On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
'Midst the stone-circles, hallowed thus of old;
Not where great Nature's majesty and might
First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and
brave,

Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean wave,
In these late days we meet!-dark Mona's shore,
Eryri'st cliffs resound with harps no more!
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its caverned urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers,)
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm
and free,

Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!

To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,

Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less,
To the green memory of thy loveliness,

Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land ?-Marmion.

The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of houschold love
Meet, in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The Cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!*

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

I have dreamt thou wert

A captive in thy hopelessness; afar

From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream

Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air.-L. E. L.

THE champions had come from their fields of war, Over the crests of the billows far,

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,

Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's board,

By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured,
The hearth was heaped with the pine-boughs high,
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.

The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme,
Their songs of the sword and the olden time,
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,
Had breathed from the walls where the bright
spears hung.

But the swell was gone from the quivering string,
They had summoned a softer voice to sing,
And a captive girl, at the warriors' call,
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.

Lonely she stood:-in her mournful eyes Lay the clear midnight of southern skies,

Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine.

And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, Half veiled a depth of unfathomed wo.

Stately she stood-though her fragile frame Seemed struck with the blight of some inward flame,

And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, Under the waves of her dark hair worn.

And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze,
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze;
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath,
But a token of fever, at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crowned for her bridal day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land-
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,

Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

'And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day,

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away!

They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas,

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the sleepy breeze;

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there ;—it were a bliss to die,

ful-sounding sea?

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?-in silence let me die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy

pure deep sapphire sky;

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?

cily!

"I may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no!

Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!

winds of the north?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit shall awake,

And through the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake!

That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light,

And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my Sicily!

and the main,

And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy

woods again.

Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my chain-I come

To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest-in thy sweet air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire,
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom rolled.

but oh! their glorious blue!

Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's

deep hue!

She had poured out her soul with her song's last tone;

The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

"Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assiégoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL.

With a robe of ermine for its bed,

Was laid that form of clay,

Where the light a stormy sunset shed, Through the rich tent made way:

And a sad and solemn beauty

Schiller.

On the pallid face came down,
Which the Lord of nations mutely watched,
In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last of wo and fear
From his full bosom broke;-
A mournful thing it was to hear

How then the proud man spoke!
The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,

Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burdened with agony.

"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath,

I call thee, and dost thou not speak-
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done-

For the honour of thy father's name,

Look up, look up, my son!

"Well might I know death's hue and mien,

But on thine aspect, boy!

What, till this moment, have I seen,
Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all-
How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?

"I will not bear that still, cold look—
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!

"Didst thou not know I loved thee well? Thou didst not! and art gone

In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart,

That seemed to thee so stern.

"Thou wert the first, the first fair child, That in mine arms I pressed;

Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast!

I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led,

I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee-dead!

"Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs! in my first-born's grave!
And leave me!-I have conquered,
I have slain-my work is done!
Whom have I slain ?-ye answer not-
Thou too art mute, my son!"

And thus his wild lament was poured

Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might.

He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed;

307

From the searching stars of heaven he shrankHumbly the conqueror died.*

• Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827.

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.*

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast, Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate

For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! 'Tis well thou shouldst depart.

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail.-Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness.-There sat a bard,
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing through rock and wood; the sunset's light
Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair,

And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, Whose clusters drooped above. His head was bowed,

His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch
Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood,
Waiting around, in silent earnestness,

Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song;
Many, and graceful forms! yet one alone,
Seemed present to his dream; and she indeed,
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek,
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes,
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful,
E'en painfully!-a creature to behold

With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth
Too dim without its brightness!-Did such fear
C'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one,
By his own rushing stream?-Once more he gazed
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more

From the deep chords his wandering hand brought

out

A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief,
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermastered him: but yielding then
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he poured
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang-

Voice of the grave

I hear thy thrilling call;

It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sear leaf's trembling fall!

In the shiver of the tree,

I hear thee, O thou voice!

And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice.

* Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination.”

But thou art sent

For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind's low sigh, And the river sweeping free,

And the green reeds murmuring heavily And the woods-but they hear not thee!

Long have I striven

With my deep foreboding soul,

But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll.
There's a young brow smiling near,

With a bridal white-rose wreath,-
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touched solemnly by death!

Fair art thou Morna! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds

On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound

Of a sweet and hidden rill,

That makes the dim woods tuneful roundBut soon it must be still!

Silence and dust

On thy sunny lips must lie,

Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!

No strain of festal flow

That my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes wild and low,
Its ranging tones have died.

Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,

A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees

Through nature's awful heart-
But bright things go with the summer-breeze,
And thou too, must depart!

Yet shall I weep?

I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,
Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,

And the chill of this world's breathGo, all undimmed, in thy glory go! Young and crowned bride of death!

Take hence to heaven

Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track,

This parting should not be!

But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee!

The ivy of its ruins; unto which

There was a burst of tears around the bard:
All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye,
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before.-So Morna heard
The minstrel's prophecy.

And spring returned,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again,
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,
A young sweet spirit gone.

THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.

O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.
As You Like It.

FALLEN was the House of Giafar; and its name,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's
wrath,

Sweeping the mighty with their fame away,
Had so passed sentence: but man's chainless heart
Hides that within its depths, which never yet
Th' oppressor's thought could reach.

'Twas desolate

Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun,
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased;
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii-tales,
Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one
voice

Was there the fountain's; through those eastern courts,

Over the broken marble and the grass,
Its low clear music shedding mournfully.

And still another voice!-an aged man,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath
His silvery hair, came, day by day, and sate
On a white column's fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory's fullness o'er its gloom,
Like waters in the waste; and calling up,
By song or high recital of their deeds,
Bright solemn shadows of its vanished race
To people their own halls: with these alone,
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
Reared in this lordly dwelling, and was now

His fading life seemed bound. Day rolled on day,
And from that scene the loneliness was fled;
For crowds around the gray-haired chronicler
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze
Wanders through forest-branches, and is met
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lament,

As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke
One echoing murmur.-But this might not be
Under a despot's rule, and summoned thence,
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne:
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale,
And with his white lips rigidly compressed;
Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine
forth.

Was it to sue for grace?-his burning heart
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye,
And he was changed!-and thus, in rapid words,
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than
death found way.