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

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!