd high on his cloudy nest.

104

II

Did the land sleep?—the woodman's axe had ceased
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane;
The grapes were gather'd in; the vintage feast
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain,
Hush'd by the streams; the year was in its wane,
The night in its mid-watch; it was a time
E'en mark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign.
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime,
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.

III

For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread,
High and unmark'd by mortal footstep lay;
And there, where torrents, 'mid the ice-caves fed,
Burst in their joy of light and sound away;
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of air,
O'er cliffs the very birthplace of the day—
Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works e'en there?

IV

Yet thus it was—amidst the fleet streams gushing
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell,
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell,
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet bell

105

Recall'd such life as Eastern patriarchs led:
There peasant men their free thoughts might not tell
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread,
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull stealthy tread.

V

But in a land of happy shepherd homes,
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,
With their bright hearth-fires 'midst the twilight glooms,
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining—
A land of legends, and wild songs entwining
Their memory with all memories loved and blest—
In such a land there dwells a power, combining
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast;
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!

VI

A sound went up—the wave's dark sleep was broken—
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar—
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore;
And then their gloom a flashing image wore
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood,
And the wild-falcon's wing was heard to soar
In startled haste—and by that moonlight flood,
A band of patriot men on Grutli's verdure stood.

106

VII

They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow
Had waged their war on things of mountain race;
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
—Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place
Of secret council.—Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face;—
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.

VIII

O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide
Of years have flow'd, and still, from sire to son,
Their names and records on the green earth died,
As cottage-lamps, expiring one by one
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound.—But silent on its height,
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.

IX

So were they roused—th' invading step had pass'd
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's blast,
Could bar Oppression from their home no more.
Why, what had she to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur's impress?—In the storm's free way,

107

How dared she lift her pageant crest before
Th' enduring and magnificent array
Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with the day?

X

This might not long be borne—the tameless hills
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling
That He hath made man free! and they whose dwelling
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling,
They rose—the forester—the mountaineer—
Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant-spear?

XI

Sacred be Grutli's field—their vigil keeping
Through many a blue and starry summer night,
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,
Had those brave Switzers met, and in the sight
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might
To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep thoughts way,
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight,
With lovely images of homes that lay
Bower'd 'midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.

108

XII

Now had endurance reach'd its bounds!—They came
With courage set in each bright earnest eye,
The day, the signal, and the hour to name,
When they should gather on their hills to die,
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry
For the land's freedom.—'Twas a scene combining
All glory in itself—the solemn sky,
The stars, the waves their soften'd light enshrining,
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature shining.

XIII

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low
As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet flow,
Had temper'd in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E'en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.

XIV

And three, that seem'd as chieftains of the band,
Were gather'd in the 'midst on that lone shore
By Uri's lake—a father of the land,
One on his brow the silent record wore
Of many days, whose shadows had pass'd o'er

109

His path among the hills, and quench'd the dreams
Of youth with sorrow.—Yet from memory's lore
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams,
For he had walk'd with God, beside the mountain-streams.

XV

And his grey hairs, in happier times, might well
To their last pillow silently have gone,
As melts a wreath of snow.—But who shall tell
How life may task the spirit?—He was one,
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done,
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press'd,
Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun,
He bow'd not to his years, for on the breast
Of a still chainless land he deem'd it much to rest.

XVI

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure!—By that pale elder's side,
Stood one that seem'd a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride,
Werner, the brave and true!—If men have died,
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such.—The voice that cried
Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in moonlight sleep.

XVII

It was a home to die for!—As it rose
Through its vine-foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose

110

And laughing sunshine of the pastures round;
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o'er his soul its melodies went by
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.

XVIII

But who was he, that on his hunting-spear
Lean'd with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame—a soul declaring
War against earth's oppressors. 'Midst that throng,
Of other mould he seem'd, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song—

XIX

A memory on the mountains!—one to stand,
When the hills echo'd with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array her peasant-children to repel
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains!
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile—for through his veins
The joy of danger flow'd, as torrents to the plains.

XX

There was at times a wildness in the light
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something, born

111

Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright,
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!
It well might be!—Young Erni's step had worn
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps,
And track'd the lynx above the clouds of morn,
And follow'd where the flying chamois leaps
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathom'd glacier deeps.

XXI

He was a creature of the Alpine sky,
A being whose bright spirit had been fed
'Midst the crown'd heights of joy and liberty,
And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led
To the rock's treasure-caves, whose crystal shed
Soft light o'er secret fountains. At the tone
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer had spread
A startled wing; for oft that peal had blown
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound alone.

XXII

His step had track'd the waste, his soul had stirr'd
The ancient solitudes—his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down Heaven. That tale was heard
In Hasli's dales, and where the shepherds' fold
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day's last footstep bathes in burning gold
Great Righi's cliffs; and where Mount Pilate's height
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.

112

XXIII

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass'd,
And, from the bosom of the wilderness,
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast
The weight of bondage down—and bright and fast,
As the clear waters, joyously and free,
Burst from the desert-rock, it rush'd at last,
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest Sea.

XXIV

They link'd their hands, they pledged their stainless faith,
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven,
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,
With the severe and solemn transport given
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew,
And call'd upon their God, whose arm had riven
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew,
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might o'er-threw.

XXV

They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,

113

And full of hope. Not many suns had worn
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born—
So far was heard the blast of freedom's echoing horn!

XXVI

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending
The frozen stillness which around them hung;
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending,
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollow rung;
And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming
To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung
On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming,
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.

XXVII

And the winds toss'd each summit's blazing crest,
As a host's plumage; and the giant pines,
Fell'd where they waved o'er crag and eagle's nest,
Heap'd up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs,
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines,
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown'd and bright,
In Werner's dwelling flow'd; through leafless vines
From Walter's hearth stream'd forth the festive light,
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.

114

XXVIII

Then on the silence of the snows there lay
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine—and its bell
Fill'd the hush'd air awhile, with lonely sway;
For the stream's voice was chain'd by Winter's spell.
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell
Rung forth, erelong, when strains of jubilee
Peal'd from the mountain-churches, with a swell
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea—
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!

In point of chronology, this poem should have followed “The Vespers of Palermo” and “Songs of the Cid.” Having been inadvertently omitted in its proper place, it is here inserted between the “Songs for Music” and the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” in order more strikingly to exhibit the changes in style and habits of thought apparent between the earlier and later compositions of Mrs Hemans.

University of Virginia Library

LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

I.—NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE!

II.—OH! DROOP THOU NOT.

THE SISTERS.

A BALLAD.

SONG.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

DIRGE.

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

ECHO-SONG.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

SONGS OF SPAIN.

I.—ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.

II.—THE ZEGRI MAID.

III.—THE RIO VERDE SONG.

IV.—SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

V.—SPANISH EVENING HYMN.

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

VII.—MOORISH GATHERING SONG.

ZORZICO.

VIII.—THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

IX.—MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

X.—THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

I.—AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

II.—THE WANDERING WIND.

III.—YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.

IV.—WILLOW SONG.

V.—LEAVE ME NOT YET.

VI.—THE ORANGE BOUGH.

VII.—THE STREAM SET FREE.

VIII.—THE SUMMER'S CALL.

IX.—OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

INTRODUCTION.

I.—THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.

II.—THE ALPINE HORN.

III.—O YE VOICES.

IV.—I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

V.—FAR O'ER THE SEA.

VI.—THE INVOCATION.

VII.—THE SONG OF HOPE.

THE BIRD AT SEA.

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

THE IVY-SONG.

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S.

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

FAR AWAY.

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

THE LONELY BIRD.

DIRGE AT SEA.

PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

COME AWAY.

FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.

MUSIC FROM SHORE.

LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.

IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER.

BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.

THE BED OF HEATH.

FAIRY SONG.

WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.

OH! IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINE HEART.

LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.

SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!

COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN.