There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame,
Glittering athwart the gloom,
And he followed, till his bold step came
To his warrior-father's tomb.
But there the still and shadowy might
Of the monumental stone,
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light,
That over its quiet shone,
And the image of that sire, who died
In his noonday of renown
These had a power unto which the pride
Of fiery life bowed down.
And a spirit from his early years
Came back o'er his thoughts to move, Till his eye was filled with memory's tears, And his heart with childhood's love!
And he looked, with a change in his softening glance,
To the armour o'er the grave,
For there they hung, the shield and lance,
And the gauntlet of the brave.
And the sword of many a field was there,
With its cross for the hour of need,
When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer,
And the spear is a broken reed!
-Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh?
Did the folds of the banner shake?
Not so!-from the tomb's dark mystery
There seemed a voice to break!
He had heard that voice bid clarions blow,
He had caught its last blessing's breath,—
'Twas the same-but its awful sweetness now
Had an under tone of death!
And it said," The sword hath conquered kings,
And the spear through realms hath passed;
But the cross, alone, of all these things,
Might aid me at the last."
Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent,-save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;
Silent-save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,-
-Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep,
In this nameless valley deep?
No! brave heart!--though cold and lone
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O'er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute, yet stately tread,
Shedding their pale armour's light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.
Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Armed to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont,
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee;-
-Dreams! the falling of a leaf
Wins me from their splendours brief;
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot;
Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!
THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE
HEART! that didst press forward still,*
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart!-and liest thou here?
May this narrow spot inurn
Aught that so could beat and burn?
• "Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas
will follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw
from him the heart of Bruce, into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain.
The beautiful is vanished, and returns not. Coleridge's Wallenstein.
A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home,
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam,
And the green leaves whispered, as he passed,
"Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast?
"Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here,
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear;
Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours,
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wild
flowers.
"Under the arch by our mingling made,
Thou and thy brother have gaily played ;
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore,
But as ye have met there-oh! never more!"
On rode the youth-and the boughs among,
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung:
"Wherefore so fast unto life away?
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!
"Thou mayst come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain;
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell—
A change must pass o'er thee-farewell, farewell!"
On rode the youth :-and the founts and streams
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams:
"We have been thy playmates through many a
day,
Wherefore thus leave us?-oh! yet delay!
"Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee 't is a melody passing from earth.
Never again wilt thou find in its flow,
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.
"Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.
"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part-
What should it do for a burning heart?
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill,
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.
"Farewell!-when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tell-
Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!"
And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed,
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray,
And more beloved existence; that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage.
COME to me with your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought!
I sit alone with flowers and vernal boughs,
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought;
'Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone!
Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed
With life, and love, and many a burning word,
That bursts from grief, like lightning from a
cloud,
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.
Come to me! visit my dim haunt!--the sound
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath;
The stock-dove's note above; and all around,
The poesy that with the violet's breath
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams,
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams.
Friends, friends!—for such to my lone heart ye
Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes The glory melts not as a waning star,
And the sweet kindness never, never dies; Bright children of the bard! o'er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell! Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending
In patient grief, “ a smiling with a sigh;"*
And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky;
Thou of the soft low voice!-thou art not gone!
Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.
And come to me!—sing me thy willow-strain,
Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain,
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies;
Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn,
As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne.
And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here,
That well might win thy footsteps to the spot-
Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier,
And pansies for sad thoughts,t-but needed not!
Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light
In that wild eye still tremulously bright.
And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong
The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining,
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song!
Thou, making death deep joy!—but couldst thou
die?
No!-thy young love hath immortality!
From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn,
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone;
But ye, the children of the soul, were born
Deathless, and for undying love alone;
And, oh! ye beautiful! 't is well, how well,
In the soul's world, with you, where change is not,
to dwell!
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A crown of victory! a triumphal song!
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest:
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony !
A TRUMPET's note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky,
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory;
There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial streets along,
For again a conqueror must be crowned,-a kingly child of song:
Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
'Midst the joy of Rome.
A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far,
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers,
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gemlike showers.
Peace! within his chamber
Low the mighty lies;
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, And a wandering in his eyes.
Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing strain
In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main!
Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell,
As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.
Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing, but low, sing low!
A soft sad miserere chant
For a soul about to go!
The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day;
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Casars' past renown
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!
Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his Coronation in the Capitol.
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THE BETTER LAND.
"I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother! oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"
-"Not there, not there, my child"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
Not there, not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams can not picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"
THE WOUNDED EAGLE. EAGLE! this is not thy sphere! Warrior bird! what seekest thou here? Wherefore by the fountain's brink Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Layest thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath filled the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
Oh! it can be but to die!
Eagle, Eagle! thou hast bowed
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou that hadst ethereal birth,
Thou hast stooped too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?
Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was the sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
-Wo for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
Nay these, wild fits of uncurbed laughter Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, As it has lowered of late, so keenly cast, Unsuited seem, and strange.
Oh! nothing strange!
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunned glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O, gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!-Joanna Baillie.
YE met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured
gold,
Sadness and Mirth!-ye were mingled there
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry.
For there hung o'er the banquets of yore a gloom, A thought and a shadow of the tomb;
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,
To the rose a colouring not its own,
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power-
Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower!
Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!
I know that e'en then, in his hour of pride,
The soul of the mighty within him died;
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still,
Which the music of victory might never fill!
Thou wert there, oh! Mirth! swelling on the shout,
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out;
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine,
All the rich voices in air were thine,
The incense, the sunshine-but, Sadness! thy part,
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart!
Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear;
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier!
As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed,
Crosses the storm in its path of dread;
As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky-
Sadness and Mirth! so ye come and fly!
Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast,
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest!
When the breath of the violet is out in spring,
When the woods with the wakening of music ring,
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass,
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass.
When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth?
Bright stream and dark one!-oh! never on earth;
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near,
While Death and Love walk the same dim sphere,
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep,
While the heart of man is a soundless deep!
But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair!
Where ye have no part in the summer air.
Far from the breathings of changeful skies,
Over the seas and the graves it lies;
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done,
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG.
Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen,
Die mit seclenvollen melodie
Dich entzückten in des Lenzes Tagen?
-Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.
MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully,
And die away, my heart!
The rose, the glorious rose is gone,
And I, too, will depart.
The skies have lost their splendour,
The waters changed their tone, And wherefore, in the faded world, Should music linger on?
Where is the golden sunshine,
And where the flower-cup's glow ? And where the joy of the dancing leaves, And the fountain's laughing flow? A voice, in every whisper
Of the wave, the bough, the air,
Comes asking for the beautiful,
And moaning, "Where, oh! where?"
Tell of the brightness parted,
Thou bee, thou lamb at play!
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!
-Are ye, too, passed away?
Mournfully, sing mournfully!
The royal rose is gone.
Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt
In one deep farewell tone!
Not so!-swell forth triumphantly,
The full, rich, fervent strain!
Hence with young love and life I go,
In the summer's joyous train.
With sunshine, with sweet odour,
With every precious thing,
Upon the last warm southern breeze
My soul its flight shall wing.
Alone I shall not linger,
When the days of hope are past,
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,
To wait the rushing blast.
Triumphantly, triumphantly!
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me, perchance, in other lands,
The glorious rose may blow.
The sky's transparent azure,
And the greensward's violet breath,
And the dance of light leaves in the wind,
May there know nought of death.
No more, no more sing mournfully,
Swell high, then break, my heart
With love, the spirit of the woods,
With summer I depart!
They learn in suffering what they teach in song. Shelley
THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow, Thou hast fought with eddying waves;— Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, Thou searcher of ocean's caves!
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