book iv. chap. viii.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

Like morning, when her early breeze Breaks up the surface of the seas, That, in those furrows, dark with night, Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er The Spirit, dark and lost before, And, freshening all its depths, prepare For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre. In silence lay the unbreathing wire; But when he swept its chords along, Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD, Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord-- Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise In music, worthy of the skies!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.--GERMAN.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying-- "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us-- "Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal."

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1] The nations, that before outshone thee, Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb-- The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray, From every nook of earth shall cluster; And kings and princes haste to pay Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters, Thy exiled sons return to thee, To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents, Shall lay their treasures down before thee; And Saba bring her gold and scents, To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5] Are gathering from all earth's dominions, Like doves, long absent, when allowed Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.

Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6] The ships of Tarshish round will hover, To bring thy sons across the sea, And waft their gold and silver over.

And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]-- The fir, the pine, the palm victorious Shall beautify our Holy Place, And make the ground I tread on glorious.

No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8] Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation; But thou shalt call thy portal Praise, And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.

The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9] Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee; But God, Himself, shall be thy Light, And flash eternal glory thro' thee.

Thy sun shall never more go down; A ray from heaven itself descended Shall light thy everlasting crown-- Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]

My own, elect, and righteous Land! The Branch, for ever green and vernal, Which I have planted with this hand-- Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]

[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee."--_Isaiah_, xl.

[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising."--_Isaiah_, xl.

[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side."--_Isaiah_, lx.

[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense."--_Ib_.

[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their windows?"--_Ib_.

[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them."--_Ib_.

[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."--_Ib_.

[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.--_Isaiah_, lx.

[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."--_Ib_.

[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down...for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."--_Ib_.

[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."--_Ib_.

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.--CRESCENTINI.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary-- What may that Desert be? 'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes The water he pants for but sparkles and flies-- Who may that Pilgrim be? 'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing-- What may that Fountain be? 'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell To point where those waters in secrecy dwell-- Who may that Spirit be? 'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.--NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, All light and love before me. Naught else I feel, or hear or see-- All bonds of earth I sever-- Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropt away When light shone o'er his prison,[1] My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray, Hath from her chains arisen. And shall a soul Thou bidst be free, Return to bondage?--never! Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison...and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_, xii. 7.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.--ROUSSEAU.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling; Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the couch of Nature falling, Gently the night's soft curtains close. Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who in silence throned above, Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love. Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, Our souls awhile from life withdrawn May in their darkness stilly, purely, Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.--HASSE.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted? Thro' what Elysium more bright Than fancy or hope ever painted, Walk ye in glory and light? Who the same kingdom inherits? Breathes there a soul that may dare Look to that world of Spirits, Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring Nature thro' all her bright ways, Went like the Seraphs adoring, And veiled your eyes in the blaze-- Martyrs! who left for our reaping Truths you had sown in your blood-- Sinners! whom, long years of weeping Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent, Turning away your pale brows From earth and the light of the Present, Looked to your Heavenly Spouse-- Say, thro' what region enchanted Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air? Say, to what spirits 'tis granted, Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR--ANONYMOUS.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies-- Like morning larks that sweeter sing The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune, Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes, Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon, Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute, Round which Devotion ties Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit, And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be., Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run, Who hymn like Saints above, No victor but the Eternal One, No trophies but of Love!

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1] And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come! From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale, Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth, In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale-- Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth! Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!

Bring myrtle and palm--bring the boughs of each tree That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4] From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide, Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]-- Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride! Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! etc.--_Neh_. viii. 15.

[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."-- _Ib_. 17.

[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."--_Josh_. x. 12.

[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."

--_Neh_. viii. 15.

[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."--_Josh_. iii. 17.

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, When the Spirit leaves this sphere. Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her To those she long hath mourned for here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to sever. Eyes this world can ne'er restore, There, as warm, as bright as ever, Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking Of earth and heaven, where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, Blest and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger Pointing to the eternal Home, Upon whose portal yet they linger, Looking back for us to come.

Alas, alas--doth Hope deceive us? Shall friendship--love--shall all those ties That bind a moment, and then leave us, Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh, if no other boon were given, To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, Who would not try to win a Heaven Where all we love shall live again?

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

(AIR.--NOVELLO.)

"War against Babylon!" shout we around, Be our banners through earth unfurled; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound-- "War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world! Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1] Thy day of pride is ended now; And the dark curse of Israel's daughters Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow! War, war, war against Babylon!

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2] Set the standard of God on high; Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields. "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry! Woe! woe!--the time of thy visitation[3] Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast-- And the black surge of desolation Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last! War, war, war against Babylon!

[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters...thine end is come."--_Jer_. li. 13.

[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields...set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon"--_Jer_. li. 11, 12.

[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!"--_Jer_. l. 27.

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, _monopoly_." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.

MELOLOGUE

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

_There_ breathes a language known and felt Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains, Where oft, of old, on some high tower The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, And called his distant love with such sweet power, That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1] To the bleak climes of polar night, Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, Gayly as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow; Oh Music! thy celestial claim Is still resistless, still the same; And, faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"--"_Garcilasso de la Véga_," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.

GREEK AIR

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurst her olive bough With hands by tyrant power unchained; And braided for the muse's brow A wreath by tyrant touch unstained. When heroes trod each classic field Where coward feet now faintly falter; When every arm was Freedom's shield, And every heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valor's fever at the sound. See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: A conqueror oft--a hero never-- Yet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.-- There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, And fill each little angel eye With speaking tears, that ask him why He wandered from his hut for scenes like these. Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes that looked for blood before Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.--"RANZ DES VACHES."

But wake, the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm, 'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form, And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys. Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony, Than the blest sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man awaking From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, Like morning's music on the air; And seems in every note to swear By Saragossa's ruined streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story, That, while _one_ Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR.--"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right-- What song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remembered well Of ardor quenched, and honor faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!

SET OF GLEES,

MUSIC BY MOORE.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

When o'er the silent seas alone, For days and nights we've cheerless gone, Oh they who've felt it know how sweet, Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye, "Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry; While answering back the sounds we hear, "Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer?

Then sails are backed, we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends and home; And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.

HIP, HIP, HURRA!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim, He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him; Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue, Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine; Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft, May the links that are lost but endear what are left!" Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour; On hearts thus united old Time has no power. May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night, They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one; Here's the poet who sings--here's the warrior who fights-- Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!--then drink as you please, Tho', _who_ could fill half-way to toast such as these? Here's our next joyous meeting--and oh when we meet, May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

HUSH, HUSH!

"Hush, hush!"--how well That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds; Then, if a foot but dare One rose-leaf crush, Myriads of voices in the air Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!" The night elves cry, And hush their fairy harmony, While he steals by; But if his silvery feet One dew-drop brush, Voices are heard in chorus sweet, Whispering, "Hush, hush!"

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed, To conquer or be slaves: This sun shall see our nation free, Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love, May heaven thy guardian be, And send bright angels from above To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field, Where freedom's standard waves, This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves.

THE WATCHMAN.

A TRIO.

WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest-- How fast the moments fly! 'Tis time to part, thou hearest That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock--past one.

Yet stay a moment longer-- Alas! why is it so, The wish to stay grows stronger, The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock--past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee-- The hours must sure go wrong, For when they're past without thee, They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Again that dreadful warning! Had ever time such flight? And see the sky, 'tis morning-- So now, _indeed_, good night.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Goodnight, good night.

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

Say, what shall we dance? Shall we bound along the moonlight plain, To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain? Say, what shall we dance? Shall we, like those who rove Thro' bright Grenada's grove, To the light Bolero's measures move? Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay, And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords, Let us hear each strain from every shore That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er. Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time, The Polish lady, by her lover led, Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread, Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks Whose shadows serve to hide The blush that's raised by who talks Of love the while by her side, Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams we go gliding around, Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

THE EVENING GUN.

Remember'st thou that setting sun, The last I saw with thee, When loud we heard the evening gun Peal o'er the twilight sea? Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep, They seemed to die away. Oft, when the toils of day are done, In pensive dreams of thee, I sit to hear that evening gun, Peal o'er the stormy sea. Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled. The distant sounds decay, I weep and wish, from this rough world Like them to die away.

LEGENDARY BALLADS.

TO

THE MISS FEILDINGS,

THIS VOLUME

IS INSCRIBED

BY

THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,

THOMAS MOORE.

LEGENDARY BALLADS

THE VOICE.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days, When love, only love was the light of her ways; And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago, It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat! "The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet; "But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep. "Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain To chase the illusion, that Voice came again! She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave, In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said, "From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!" And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke, For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may, "On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;" Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone; And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on; But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore, None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,--but the watchman who stood, That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood, Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray, A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;-- Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened, And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth, "Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies; "And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth, "Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing, When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light; And saw--such a vision!--no image, appearing To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning, While round him still lingered its innocent ray; Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it, While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine, His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing, What late was but love is idolatry now; But, ah--in her tremor the fatal lamp raising-- A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All's lost--with a start from his rosy sleep waking; The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire; Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking, Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

"Farewell--what a dream thy suspicion hath broken! "Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost; "Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken, "And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"

HERO AND LEANDER.

"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh, "There gleameth no moon in the misty sky "No star over Helle's sea; "Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light, "One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night, "To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream, Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam No eye but a lover's could see; And still, as the surge swept over his head, "To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead, "Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"

But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed; Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need, Where, where could thy Spirit be? He struggles--he sinks--while the hurricane's breath Bears rudely away his last farewell in death-- "Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"

THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee, "So may the stars obey thee "So may each airy "Moon-elf and fairy "Nightly their homage pay thee! "Say, by what spell, above, below, "In stars that wink or flowers that blow, "I may discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me, or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee "Hath charms no gold could buy thee; "Its stem enchanted. "By moon-elves planted, "Will all thou seek'st supply thee. "Climb to yon boughs that highest grow, "Bring thence their fairest leaf below; "And thou'lt discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether thy love loves thee or no, "Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going, "With blossoms round me blowing, "From thence, oh Father, "This leaf I gather, "Fairest that there is growing. "Say, by what sign I now shall know "If in this leaf lie bliss or woe "And thus discover "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling "Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling, "Dip in its water "That leaf, oh Daughter, "And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1] "Watch thou if pale or bright it glow, "List thou, the while, that fountain's flow, "And thou'lt discover "Whether thy lover, "Loved as he is, loves thee or no, "Loved as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted, To seek that fount benighted; But, scarce a minute The leaf lay in it, When, lo, its bloom was blighted! And as she asked, with voice of woe-- Listening, the while, that fountain's flow-- "Shall I recover "My truant lover?" The fountain seemed to answer, "No;" The fountain answered, "No."

[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

A hunter once in that grove reclined, To shun the noon's bright eye, And oft he wooed the wandering wind, To cool his brow with its sigh, While mute lay even the wild bee's hum, Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?" While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! What meaneth that rustling spray? "'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries, "I have sought since break of day." Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs, The arrow flies from his sounding bow, "Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings, While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe He saw in the rustling grove, But the bridal veil, as pure as snow, Of his own young wedded love. And, ah, too sure that arrow sped, For pale at his feet he sees her lie;-- "I die, I die," was all she said, While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"

YOUTH AND AGE.

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crest his way.-- "It is a sunny hour of play, "For which repentance dear doth pay; "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love, as wise men say." "Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more, Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.-- "Soft as a passing summer's wind, "Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind? "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love--when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again, Trusting the bliss, but not the pain. "Sweet as a May tree's scented air-- "Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear, "Repentance! Repentance! "This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by, And cast on Youth a smiling eye; Who could resist that glance's ray? In vain did Age his warning say, "Repentance! Repentance!" Youth laughing went with Love away.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A wounded Chieftain, lying By the Danube's leafy side, Thus faintly said, in dying, "Oh! bear, thou foaming tide. "This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver, He flung the scarf he wore Into the foaming river, Which, ah too quickly, bore That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning, The Chieftain's lady stood, To watch her love returning In triumph down the flood, From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated! The lady saw, instead Of the bark whose speed she waited, Her hero's scarf, all red With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek--and all was over-- Her life-pulse ceased to beat; The gloomy waves now cover That bridal-flower so sweet. And the scarf is her winding sheet!

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power "To call up forms we sigh to see; "Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower, "Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bower she lay; "True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, "She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy, Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; "'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, "Who used to guide me to my dear." The Lady now, from her favorite tree, Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower: "Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she "Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose, With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" "Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh." But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight, For trusting lover's eyes to see!-- Leads to that bower another Knight, As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" Then, darting forth, with furious bound, Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove, And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass, Had he ne'er sought that fatal view; The Wizard would still have kept his Glass, And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

THE PILGRIM.

Still thus, when twilight gleamed, Far off his Castle seemed, Traced on the sky; And still, as fancy bore him. To those dim towers before him, He gazed, with wishful eye; And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said, "How long, with weary tread, "Must I toil on? "Each eve, as thus I wander, "Thy towers seem rising yonder, "But, scarce hath daylight shone, "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still, Down dale and over hill, Day after day; That glimpse of home, so cheering, At twilight still appearing, But still, with morning's ray, Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now? Here, by this cypress bough, Closed his career; That dream, of fancy's weaving, No more his steps deceiving, Alike past hope and fear, The Pilgrim's home is here.

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her, Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling, "That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be; "He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:-- "None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree; Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; His visor was down--but, with voice that thrilled thro her, He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee, "In me the great conqueror of conquerors see; "Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, "And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me? "Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; "Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"-- Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark, The seaman's bark, Swift o'er the waters bore him, When, thro' the night, He spied a light Shoot o'er the wave before him. "A sail! a sail!" he cries; "She comes from the Indian shore "And to-night shall be our prize, "With her freight of golden ore; "Sail on! sail on!" When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer; But, though so fast The waves he past That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated; While on the prize His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doted: "More sail! more sail!" he cries, While the waves overtop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon thro' heaven did hie her, He swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn succeeded: While still his flight, Thro day and night, That restless mariner speeded. Who knows--who knows what seas He is now careering o'er? Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before! For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, And that ship in vain pursue it.

THE STRANGER.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand; But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady, Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;-- But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high, With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them-- Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her-- Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her. That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing-- Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.

BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Tho' now, blooming and young Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

When on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down and venture never; When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than any-- If all this is not real love, 'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart, On all we've got to say at meeting; And yet when near, with heart to heart, Sit mute and listen to their beating: To see but one bright object move, The only moon, where stars are many-- If all this is not downright love, I prithee say what _is_, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best, Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons; When Passion drives us to the west, Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons; When all turns round, below, above, And our own heads the most of any-- If this is not stark, staring love, Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then happier still must be they who have none, love. And that will be _my_ case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover, I care not how many bright eyes I may see; Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder-- For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold: And Passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o'er all he sees, Awhile as warm will set as soon-- Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human, still as they: And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART

Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Poor wounded heart, farewell! The pain thou'lt feel in breaking Less bitter far will be, Than that long, deadly aching, This life has been to thee.

There--broken heart, farewell! The pang is o'er-- The parting pang is o'er; Thou now wilt bleed no more. Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying-- Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleepst in peace at last-- Poor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, The fragrant breath at morn: When, May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging Thro' watery wilds her way, And on her cheek is bringing The bright sun's orient ray: Oh, come and court her hither, Ye breezes mild and warm-- One winter's gale would wither So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing Thro' gardens always bright. Then now, sweet May! be sweeter Than e'er, thou'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-- In vain the sunbeams seek To warm that faded cheek; The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee; Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,-- Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sunbeams round her fall: The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shall be, "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. "For the hearts of this world are hollow, "And fickle the smiles we follow; "And 'tis sweet, when all "Their witcheries pall "To have a pure love to fly to: "So, my pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shalt be, "And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping" Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow; 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them With which men wound each other; So, my pretty Rose-tree, Thou my mistress shalt be And I'll never again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, All to grace this Eve of May. Let the flower-beds all lie waking, And the odors shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave, Oh what glory, what completeness, Then would crown this bright May Eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting, at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Sit and sing the sunshine away; So merry, that even the slumbers That round us hung seem gone; Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on. Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana In sleep still breathes the sigh, The name of some black-eyed Tirana, Escapes our lips as we lie. Till, with morning's rosy twinkle, Again we're up and gone-- While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle Beguiles the rough way on. Oh the joys of our merry posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbor she playfully set, As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing, And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

Nights of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. When we went by moonlight roving, Hearts all love and lips all song. When this faithful lute recorded All my spirit felt to thee; And that smile the song rewarded-- Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor, Filled with joys too sweet to last-- Joys that, like the star-light, tender, While they shore no shadow cast. Tho' all other happy hours From my fading memory fly, Of, that starlight, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf may die!

OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

Our first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles and weeps and trembles Thro' April's earliest day. And not all life before us, Howe'er its lights may play, Can shed a lustre o'er us Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander A blaze serener, grander; Our autumn beam May, like a dream Of heaven, die calm away; But no--let life before us Bring all the light it may, 'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us Like that first youthful ray.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without Caring who feels 'em; But the soft eye of blue, Tho' it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em-- Dear Fanny! Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray-- "By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid, Says from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!" Yes, Fanny! The blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why In that lovely blue eye Not a charm of its tint I discover; Oh why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? Dear Fanny! Oh, why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover?

DEAR FANNY.

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool; "She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;" Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny. 'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; "'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;" Thus Love has advised me and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny? Love reasons much better than Reason.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-- The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh, even if Freedom from _this_ world be driven, Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touch-- Oh, how that touch enchanted! Roses now unheeded sigh; Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie; Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved Ne'er shall feel its sweetness; Time, that once so fleetly moved, Now hath lost its fleetness. Years were days, when here she strayed, Days were moments near her; Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, Nor Pity wept a dearer! Here's the bower, etc.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

A FINLAND LOVE SONG.

I saw the moon rise clear O'er hills and vales of snow Nor told my fleet reindeer The track I wished to go. Yet quick he bounded forth; For well my reindeer knew I've but one path on earth-- The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast, How soon the heart forgets, When summer brings, at last, Her sun that never sets! So dawned my love for you; So, fixt thro' joy and pain, Than summer sun more true, 'Twill never set again.

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played; "Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love, "Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move." "I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, "So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played. There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by. "Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid "That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er, And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,-- Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!

LOVE AND TIME.

'Tis said--but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'em-- That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between 'em. In Courtship's first delicious hour, The boy full oft can spare 'em; So, loitering in his lady's bower, He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. Then is Time's hour of play; Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow; If Time to-day has had his flight, Love takes his turn to-morrow. Ah! Time and Love, your change is then The saddest and most trying, When one begins to limp again, And t'other takes to flying. Then is Love's hour to stray; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal With Love and Time much better. So well she checks their wanderings, So peacefully she pairs 'em, That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, And Time for ever wears 'em. This is Time's holiday; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us-- Youth may wither, but feeling will last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast. Oh, if to love thee more Each hour I number o'er-- If this a passion be Worthy of thee, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last: All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal; Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. Oh, if there be a charm, In love, to banish harm-- If pleasure's truest spell Be to love well, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee, Charms may wither, but feeling shall last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee. Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.

Love, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved's hair, Traced every lock with fond delays, And, doting, lingered there. And soon he found 'twere vain to fly; His heart was close confined, For, every ringlet was a tie-- A chain by beauty twined.

MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)

Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of Freedom soundeth, Merrily oh! There the warrior's arms Shed more splendor; There the maiden's charm's Shine more tender; Every joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh! Where the bond of slavery twineth Wearily, oh There the warrior's dart Hath no fleetness; There the maiden's heart Hath no sweetness-- Every flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh! Like your native fountain sally, Cheerily, oh! If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sighed in slavery, Round the flag of Freedom rally, Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!

REMEMBER THE TIME.

(THE CASTILIAN MAID.)

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, When our moments so blissfully flew; When you called me the flower of Castilian maids, And I blushed to be called so by you; When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille. And to dance to the light castanet; Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, The delight of those moments forget.

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle, Every hour a new passion can feel; And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile. You'll forget the poor maid of Castile. But they know not how brave in battle you are, Or they never could think you would rove; For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war That is fondest and truest in Love.

OH, SOON RETURN.

Our white sail caught the evening ray, The wave beneath us seemed to burn, When all the weeping maid could say, Was, "Oh, soon return!" Thro' many a clime our ship was driven O'er many a billow rudely thrown; Now chilled beneath a northern heaven, Now sunned in summer's zone: And still, where'er we bent our way, When evening bid the west wave burn, I fancied still I heard her say, "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found Its thoughts one moment turned from thee, 'Twas when the combat raged around, And brave men looked to me. But tho' the war-field's wild alarm For gentle love was all unmeet, He lent to glory's brow the charm, Which made even danger sweet. And still, when victory's calm came o'er The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, Those parting words I heard once more, "Oh, soon return!--Oh, soon return!"

LOVE THEE?

Love thee?--so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Were worthless without thee. Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare, Life's cup before me lay, Unless thy love were mingled there, I'd spurn the draft away. Love thee?--so well, so tenderly, Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot To me were dark and lone, While, _with_ it, even the humblest cot Were brighter than his throne. Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs For me would have no charms; My only world thy gentle eyes-- My throne thy circling arms! Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Whole realms of light and liberty Were worthless without thee.

ONE DEAR SMILE.

Couldst thou look as dear as when First I sighed for thee; Couldst thou make me feel again Every wish I breathed thee then, Oh, how blissful life would be! Hopes that now beguiling leave me, Joys that lie in slumber cold-- All would wake, couldst thou but give me One dear smile like those of old.

No--there's nothing left us now, But to mourn the past; Vain was every ardent vow-- Never yet did Heaven allow Love so warm, so wild, to last. Not even hope could now deceive me-- Life itself looks dark and cold; Oh, thou never more canst give me One dear smile like those of old

YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay; And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore, The charms that remain will be bright as before, And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away. Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay, That Friendship our last happy moments will crown: Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away, While Friendship, like those at the closing of day, Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.

THE DAY OF LOVE.

The beam of morning trembling Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling Affection's early look. Thus love begins--sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended, And o'er the valley's stream Diffused a glow as splendid As passion's riper dream. Thus love expands--warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading The glories of the sky, Like faith and fondness fading From passion's altered eye. Thus love declines--cold eve of love!

LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains Of slavery's lingering chains; Till not one tyrant tread our plains, Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. No! never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, "Your cloud of foes hath past away, "And Freedom comes with new-born ray "To gild your vines and light your fountains." Oh, never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

THE YOUNG ROSE.

The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright, Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night, Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung, And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee; For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.

WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.

When midst the gay I meet That gentle smile of thine, Tho' still on me it turns most sweet, I scarce can call it mine: But when to me alone Your secret tears you show, Oh, then I feel those tears my own, And claim them while they flow. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep Can smile in many a beam, Yet still in chains of coldness sleep. How bright soe'er it seem. But, when some deep-felt ray Whose touch is fire appears, Oh, then the smile is warmed away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star, whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love. And thou too, on that orb so dear, Dost often gaze at even, And think, tho' lost for ever here, Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

There's not a garden walk I tread, There's not a flower I see, love, But brings to mind some hope that's fled, Some joy that's gone with thee, Love. And still I wish that hour was near, When, friends and foes forgiven, The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here May turn to smiles in heaven.

YOUNG JESSICA.

Young Jessica sat all the day, With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining; Her needle bright beside her lay, So active once!--now idly shining. Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts That love and mischief are most nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays Well knowing all its arts, so wily, The tempter near a needle lays. And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." The needle, having naught to do, Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle; Till closer, closer come the two, And--off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye To some gay reticule's construction, It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie, Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

HOW HAPPY, ONCE.

_How_ happy, once, tho' winged with sighs, My moments flew along, While looking on those smiling eyes, And listening to thy magic song! But vanished now, like summer dreams, Those moments smile no more; For me that eye no longer beams, That song for me is o'er. Mine the cold brow, That speaks thy altered vow, While others feel thy sunshine now.

Oh, could I change my love like thee, One hope might yet be mine-- Some other eyes as bright to see, And hear a voice as sweet as thine: But never, never can this heart Be waked to life again; With thee it lost its vital part, And withered then! Cold its pulse lies, And mute are even its sighs, All other grief it now defies.

I LOVE BUT THEE.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me, And think this heart to other loves will stray, If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me; By every dream I have when thou'rt away, By every throb I feel when thou art near me, I love but thee--I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing, Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne, And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying, Or grave or gay, a music of its own, A music far beyond all minstrel's playing, I love but thee--I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes, As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow, And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses A hue too bright to bless this world below, And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses, I love but thee--I love but thee!

LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBERED NOW.

Let thy joys alone be remembered now, Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile, For thus to meet, and thus to find, That Time, whose touch can chill Each flower of form, each grace of mind, Hath left thee blooming still, Oh, joy alone should be thought of now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile.

When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade, If but _one_ bright leaf remain, Of the many that once its glory made, It is not for us to complain. But thus to meet and thus to wake In all Love's early bliss; Oh, Time all other gifts may take, So he but leaves us this! Then let joy alone be remembered now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow, Let Love light it up with his smile!

LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE?

Love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, by yonder star I swear, Which thro' tears above thee Shines so sadly fair; Tho' often dim, With tears, like him, Like him my truth will shine, And--love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, till death I'm thine.

Leave thee, dearest? leave thee? No, that star is not more true; When my vows deceive thee, _He_ will wander too. A cloud of night May veil his light, And death shall darken mine-- But--leave thee, dearest? leave thee? No, till death I'm thine.

MY HEART AND LUTE.

I give thee all--I can no more-- Tho' poor the offering be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee. A lute whose gentle song reveals The soul of love full well; And, better far, a heart that feels Much more than lute could tell.

Tho' love and song may fail, alas! To keep life's clouds away, At least 'twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay. And even if Care at moments flings A discord o'er life's happy strain, Let Love but gently touch the strings, 'Twill all be sweet again!

PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!

When I am dead. Then lay my head In some lone, distant dell, Where voices ne'er Shall stir the air, Or break its silent spell.

If any sound Be heard around, Let the sweet bird alone, That weeps in song, Sing all night long, "Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"

Yet, oh, were mine One sigh of thine, One pitying word from thee, Like gleams of heaven, To sinners given, Would be that word to me.

Howe'er unblest, My shade would rest While listening to that tone;-- Enough 'twould be To hear from thee, "Peace, peace, to him that gone."

ROSE OF THE DESERT

Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray, Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away; No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,-- In vestal silence left to live and die.-- Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be, Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.

Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom! Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom; Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day; A moment cherished, and then cast away; Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,-- Worshipt while blooming--when she fades, forgot.

'TIS ALL FOR THEE.

If life for me hath joy or light, 'Tis all from thee, My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, Are but of thee, of only thee. Whate'er of hope or peace I know, My zest in joy, my balm in woe, To those dear eyes of thine I owe, 'Tis all from thee.

My heart, even ere I saw those eyes, Seemed doomed to thee; Kept pure till then from other ties, 'Twas all for thee, for only thee. Like plants that sleep till sunny May Calls forth their life my spirit lay, Till, touched by Love's awakening ray, It lived for thee, it lived for thee.

When Fame would call me to her heights, She speaks by thee; And dim would shine her proudest lights, Unshared by thee, unshared by thee. Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine, Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine, And wish those wreaths of glory mine, 'Tis all for thee, for only thee.

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.

There's a song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we loved to hear. And even amidst the grand and gay, When Music tries her gentlest art I never hear so sweet a lay, Or one that hangs so round my heart, As that song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,-- Even the hope, lingering now, Like the last of the leaves left on Autumn's sere and faded bough,-- 'Twill seem as still those friends were near, Who loved me in youth's early day, If in that parting hour I hear The same sweet notes and die away,-- To that song of the olden time, Breathed, like Hope's farewell strain, To say, in some brighter clime, Life and youth will shine again!

WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming Till darker hours will keep; While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number, Moments of pain and care, Which to oblivious slumber Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming When Love his watch should keep? While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever My life and hopes from thee, love, The sleep that lasts for ever Would then be sweet to me, love; But now,--away with dreaming! Till darker hours 'twill keep; While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

THE BOY OF THE ALPS.

Lightly, Alpine rover, Tread the mountains over; Rude is the path thou'st yet to go; Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee, Fields of ice before thee, While the hid torrent moans below. Hark, the deep thunder, Thro' the vales yonder! 'Tis the huge avalanche downward cast; From rock to rock Rebounds the shock. But courage, boy! the danger's past. Onward, youthful rover, Tread the glacier over, Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. On, ere light forsake thee, Soon will dusk o'ertake thee: O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way! Now, for the risk prepare thee; Safe it yet may bear thee, Tho' 'twill melt in morning's ray.

Hark, that dread howling! 'Tis the wolf prowling,-- Scent of thy track the foe hath got; And cliff and shore Resound his roar. But courage, boy,--the danger's past!

Watching eyes have found thee, Loving arms are round thee, Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot.

FOR THEE ALONE.

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep, Those eyes my light through every distant sea; My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep, The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee, To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air, When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly, The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there, Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore, While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast, Still whispering on that when some years are o'er, One bright reward shall crown my toil at last, Thy smile alone, thy smile alone,

Oh place beside the transport of that hour All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright, Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,-- Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light? On thee alone, on thee alone.

HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING.

Her last words, at parting, how _can_ I forget? Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay; Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet, When its sounds from the ear have long melted away. Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain; Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,-- "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie, Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste, He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply, Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste. So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain, These words shall my well in the wilderness be,-- "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE.

Let's take this world as some wide scene. Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat, With skies now dark and now serene, Together thou and I must float; Beholding oft on either shore Bright spots where we should love to stay; But Time plies swift his flying oar, And away we speed, away, away.

Should chilling winds and rains come on, We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower; Sit closer till the storm is gone, And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour. And if that sunnier hour should shine, We'll know its brightness cannot stay, But happy while 'tis thine and mine,

Complain not when it fades away. So shall we reach at last that Fall Down which life's currents all must go,-- The dark, the brilliant, destined all To sink into the void below. Nor even that hour shall want its charms, If, side by side, still fond we keep, And calmly, in each other's arms Together linked, go down the steep.

LOVE'S VICTORY.

Sing to Love--for, oh, 'twas he Who won the glorious day; Strew the wreaths of victory Along the conqueror's way. Yoke the Muses to his car, Let them sing each trophy won; While his mother's joyous star Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love, Let spirits sing around; While the hill, the dale, and grove, With "mighty Love" resound; Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er, 'Twill but teach the god to feel His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst Of sunny Ind their hue; Bright as when, by Psyche kist, They trembled thro' and thro'. Flowers spring beneath his feet; Angel forms beside him run; While unnumbered lips repeat "Love's victory is won!" Hail to Love, to mighty Love, etc,

SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.[1]

"I've been, oh, sweet daughter, "To fountain and sea, "To seek in their water "Some bright gem for thee. "Where diamonds were sleeping, "Their sparkle I sought, "Where crystal was weeping, "Its tears I have caught.

"The sea-nymph I've courted "In rich coral halls; "With Naiads have sported "By bright waterfalls. "But sportive or tender, "Still sought I around "That gem, with whose splendor "Thou yet shalt be crowned.

"And see, while I'm speaking, "Yon soft light afar;-- "The pearl I've been seeking "There floats like a star! "In the deep Indian Ocean "I see the gem shine, "And quick as light's motion "Its wealth shall be thine."

Then eastward, like lightning, The hero-god flew, His sunny looks brightening The air he went thro'. And sweet was the duty, And hallowed the hour, Which saw thus young Beauty Embellished by Power.

[1] Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandaea.

THE DREAM OF HOME.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam? Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall, To greener shores our bark may come; But far more bright, more dear than all, That dream of home, that dream of home.

Ask the sailor youth when far His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam, What charms him most, when evening's star Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home. Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves At that sweet hour around him come; His heart's best joy where'er he roves, That dream of home, that dream of home.

THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVORED GUEST.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe the song; And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows With thee and me the time away! Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows-- Still if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know, that without thee The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower, Among the proud and gay to shine? Or deck my hair with gem and flower, To flatter other eyes than thine? Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

There came a nymph dancing Gracefully, gracefully, Her eye a light glancing Like the blue sea; And while all this gladness Around her steps hung, Such sweet notes of sadness Her gentle lips sung, That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

Her zone of bells ringing Cheerily, cheerily, Chimed to her singing Light echoes of glee; But in vain did she borrow Of mirth the gay tone, Her voice spoke of sorrow, And sorrow alone. Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings our warriors home Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread, O'er the mountain's head, While hills and dales repeat the sound; And the forest deer Stand still to hear, As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come, Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.-- Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow, And now they wind to distant glades; Not here their home,--alas, they go To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream, The footsteps seem, As down the hills they die away; And the march, whose song So pealed along, Now fades like a funeral lay.

'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain! And tho' not here, alas, they come, Rejoice for those, to whom that strain Brings sons and lovers home.

WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.

Wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power, One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray-- Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day. Then wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

Ask the fond nightingale, When his sweet flower Loves most to hear his song, In her green bower? Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long, Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song. Then wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

CALM BE THY SLEEP.

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers! Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams! May every joy this bright world numbers Shed o'er thee their mingled beams! Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided, There ever must some pang remain, Still be thy lot with me divided,-- Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!

Day and night my thoughts shall hover Round thy steps where'er they stray; As, even when clouds his idol cover, Fondly the Persian tracks its ray. If this be wrong, if Heaven offended By worship to its creature be, Then let my vows to both be blended, Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.

THE EXILE.

Night waneth fast, the morning star Saddens with light the glimmering sea, Whose waves shall soon to realms afar Waft me from hope, from love, and thee. Coldly the beam from yonder sky Looks o'er the waves that onward stray; But colder still the stranger's eye To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak, Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast; But of the lost one think and speak, When summer suns sink calm to rest. So, as I wander, Fancy's dream Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas, Thy look in every melting beam, Thy whisper in each dying breeze.

THE FANCY FAIR.

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell All wondrous things of earth and air; Whatever wild romancers tell, Or poets sing, or lovers swear, You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here eyes are made like stars to shine, And kept for years in such repair, That even when turned of thirty-nine, They'll hardly look the worse for wear, If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower, And hearts that such ill usage bear, That, tho' they're broken every hour, They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear, If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fashions change in every thing, We've goods to suit each season's air, Eternal friendships for the spring, And endless loves for summer wear,-- All sold at this our Fancy Fair.

We've reputations white as snow, That long will last if used with care, Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go, If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"-- Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.

IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play, As once I played and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung. Call back the time when pleasure's sigh First breathed among the strings; And Time himself, in flitting by. Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute, And shining fresh the chords, Beneath this hand they slumber mute, Or speak but dreamy words. In vain I seek the soul that dwelt Within that once sweet shell, Which told so warmly what it felt, And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay, From lyre so coldly strung; With this I ne'er can sing or play, As once I played and sung. No, bring that long-loved lute again,-- Tho' chilled by years it be, If _thou_ wilt call the slumbering strain, 'Twill wake again for thee.

Tho' time have frozen the tuneful stream Of thoughts that gushed along, One look from thee, like summer's beam, Will thaw them into song. Then give, oh give, that wakening ray, And once more blithe and young, Thy bard again will sing and play, As once he played and sung.

STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.

Still when daylight o'er the wave Bright and soft its farewell gave, I used to hear, while light was falling, O'er the wave a sweet voice calling, Mournfully at distance calling.

Ah! once how blest that maid would come, To meet her sea-boy hastening home; And thro' the night those sounds repeating, Hail his bark with joyous greeting, Joyously his light bark greeting.

But, one sad night, when winds were high, Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry. She saw his boat come tossing over Midnight's wave,--but not her lover! No, never more her lover.

And still that sad dream loath to leave, She comes with wandering mind at eve, And oft we hear, when night is falling, Faint her voice thro' twilight calling, Mournfully at twilight calling.

THE SUMMER WEBS.

The summer webs that float and shine, The summer dews that fall, Tho' light they be, this heart of mine Is lighter still than all. It tells me every cloud is past Which lately seemed to lour; That Hope hath wed young Joy at last, And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above, With naught to wake one sigh, Except the wish that all we love Were at this moment nigh,-- It seems as if life's brilliant sun Had stopt in full career, To make this hour its brightest one, And rest in radiance here.

MIND NOT THO' DAYLIGHT.

Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,-- Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking? Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not, Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot.

See young Aurora up heaven's hill advancing, Tho' fresh from her pillow, even she too is dancing: While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea. Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?

Who'll say that moments we use thus are wasted? Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted; While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune, The fault is all morning's for coming so soon.

THEY MET BUT ONCE.

They met but once, in youth's sweet hour, And never since that day Hath absence, time, or grief had power To chase that dream away. They've seen the suns of other skies, On other shores have sought delight; But never more to bless their eyes Can come a dream so bright! They met but once,--a day was all Of Love's young hopes they knew; And still their hearts that day recall As fresh as then it flew.

Sweet dream of youth! oh, ne'er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now. For, Youth, the spell was only thine, From thee alone the enchantment flows, That makes the world around thee shine With light thyself bestows. They met but once,--oh, ne'er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now.

WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.

With moonlight beaming Thus o'er the deep, Who'd linger dreaming In idle sleep? Leave joyless souls to live by day,-- Our life begins with yonder ray; And while thus brightly The moments flee, Our barks skim lightly The shining sea.

To halls of splendor Let great ones hie; Thro' light more tender Our pathways lie. While round, from banks of brook or lake, Our company blithe echoes make; And as we lend 'em Sweet word or strain, Still back they send 'em More sweet again.

CHILD'S SONG.

FROM A MASQUE.

I have a garden of my own, Shining with flowers of every hue; I loved it dearly while alone, But I shall love it more with you: And there the golden bees shall come, In summer-time at break of morn, And wake us with their busy hum Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land, On leafy buds and berries nurst; And you shall feed him from your hand, Though he may start with fear at first. And I will lead you where he lies For shelter in the noontide heat; And you may touch his sleeping eyes, And feel his little silvery feet.

THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean, The sea-lark skims the brine; This bright world's all in motion, No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places, With heart all cold the while; To look in smiling faces, When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven Around thee shine with bliss, To thee no light is given,-- Oh, what a doom is this!

THE WORLD WAS HUSHT.

The world was husht, the moon above Sailed thro' ether slowly, When near the casement of my love, Thus I whispered lowly,-- "Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep? "The field I seek to-morrow "Is one where man hath fame to reap, "And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may. Thus spoke a voice replying, "Think not thy love, while thou'rt away, "Will sit here idly sighing. "No--woman's soul, if not for fame, "For love can brave all danger! Then forth from out the casement came A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid, Herself before me beaming, With casque arrayed and falchion blade Beneath her girdle gleaming! Close side by side, in freedom's fight, That blessed morning found us; In Victory's light we stood ere night, And Love the morrow crowned us!

THE TWO LOVES.

There are two Loves, the poet sings, Both born of Beauty at a birth: The one, akin to heaven, hath wings, The other, earthly, walks on earth. With _this_ thro' bowers below we play, With _that_ thro' clouds above we soar; With both, perchance, may lose our way:-- Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The one, when tempted down from air, At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip, Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare His wing within the wave to dip. While plunging deep and long beneath, The other bathes him o'er and o'er In that sweet current, even to death:-- Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The boy of heaven, even while he lies In Beauty's lap, recalls his home; And when most happy, inly sighs For something happier still to come. While he of earth, too fully blest With this bright world to dream of more, Sees all his heaven on Beauty's breast:-- Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The maid who heard the poet sing These twin-desires of earth and sky, And saw while one inspired his string, The other glistened in his eye,-- To name the earthlier boy ashamed, To chose the other fondly loath, At length all blushing she exclaimed,-- "Ask not which, "Oh, ask not which--we'll worship both.

"The extremes of each thus taught to shun, "With hearts and souls between them given, "When weary of this earth with one, "We'll with the other wing to heaven." Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss; And while _one_ Love wrote down the oath, The other sealed it with a kiss; And Heaven looked on, Heaven looked on and hallowed both.

THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are played by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing thro' air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport; Singing, I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept; Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang, And he waked to catch--but away I sprang, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

I saw thro' the leaves, in a damsel's bower, She was waiting her love at that starlight hour: "Hist--hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh, And she flew to the door, but away flew I, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, And he swooned--for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man! Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

BEAUTY AND SONG.

Down in yon summer vale, Where the rill flows. Thus said a Nightingale To his loved Rose:-- "Tho' rich the pleasures "Of song's sweet measures, "Vain were its melody, "Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess Of her night-bower, Beaming with bashfulness, Spoke the bright flower:-- "Tho' morn should lend her "Its sunniest splendor, "What would the Rose be, "Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend Woman's bright way; Thus still let woman lend Light to the lay. Like stars thro' heaven's sea Floating in harmony Beauty should glide along Circled by Song.

WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

When thou art nigh, it seems A new creation round; The sun hath fairer beams, The lute a softer sound. Tho' thee alone I see, And hear alone thy sigh, 'Tis light, 'tis song to me, Tis all--when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought Of grief comes o'er my heart; I only think--could aught But joy be where thou art? Life seems a waste of breath, When far from thee I sigh; And death--ay, even death Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.

SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I come from a land in the sun bright deep, Where golden gardens grow; Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep, Their conch-shells never blow.[1] Haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste--haste!

So near the track of the stars are we, That oft on night's pale beams The distant sounds of their harmony Come to our ear, like dreams. Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.

The Moon too brings her world so nigh, That when the night-seer looks To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky, He can number its hills and brooks. Then, haste, etc.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2] By day, by night, belong; And the breath we draw from his living fires, We give him back in song. Then, haste, etc.

From us descends the maid who brings To Delos gifts divine; And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings To glitter on Delphi's shrine. Then haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste--haste!

[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in the hands of Boreas.--See _Stuart's Antiquities_. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.

THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days ere joy had left this brow; But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be, How different feels the heart that breathes them now! The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same We saw this morning on its stem so gay; But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine, How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,-- The joy, a light too precious long to shine,-- The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last. And tho' that lay would like the voice of home Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh-- Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come, But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.

CUPID ARMED.

Place the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear;-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near. March on! march on! thy shaft and bow Were weak against such charms; March on! march on! so proud a foe Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they shine! Every shaft, as it flies, Mocking proudly at thine. March on! march on! thy feathered darts Soft bosoms soon might move; But ruder arms to ruder hearts Must teach what 'tis to love. Place the helm on thy brow; In thy hand take the spear,-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night, While with it also round go we; And in the flight of one day's light An image of all life's course we see. Round, round, while thus we go round, The best thing a man can do, Is to make it, at least, a _merry_-go-round, By--sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when Youth in its dawn salutes the eye-- Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky? But, round, round, both boy and girl Are whisked thro' that sky of blue; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If--their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon, Thinking all life a life of light; But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon, And ere we can say, "How short!"--'tis night. Round, round, still all goes round, Even while I'm thus singing to you; And the best way to make it a _merry_-go-round, Is to--chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near. There lurks a dread in all delight, A shadow near each ray, That warns us then to fear their flight, When most we wish their stay. Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things The soonest fleet and die?-- That when most light is on their wings, They're then but spread to fly! And, sadder still, the pain will stay-- The bliss no more appears; As rainbows take their light away, And leave us but the tears! Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes, "Within this box, by magic hid, "A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies, "Who sings to me whene'er he's bid. "Tho' roving once his voice and wing, "He'll now lie still the whole day long; "Till thus I touch the magic spring-- "Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!" _(A symphony.)_

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay "Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become; "Thro' earth and air his song may stray, "If all the while his heart's at home. "And tho' in freedom's air he dwell, "Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, "Touch but the spring thou knowst so well, "And--hark, how sweet the love-song flows!" _(A symphony.)_

Thus pleaded I for freedom's right; But when young Beauty takes the field, And wise men seek defence in flight, The doom of poets is to yield. No more my heart the enchantress braves, I'm now in Beauty's prison hid; The Sprite and I are fellow slaves, And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

When to sad Music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew. But when some lively strain resounding Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow, Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest. A lustre so pure thy features then wear, That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there. But when the word for the gay dance is given, So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth, Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven, "But linger still here, to make heaven of earth."

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking. And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing, Ah, well she'll know how sweet The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing. A once bright rose's withered leaf, A towering lily broken,-- Oh these may paint a grief No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle, The wreath thou speedest over Yon moonlight dale, to tell My lady how I love her. And, what to her will sweeter be Than gems the richest, rarest,-- From Truth's immortal tree[1] One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.

THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've day's long light before us, What sport shall we pursue? The hunt o'er hill and lea? The sail o'er summer sea? Oh let not hour so sweet Unwinged by pleasure fleet. The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've days long light before us, What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding, What morning sport to play, The dial's hand is gliding, And morn hath past away! Ah, who'd have thought that noon Would o'er us steal so soon,-- That morn's sweet hour of prime Would last so short a time? But come, we've day before us, Still heaven looks bright and blue; Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us, What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying? We're now at evening's hour; Its farewell beam is playing O'er hill and wave and bower. That light we thought would last, Behold, even now 'tis past; And all our morning dreams Have vanisht with its beams But come! 'twere vain to borrow Sad lessons from this lay, For man will be to-morrow-- Just what he's been to-day.

UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ETC.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove How near and dear I hold thee. If, where the brightest shine, To see no form but thine, To feel that earth can show No bliss above thee,-- If this be love, then know That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour That thou canst know affection's power. No, try its strength in grief or pain; Attempt as now its bonds to sever, Thou'lt find true love's a chain That binds forever!

DEAR? YES.

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more, Even this but makes thee dearer; And love, since hope is o'er, But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me, The same thy charm must be; New loves may come to weave Their witchery o'er thee, Yet still, tho' false, believe That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee. Think'st thou that aught but death could end A tie not falsehood's self can rend? No, when alone, far off I die, No more to see, no more cares thee, Even then, my life's last sigh Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.

UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love, From those dark ties unbind thee; Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove, Too long its links have twined thee. Away from earth!--thy wings were made In yon mid-sky to hover, With earth beneath their dove-like shade, And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy, Too long thy soul is sleeping; And thou mayst from this minute's joy Wake to eternal weeping. Oh, think, this world is not for thee; Tho' hard its links to sever; Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be, Break or thou'rt lost for ever.

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

A BUFFALO SONG.

There's something strange, I know not what, Come o'er me, Some phantom I've for ever got Before me. I look on high and in the sky 'Tis shining; On earth, its light with all things bright Seems twining. In vain I try this goblin's spells To sever; Go where I will, it round me dwells For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night It plays me; In every shape the wicked sprite Waylays me. Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue 'Tis glancing; Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat, Comes dancing. By whispers round of every sort I'm taunted. Never was mortal man, in short, So haunted.

NOT FROM THEE.

Not from thee the wound should come, No, not from thee. Care not what or whence my doom, So not from thee! Cold triumph! first to make This heart thy own; And then the mirror break Where fixt thou shin'st alone. Not from thee the wound should come, Oh, not from thee. I care not what, or whence, my doom, So not from thee.

Yet no--my lips that wish recall; From thee, from thee-- If ruin o'er this head must fall, 'Twill welcome be. Here to the blade I bare This faithful heart; Wound deep--thou'lt find that there, In every pulse thou art. Yes from thee I'll bear it all: If ruin be The doom that o'er this heart must fall, 'Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I love a maid, a mystic maid, Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade, And beautiful in both is she. Her shape in dreams I oft behold, And oft she whispers in my ear Such words as when to others told, Awake the sigh, or wring the tear; Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow, Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, even now, Were echoing far off my lays. There is no scene of joy or woe But she doth gild with influence bright; And shed o'er all so rich a glow As makes even tears seem full of light: Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er Has rosy mother's isles of light, Was cruising off the Paphian shore, A sail at sunset hove in sight. "A chase, a chase! my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung, And, swarming up the mast like bees, The snow-white sails expanding flung, Like broad magnolias to the breeze. "Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er--the bark was caught, The winged crew her freight explored; And found 'twas just as Love had thought, For all was contraband aboard. "A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Safe stowed in many a package there, And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass," Were lots of all the illegal ware, Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. "O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue, With rosy blushes ready made; And teeth of ivory, good as new, For veterans in the smiling trade. "Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,--kept in bags for use, Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,-- Lay ready here to be let loose, When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. "Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found, Sham invoices of flames and darts, Professedly for Paphos bound, But meant for Hymen's golden marts. "For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake, Those pirates all Love's signals knew, And hoisted oft his flag, to make Rich wards and heiresses _bring-to_.[1] "A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims, "In vain I rule the Paphian seas, "If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names "Are lent to cover frauds like these. "Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match-- A broadside struck the smuggling foe, And swept the whole unhallowed batch Of Falsehood to the depths below. "Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!" Said Love the little Admiral.

[1] "_To Bring-to_, to check the course of a ship."--_Falconer_.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee, Lovely phantom,--all in vain; Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee, Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain. Such doom, of old, that youth betided, Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms, But found a cloud that from him glided,-- As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest," Ere thy light hath vanished by; And 'tis when thou look'st divinest Thou art still most sure to fly. Even as the lightning, that, dividing The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendor hiding.-- Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers, Did Painting learn her fairy skill, And cull the hues of loveliest flowers, To picture woman lovelier still. For vain was every radiant hue, Till Passion lent a soul to art, And taught the painter, ere he drew, To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on, Till, lo, one touch his art defies; The brow, the lip, the blushes shone, But who could dare to paint those eyes? 'Twas all in vain the painter strove; So turning to that boy divine, "Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love, "No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me Of past joys, now turned to pain; Of ties that long have ceased to bind me, But whose burning marks remain. In each tone, some echo falleth On my ear of joys gone by; Every note some dream recalleth Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me, Once more let thy numbers thrill; Tho' death were in the strain they sing me, I must woo its anguish still. Since no time can e'er recover Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,-- Better to weep such pleasures over, Than smile o'er any left us yet.

BRIGHT MOON.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining, All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night Thy own Endymion lay reclining, And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!-- By all the bliss thy beam discovers, By all those visions far too bright for day, Which dreaming bards and waking lovers Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,--

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven, Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea, Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me. Guide hither, guide her steps benighted, Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide; Let Love but in this bower be lighted, Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

Long years have past, old friend, since we First met in life's young day; And friends long loved by thee and me, Since then have dropt away;-- But enough remain to cheer us on, And sweeten, when thus we're met, The glass we fill to the many gone, And the few who're left us yet. Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, And some hang white and chill; While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow, Retain youth's color still. And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one, Youth's sunny hopes have set, Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,-- We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long May thou and I thus meet, To brighten still with wine and song This short life, ere it fleet. And still as death comes stealing on, Let's never, old friend, forget, Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone, How many are left us yet.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming, Life to the last, pursues its flight; Day hath its visions fairly beaming, But false as those of night. The one illusion, the other real, But both the same brief dreams at last; And when we grasp the bliss ideal, Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing, Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom Flit o'er its face till night is closing-- Emblem of life's short doom! But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining, 'Tis still unlike man's changeful day, Whose light returns not, once declining, Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells How near such April joy to weeping dwells. 'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel; And music never half so sweet appears, As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-- It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath. The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-- And passion's power can never lend the glow Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bower; Swift our sledge as lightning goes, Nor shall stop till morning's hour. Bright, my steed, the northern star Lights us from yon jewelled skies; But to greet us, brighter far, Morn shall bring my lady's eyes. Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers, Sleeping out their dream of time, Know not half the bliss that's ours, In this snowy, icy clime. Like yon star that livelier gleams From the frosty heavens around, Love himself the keener beams When with snows of coyness crowned. Fleet then on, my merry steed, Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;-- What can match a lover's speed? See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! Brightly hath the northern star Lit us from yon radiant Skies; But, behold, how brighter far Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way, When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray; The beams that flash on the oar awhile, As we row along thro' the waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees With an eye that feeling gave;-- For him there's a story in every breeze, And a picture in every wave. Then sing to lighten the languid way; When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray.

* * * * *

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping, Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by; No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping, No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh. Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion, To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn. Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber Around us like summer-barks idly have played, When storms are abroad we may find in the number One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

* * * * *

When Lelia touched the lute, Not _then_ alone 'twas felt, But when the sounds were mute, In memory still they dwelt. Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole Such breath from simple wire, Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales Her lute so sweetly told? In lofty themes she fails, And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!

* * * * *

Young Love lived once in a humble shed, Where roses breathing And woodbines wreathing Around the lattice their tendrils spread, As wild and sweet as the life he led. His garden flourisht, For young Hope nourisht. The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye Should e'er come hither, Such sweets to wither! The flowers laid down their heads to die, And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh. She came one morning. Ere Love had warning, And raised the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love--"is it you? good-by;" So he oped the window and flew away!

* * * * *

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear, They are not those to sorrow known; But breathe so soft, and drop so clear, That bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches even our tears to keep The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night Upon the spangled hedge at morn, Attempts to catch the drops of light, But wounds his finger with the thorn. Thus oft the brightest joys we seek, Are lost when touched, and turned to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, etc.

* * * * *

To sigh, yet feel no pain. To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won; This is love, careless love, Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame, Thro' life unchilled, unmoved, To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved; To feel that we adore To such refined excess. That tho' the heart would break with _more_, We could not live with _less_; This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above.

* * * * *

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love, When women like slaves were spurned, A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, To be teased by a fop, and returned! But women grow wiser as men improve. And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us, Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem As the heart to be played with or sullied by them; No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal What impression the heart will take; If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel What a poor impression 'twill make! Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal Of the fondling fop who pursues me, Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule, Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool; No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

* * * * *

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting, But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved, Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting. And oft at night when the tempest rolled He sung as he paced the dark deck over-- "Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay, Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her-- "Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death, The close he long wished to his cheerless roving, For Victory shone on his latest breath, And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. But still he remembered his sorrow,--and still He sung till the vision of life was over-- "Come, death, come! thou art not so chill As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

* * * * *

When life looks lone and dreary, What light can dispel the gloom? When Time's swift wing grows weary, What charm can refresh his plume? 'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth O'er all that we feel or see; And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory, Too dearly the meed they gain; Let patriots live in story-- Too often they die in vain; Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, This world can offer to me No throne like Beauty's bosom, No freedom like serving thee, O woman!

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be; Two roguish eyes The highest prize In Cupid's scheming Lottery; And kisses, too, As good as new, Which weren't very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery, In Cupid's court went merrily, And Cupid played A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; For hearts, we're told, In _shares_ he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts So well, each thought the whole his own. _Chor_.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

* * * * *

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth, And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant, But diest in languor in luxury's dome, Our vision when absent--our glory, when present-- Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered! In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave! Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion. Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam! With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

* * * * *

Oh think, when a hero is sighing, What danger in such an adorer! What woman can dream' of denying The hand that lays laurels before her? No heart is so guarded around, But the smile of the victor will take it; No bosom can slumber so sound, But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping, And woe to the heart that allows him; For oh, neither smiling nor weeping Has power at those moments to rouse him. But tho' he was sleeping so fast, That the life almost seemed to forsake him, Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

* * * * *

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so! In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one was B alt, and the rest G below. Oh! oh, Orator Puff! One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?" Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down. Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones, "Help me out! help me out--I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?" Oh I oh! etc.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(_Entering as if to announce the Play_.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time--oh accents of delight To the poor author's ear, when _three times three_ With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy! When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken, He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken, And sees his play-bill circulate--alas, The only bill on which his name will pass! Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name, While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, And learned ladies spell your _Dram. Person_.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends To help my night, and _he_, ye know, has friends. Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or _parts_, Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, There's nothing like him! wits, at his request. Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest; Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make, And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake; For him even lawyers talk without a fee, For him (oh friendship) _I_ act tragedy! In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks Make _boars_ amusing, and put life in _sticks_.

With _such_ a manager we can't but please, Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2] Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle, Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle; You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners, Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners: And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt-- In all _our_ plays, the Riot-Act's cut out; And, while we skim the cream of many a jest, Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past, At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last; And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods, Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

* * * * *

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1] Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain, Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train. But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails-- As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual since we parted last. It seems but like a dream of yesternight. Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joy, we come to kindle new. Thus ever may the flying moments haste With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, But deeply print and lingeringly move, When thus they reach the sunny spots we love. Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported Her figure thro' the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted. And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?--the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, Are told, betimes, they must consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine-- A Palace paved with diamonds all-- And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The _lower_ world of course was there, And all the best; but of the _upper_ The sprinkling was but shy and rare,-- A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices; Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices;--

Musical flint-mills--swiftly played By elfin hands--that, flashing round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun; And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wildfire run-- Corked up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes Like little light-houses, were set up; And pretty phosphorescent fishes That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came That wicked Sylph whom Love we call-- My Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarmed about his torch, advised He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan, And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, _there_ he was--and dancing With the fair Sylph, light as a feather; They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well, But for that plaguy torch whose light, Though not _yet_ kindled--who could tell How soon, how devilishly, it _might_?

And so it chanced--which, in those dark And fireless halls was quite amazing; Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the _lucciole_, that spangled Her locks of jet--is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl _Did_ drop a spark at some odd turning, Which by the waltz's windy whirl Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That curtain of protecting wire, Which DAVY delicately draws Around illicit, dangerous fire!--

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air, (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,) Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,-- A sign, they say, that no good boded-- Then quick the gas became unruly. And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together, With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, Like butterflies in stormy weather, Were blown--legs, wings, and tails--to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch, The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part-- Found lying with a livid scorch As if from lightning o'er her heart!

* * * * *

"Well done"--a laughing Goblin said-- Escaping from this gaseous strife-- "'Tis not the _first_ time Love has made "A _blow-up_ in connubial life!"

REMONSTRANCE.

_After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. _

What! _thou_, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-- Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt _thou_ be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena, where all that is grand And devoted and pure and adorning in life, 'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it--while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think for an instant thy country can spare Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence--not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade, Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree Set apart for the Fane and its service divine, So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree Are by Liberty _claimed_ for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said--"were he ordained to run "His long career of life again, "He would do all that he _had_ done."-- Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise--of time it tells, Lavished unwisely, carelessly: Of counsel mockt; of talents made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire, Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That crost my pathway, for his star.-- All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again. With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away-- All--but that Freedom of the Mind Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won,-- No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single tint unborrowed from the sun; But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro', That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But between love and wine and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then wish me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny dearest, thy image lies; But ah! the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it thro' sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beams clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow--

Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

CARM. 70.

_dicebas quondam, etc_.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love, That I had all that heart of thine; That, even to share the couch of Jove, Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then! Not with the vague and vulgar fires Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,-- But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;-- I know thee now--and tho' these eyes Doat on thee wildly as before, Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress--mad as it may seem-- With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee, That passion even outlives esteem. And I at once adore--and scorn thee.

CARM. II.

_pauca nunciate meae puellae_.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er The fates have willed thro' life I've roved, Now speed ye home, and with you bear These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run, Where'er her vain caprice may call; Of all her dupes not loving one, But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget--what now is past-- Our once dear love, whose rain lies Like a fair flower, the meadow's last. Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!

CARM. 29.

_peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle_.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye Of all peninsulas and isles, That in our lakes of silver lie, Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles--

How gladly back to thee I fly! Still doubting, asking--_can_ it be That I have left Bithynia's sky, And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find Our hearts at ease, our perils past; When, anxious long, the lightened mind Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep, Again we tread the welcome floor Of our own home, and sink to sleep On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone The ills of all life's former track.-- Shine out, my beautiful, my own Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

_nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., Lib. iv. Carm. 13_.

"Never shall woman's smile have power "To win me from those gentle charms!"-- Thus swore I, in that happy hour, When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight-- Still, tho' our city proudly shine With forms and faces, fair and bright, I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me, And couldst no heart but mine allure!-- To all men else unpleasing be, So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest Of others' envy, others' praise; But, in its silence safely blest, Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power All cares are husht, all ills subdued-- My light in even the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam Made mischief enough in their day:-- God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam, Depends not on _us_, the same way. For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple, The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take _from_ thee the apple, Like Paris, at once give it _to_ thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,-- (And, heaven knows, too oft they _are_ so,)-- For instance, that we have, instead Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, First course--a Phoenix, at the head. Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing. Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl: Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, When Cupid shoots his mother's pets. Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; And nightingales, berhymed to death-- Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; But as for me, who've long been taught To eat and drink like other people; And can put up with mutton, bought Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple-- If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, 'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup, Beneath his influence brightening up, Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!--even the pen, So lately at that mind's command, Carelessly lying, as if then Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have past, Since Life and Inspiration's power Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman Found in some vanished wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone Around that pen's exploring track, Be now, with its great master, gone, Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, Each earth-born spell it worked arise Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; The unshrinking truth that lets her light Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall, Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along, O'er scenes which angels weep to see-- Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong, In pity of the Misery.

True bard!--and simple, as the race Of true-born poets ever are, When, stooping from their starry place, They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall, 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced, In life, as in his perfect strain, With that pure, mellowing power of Taste, Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind, Pregnant with genius tho' it be, But half the treasures of a mind, Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:--

Friend of long years! of friendship tried Thro' many a bright and dark event; In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide-- In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day, And all were guests of one whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes--as in those shells Where Ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound--immortal dwells Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then, Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again, Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word, Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day--tho' _one_ Unworthy brother there had place; As 'mong the horses of the Sun, One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, _next_ to Genius is the power Of feeling where true Genius lies; And there was light around that hour Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze, Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanisht days, Brightly, indeed--but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair, Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring For ever round thee, _which_ to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou _art_, Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart-- The graceful child in Beauty's dawn Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out--like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tower I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away;-- Or in the world's resplendent throng, As I have markt thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;-- A creature circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell; And fresh and clear as from the source. Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa thro' the sea, Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And showd'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, The enamored muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that, fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (_if_ fame it be) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever--ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking; And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows, The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;-- One to whom all the world's a debtor-- So Doctor Hymen was called in, And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Tho' still some ugly fever latent;-- "Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate. For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call, So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

_carbone notati_.

Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-- Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be, To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven They had once within reach--that they _might_ have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat Ever rose 'bove the _zero_ of Castlereagh's heart. That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed The fresh air of the olden time whispered about; And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed, But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame, FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view, And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--

That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath; Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"-- If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if _such_ are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss; Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal Life into her soul, Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said, One drop of Doubt into the bowl--

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips--she knew not why-- Made even that blessed nectar seem As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love, A chill came o'er her heart--a fear That Death might, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed. Twining them round her snowy fingers; "That forehead, where a light unnamed, "Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever-- "Say, are they mine, beyond all death, "My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not--I know that starry brow, "Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine, "Will always shine, as they do now-- "But shall _I_ live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes "On all that sparkles round thee here-- "Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies, "And in these arms--what _canst_ thou fear?"

In vain--the fatal drop, that stole Into that cup's immortal treasure, Had lodged its bitter near her soul. And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Here is the only face in heaven, That wears a cloud amid its joy.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, "There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- "It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky, Is that remembrance which the wise and good Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be, Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee-- So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife, Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm, Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When _first_ the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine! And thus awhile they keep their tint, So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would _ever_ come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short, Each minute makes the sad truth plainer, Till life, like old and crusty port, When near its close, requires a strainer.

_This_ friendship can alone confer, Alone can teach the drops to pass, If not as bright as _once_ they were, At least unclouded, thro' the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine. Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if life grow like old wine, To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last; Long as he breathed the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe past In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was _in_, whoe'er was _out_, Whatever statesmen did or said, If not exactly brought about, 'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar-- (Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo-- As all but Frenchmen think she was-- To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag E'er past so many secrets thro' it; Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in! From Russia, _shefs_ and _ofs_ in lots, From Poland, _owskis_ by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed, Turned out the last Whig ministry, And men asked--who advised the deed? Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss, He had not downright _seen_ the King, He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_, To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The Drama, Books, MS. and printed-- Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there infused some soul in't-- Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.

* * * * *

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ----.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remembered well As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head, My name as by some spirit said, And, looking up, saw two bright eyes Above me from a casement shine, Dazzling my mind with such surprise As they, who sail beyond the Line, Feel when new stars above them rise;-- And it was thine, the voice that spoke, Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then; And thine the eye whose lustre broke-- Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave A song of that sweet summer-eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy. Danced till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again Of the fresh light those moments cast.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance-- (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, Preferring a coquette from France, That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)--

Having been chased from London down To that most humble haunt of all She used to grace--a Country Town-- Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven "From London's gay and shining tracks-- "Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven, "I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--

"Tho' not a London Miss alive "Would now for her acquaintance own me; "And spinsters, even, of forty-five, "Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still, "And--spite of some few dandy Lancers. "Who vainly try to preach Quadrille-- "See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, "My throne, like Magna Charta, raise "'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, "That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_."

'Twas thus she said, as mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's Head Inn, And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all, With young Squirinas, just _come out_, And my Lord's daughters from the Hall, (Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)--

All these, as light she tript upstairs, Were in the cloak-room seen assembling-- When, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops--she listens--_can_ it be? Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it-- It _is "Di tanti palpiti"_ As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however--in she goes, With her best, sweeping country grace; When, ah too true, her worst of foes, Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin, Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in, Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face (The beau-ideal of French beauty), A band-box thing, all art and lace Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from _Victorine_-- From _Hippolyte_, her rouge and hair-- Her poetry, from _Lamartine_-- Her morals, from--the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced--so slidingly, So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate, No signs of life or motion showing. Like a bright _pendule's_ dial-plate-- So still, you'd hardly think 'twas _going_.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance-- A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance-- English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little _gauche_, 'tis fair to own, And rather given to skips and bounces; Endangering thereby many a gown, And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike _Mamselle_--who would prefer (As morally a lesser ill) A thousand flaws of character, To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did She of Albion wear; Let her but run that two-heat race She calls a _Set_, not Dian e'er Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't Such anger now--whose eyes of blue (Eyes of that bright, victorious tint, Which English maids call "Waterloo")--

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk Of a warm evening, flashing broke. While--to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1] Which struck up now--she proudly spoke--

"Heard you that strain--that joyous strain? "'Twas such as England loved to hear, "Ere thou and all thy frippery train, "Corrupted both her foot and ear--

"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands, "Presumed, in sight of all beholders, "To lay his rude, licentious hands "On virtuous English backs and shoulders--

"Ere times and morals both grew bad, "And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads, "Happy John Bull not only _had_, "But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!--Oh, Londonderry, "Where is the land could 'scape disasters, "With _such_ a Foreign Secretary, "Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops! "Rulers of day-books and of waves! "Quadrilled, on one side, into fops, "And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen, "Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition, "With elbows, _à la crapaudine_, "And feet, in--God knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons, "Inspectors of your airs and graces, "Who intercept all whispered tones, "And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored, "In that grim _cordon_ of Mammas, "To interchange one tender word, "Tho' whispered but in _queue-de-chats_.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged, "Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle-- "What looks in _setting_ were exchanged, "What tender words in _down the middle_;

"How many a couple, like the wind, "Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind, "And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve--ere stopt "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting-- "How charmingly one's partner propt "The important question in _poussetteing_.

"While now, alas--no sly advances-- "No marriage hints--all goes on badly-- "'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances, "We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) "Declares not half so much is made "By Licences--and he must know well-- "Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased--tears fell from every Miss-- She now had touched the true pathetic:-- One such authentic fact as this, Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!" And the maid saw with brightening face, The Steward of the night advance, And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, Now tuned again their summons sweet, And, for one happy night, at least, Old England's triumph was complete.

[1] An old English country dance.

GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in the unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye Can see the blush of future bowers; And joy it brings to thee and me, My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way, To feed the marble Founts of Kings, Now, loosened by the vernal ray, Upon its path exulting springs-- As doth this bounding heart to thee, My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay; Enough if they awhile remain, Like Irem's bowers, that fade away. From time to time, and come again. And life shall all one Irem be For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart, Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, That rends its inmost leaves apart With passion for the nightingale; So languishes this soul for thee, My bright and blushing Maami!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.

If ever life was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife. The simple heart above all worldly wiles; Light wit that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower, Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves And brightens every gift by fortune given; That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye like him may live, like him may die!

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

_scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur_. SENECA.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned, As Nature meant, supreme alone; With mind unchekt, and hands unchained, His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave With its own sceptre, could not last; So Genius' self became the slave Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, Was, ever after, doomed to wear it: His nods, his struggles all too late-- "_Qui semel jussit, semper paret_."

To check young Genius' proud career, The slaves who now his throne invaded, Made Criticism his prime Vizir, And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school, Afraid of even his own ambition, His very victories were by rule, And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds--the same, That dazzled, when spontaneous actions-- Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame, And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air, Instant, the Vizir's Council sat-- "Good Lord, your Highness can't go there-- "Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy Rich jewels for his diadem, "The taste was bad, the price was high-- "A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers-- "What trifling, what unmeaning things! "Fit for a woman's toilet hours, "But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere, He played no more the rambling comet-- "A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear, "But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans, For realms more worthy to enthrone him?-- "Saint Aristotle, what wild notions! "Serve a '_ne exeat regno_' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do, They round him placed a guard of watchmen, Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue Turned up with yellow--chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about Like those in Longwood's prison grounds, Who at Napoleon's heels rode out, For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power, Some _Ultra_ spirit, to set free, As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour, The thunders of his Royalty!--

To vindicate his ancient line, The first, the true, the only one, Of Right eternal and divine, That rules beneath the blessed sun.

TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Oh albums, albums, how I dread Your everlasting scrap and scrawl! How often wish that from the dead Old Omar would pop forth his head, And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band, The blushless blues, who, day and night, Like duns in doorways, take their stand, To waylay bards, with book in hand, Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain, That o'er me at this instant come, When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, Knocks at the portal of my brain, And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

_November, 1828_.

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low, From Byron down to ***** and me, Should seek the fame which all bestow On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes, At once all errors are forgiven; As even old Sternhold still we prize, Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.

AT NIGHT.[1]

At night, when all is still around. How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light! What pleasure in the anxious beat, With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say "'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay, Tho' still the western clouds are bright; Oh! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress. With those we love exchanged at night!

[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

_Paris, July_, 1821

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that, And wondering much what little knavish sprite Had put it first in women's heads to write:-- Sudden I saw--as in some witching dream-- A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam, From whose quick-opening folds of azure light Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head, Some sunny morning from a violet bed. "Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"-- "A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name BAS BLEU-- "A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading; "'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding, "The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, "The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, "And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain "With metaphysics twirl it back again!" I viewed him, as he spoke--his hose were blue, His wings--the covers of the last Review-- Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue, And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear, Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair. "Inspired by me--(pursued this waggish Fairy)-- "That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, "Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, "Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. "For me the eyes of young Camilla shine, "And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; "For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, "Looks wise--the pretty soul!--and _thinks_ she's thinking. "By my advice Miss Indigo attends "Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, "''Pon honor!--(_mimics_)--nothing can surpass the plan "'Of that professor--(_trying to recollect_)--psha! that memory-man-- "'That--what's his name?--him I attended lately-- "''Pon honor, he improved _my_ memory greatly.'" Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite, What share he had in this our play to-night. 'Nay, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltless quite-- "What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time "When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme; "When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild, "Blushed without art, and without culture smiled-- "Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone, "Ere Science called their brilliant world her own, "Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders, "And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!-- "No, no--your gentle Inas will not do-- "To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, "I'll come--(_pointing downwards_)--you understand--till then adieu!"

And _has_ the sprite been here! No--jests apart-- Howe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true The wife--the mother--firm, yet gentle too-- Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touched in the remotest one; Who loves--yet dares even Love himself disown, When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne: If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils.

THE DAY-DREAM.[1]

They both were husht, the voice, the chords,-- I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words. My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there, Like echoes of some broken strain;-- Links of a sweetness lost in air, That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled; And, tho' the charm still lingered on, That o'er each sense her song had shed, The song itself was faded, gone;--

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Tho' _what_ they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come-- As birds are taught on eastern plains To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:--the song that Sappho gave, In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay In that half-waking mood when dreams Unwillingly at last gave way To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face--the very face, methought, From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought-- Came with its music close to mine;

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,-- Each note and word, with every tone And look, that lent it life before,-- All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest They meet again, each widowed sound Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor even in waking did the clew, Thus strangely caught, escape again; For never lark its matins knew So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft when memory's wondrous spell Is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song, and tell The vision of that morning hour.

[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.

SONG.

Where is the heart that would not give Years of drowsy days and nights, One little hour, like this, to live-- Full, to the brim, of life's delights? Look, look around, This fairy ground, With love-lights glittering o'er; While cups that shine With freight divine Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours, Memory lives in those gone by; Neither can see the moment's flowers Springing up fresh beneath the eye, Wouldst thou, or thou, Forego what's _now_, For all that Hope may say? No--Joy's reply, From every eye, Is, "Live we while we may,"

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

_haud curat Hippoclides_. ERASM. _Adag_.

To those we love we've drank tonight; But now attend and stare not, While I the ampler list recite Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown, If on their fronts they bear not That noblest gem that decks a crown, The People's Love--WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath A despot yoke, yet dare not Pronounce the will whose very breath Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway And wealth, tho' they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go--WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword, Howe'er it conquers, wear not The pledges of a soldier's word, Redeemed and pure--WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong. And, tho' to lies they swear not, Are hardly better than the throng Of those who do--WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon The land, like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun Their crawling limbs--WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines In darkness hid, and share not The paltry ore with him who pines In honest want--WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power Of Love aloof, and bare not Their hearts in any guardless hour To Beauty's shaft--WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea, In camp or court, who _are_ not, Who never _were_, or e'er _will_ be Good men and true--WE CARE NOT.

ANNE BOLEYN.

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL

"_Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."_

_"S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante, Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos En les lenant quelquefoys en repos; Aucune foys envoyant en message Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage_."

Much as her form seduced the sight, Her eyes could even more surely woo; And when and how to shoot their light Into men's hearts full well she knew. For sometimes in repose she hid Their rays beneath a downcast lid; And then again, with wakening air, Would send their sunny glances out, Like heralds of delight, to bear Her heart's sweet messages about.

THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

_Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente Prima raggio nel monte Citerea, Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente, Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea Donna vedere andar per una landa Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;-- Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda, Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda-- Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno; Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno_.

_Ell' è de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga, Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani; Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga_.

DANTE, _Purg. Canto xxvii_.

'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above. The star of beauty beamed, While lulled by light so full of love, In slumber thus I dreamed-- Methought, at that sweet hour, A nymph came o'er the lea, Who, gathering many a flower, Thus said and sung to me:-- "Should any ask what Leila loves, "Say thou, To wreathe her hair "With flowerets culled from glens and groves, "Is Leila's only care.

"While thus in quest of flowers rare, "O'er hill and dale I roam, "My sister, Rachel, far more fair, "Sits lone and mute at home. "Before her glass untiring, "With thoughts that never stray, "Her own bright eyes admiring, "She sits the live-long day; "While I!--oh, seldom even a look "Of self salutes my eye; "My only glass, the limpid brook, "That shines and passes by."

SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams That fairy scene went on; Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams Tho' day itself is gone. And gracefully to music's sound, The same bright nymphs were gliding round; While thou, the Queen of all, wert there-- The Fairest still, where all were fair. The dream then changed--in halls of state, I saw thee high enthroned; While, ranged around, the wise, the great, In thee their mistress owned; And still the same, thy gentle sway O'er willing subjects won its way-- Till all confest the Right Divine To rule o'er man was only thine!

But, lo, the scene now changed again-- And borne on plumed steed, I saw thee o'er the battle-plain Our land's defenders lead: And stronger in thy beauty's charms, Than man, with countless hosts in arms, Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free, Thy very smile was victory!

Nor reign such queens on thrones alone-- In cot and court the same, Wherever woman's smile is known, Victoria's still her name. For tho' she almost blush to reign, Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain, Disguise our bondage as we will, 'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.

Come, play me that simple air again, I used so to love, in life's young day, And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then Were wakened by that sweet lay The tender gloom its strain Shed o'er the heart and brow Grief's shadow without its pain-- Say where, where is it now? But play me the well-known air once more, For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain Like dreams of some far, fairy shore We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back Some sunny hope, some daydream bright, That, shining o'er life's early track, Filled even its tears with light. The new-found life that came With love's first echoed vow;-- The fear, the bliss, the shame-- Ah--where, where are they now? But, still the same loved notes prolong, For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay, In dreams of youth and love and song, To breathe life's hour away.

POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN

(1827.)

THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.

Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion, ever moves and lives, Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave Ascending, in procession slow and grave, Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands: While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts-- Glide with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory, Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds Of lotos flowers that close above their heads, Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour, While haply, not far off, beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias, many a prank Is played in the cool current by a train Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast; But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.

FIRST CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--Osiris sips The same in his halls below; And the same he gives, to cool the lips Of the dead, who downward go.

Drink of this cup--the water within Is fresh from Lethe's stream; 'Twill make the past, with all its sin, And all its pain and sorrows, seem Like a long forgotten dream; The pleasure, whose charms Are steeped in woe; The knowledge, that harms The soul to know;

The hope, that bright As the lake of the waste, Allures the sight And mocks the taste;

The love, that binds Its innocent wreath, Where the serpent winds In venom beneath!--

All that of evil or false, by thee Hath ever been known or seen, Shalt melt away in this cup, and be Forgot as it never had been!

SECOND CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--when Isis led Her boy of old to the beaming sky, She mingled a draught divine and said.-- "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

Thus do I say and sing to thee. Heir of that boundless heaven on high, Though frail and fallen and lost thou be, "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

* * * * *

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, Dreams of a former, happier day, When heaven was still the spirit's home, And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot, That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, What once hath been, what now is not. But oh! what again shall brightly be!"

SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

O Abyssinian tree, We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit And the violet hue of the flower, And the greeting mute Of thy boughs' salute To the stranger who seeks thy bow.

O Abyssinian tree! How the traveller blesses thee When the light no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near, And thou bend'st thy boughs To kiss his brows. Saying, "Come, rest thee here." O Abyssinian tree! Thus bow thy head to me!

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening--of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments--I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful and happy _jeu d'esprit_ on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

_Sloperton Cottage_,

_November 1881_

[1] Lord Francis Egerton.

THE SUMMER FÊTE

"Where are ye now, ye summer days, "That once inspired the poet's lays? "Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals-- "Summers of light, undimmed by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains "In watering-pots and parasols."

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, As, on the morning of that Fête Which bards unborn shall celebrate, She backward drew her curtain's shade, And, closing one half-dazzled eye, Peeped with the other at the sky-- The important sky, whose light or gloom Was to decide, this day, the doom Of some few hundred beauties, wits, Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.

Faint were her hopes; for June had now Set in with all his usual rigor! Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how To nurse a bud, or fan a bough, But Eurus in perpetual vigor; And, such the biting summer air, That she, the nymph now nestling there-- Snug as her own bright gems recline At night within their cotton shrine-- Had more than once been caught of late Kneeling before her blazing grate, Like a young worshipper of fire, With hands uplifted to the flame, Whose glow as if to woo them nigher. Thro' the white fingers flushing came.

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, That now illumed this morning's heaven! Up sprung Iänthe at the sight, Tho'--hark!--the clocks but strike eleven, And rarely did the nymph surprise Mankind so early with her eyes. Who now will say that England's sun (Like England's self, these spendthrift days) His stock of wealth hath near outrun, And must retrench his golden rays-- Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moonshine come at last?

"Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries, While coming mirth lit up each glance, And, prescient of the ball, her eyes Already had begun to dance: For brighter sun than that which now Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers, Had never bent from heaven his brow To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.

What must it be--if thus so fair. Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square-- What must it be where Thames is seen Gliding between his banks of green, While rival villas, on each side, Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, And, like a Turk between two rows Of Harem beauties, on he goes-- A lover, loved for even the grace With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes, One, the most flowery, cool, and bright Of all by which that river roams, The Fête is to be held to-night-- That Fête already linked to fame, Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight (When looked for long, at last they came,) Seemed circled with a fairy light;-- That Fête to which the cull, the flower Of England's beauty, rank and power, From the young spinster, just come _out_, To the old Premier, too long _in_-- From legs of far descended gout, To the last new-mustachioed chin-- All were convoked by Fashion's spells To the small circle where she dwells, Collecting nightly, to allure us, Live atoms, which, together hurled, She, like another Epicurus, Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."

Behold how busy in those bowers (Like May-flies in and out of flowers.) The countless menials, swarming run, To furnish forth ere set of sun The banquet-table richly laid Beneath yon awning's lengthened shade, Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice, And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call, Breathe from her summer-throne of ice A spirit of coolness over all.

And now the important hour drew nigh, When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky, The west-end "world" for mirth let loose, And moved, as he of Syracuse[1] Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force Of four horse power, had all combined Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course, Leaving that portion of mankind, Whom they call "Nobody," behind; No star for London's feasts to-day, No moon of beauty, new this May, To lend the night her crescent ray;-- Nothing, in short, for ear or eye, But veteran belles and wits gone by, The relics of a past beau-monde, A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned! Even Parliament this evening nods Beneath the harangues of minor Gods, On half its usual opiate's share; The great dispensers of repose, The first-rate furnishers of prose Being all called to--prose elsewhere.

Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square-- That last impregnable redoubt, Where, guarded with Patrician care, Primeval Error still holds out-- Where never gleam of gas must dare 'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt, Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare The dowagers one single jolt;-- Where, far too stately and sublime To profit by the lights of time, Let Intellect march how it will, They stick to oil and watchman still:-- Soon as thro' that illustrious square The first epistolary bell. Sounding by fits upon the air, Of parting pennies rung the knell; Warned by that tell-tale of the hours, And by the day-light's westering beam, The young Iänthe, who, with flowers Half crowned, had sat in idle dream Before her glass, scarce knowing where Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair, While, all capriciously, she now Dislodged some curl from her white brow, And now again replaced it there:-- As tho' her task was meant to be One endless change of ministry-- A routing-up of Loves and Graces, But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile--what strain is that which floats Thro' the small boudoir near--like notes Of some young bird, its task repeating For the next linnet music-meeting? A voice it was, whose gentle sounds Still kept a modest octave's bounds, Nor yet had ventured to exalt Its rash ambition to _B alt_, That point towards which when ladies rise, The wise man takes his hat and--flies. Tones of a harp, too, gently played, Came with this youthful voice communing; Tones true, for once, without the aid Of that inflictive process, tuning-- A process which must oft have given Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; So pleased, among the joys of Heaven, He specifies "harps _ever_ tuned." She who now sung this gentle strain Was our young nymph's still younger sister-- Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train In their light legions to enlist her, But counted on, as sure to bring Her force into the field next spring.

The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, Gave forth "so sweetly and so well," Was one in Morning Post much famed, From a _divine_ collection, named, "Songs of the Toilet"--every Lay Taking for subject of its Muse, Some branch of feminine array, Some item, with full scope, to choose, From diamonds down to dancing shoes; From the last hat that Herbault's hands Bequeathed to an admiring world, Down to the latest flounce that stands Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.

Speaking of one of these new Lays, The Morning Post thus sweetly says:-- "Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre, "That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, "Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire, "This fine Cantata upon Sleeves. "The very notes themselves reveal "The cut of each new sleeve so well; "A _flat_ betrays the _Imbécilles_,[2] "Light fugues the flying lappets tell; "While rich cathedral chords awake 'Our homage for the _Manches d'Évêque_."

'Twas the first opening song the Lay Of all least deep in toilet-lore, That the young nymph, to while away The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:--

SONG.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all thy best array thee; The sun's below--the moon's above-- And Night and Bliss obey thee. Put on thee all that's bright and rare, The zone, the wreath, the gem, Not so much gracing charms so fair, As borrowing grace from them. Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all that's bright array thee; The sun's below--the moon's above-- And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on the plumes thy lover gave. The plumes, that, proudly dancing, Proclaim to all, where'er they wave, Victorious eyes advancing. Bring forth the robe whose hue of heaven From thee derives such light, That Iris would give all her seven To boast but _one_ so bright. Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee. And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Will beat when they come nigh thee. Thy every word shall be a spell, Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell The glory of thy way! Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Shall beat when they come nigh thee.

* * * * *

Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fanned to rest, Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept-- Struggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile e'er he slept. How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames The golden eve its lustre poured, Shone out the high-born knights and dames Now grouped around that festal board; A living mass of plumes and flowers. As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers-- A peopled rainbow, swarming thro' With habitants of every hue; While, as the sparkling juice of France High in the crystal brimmers flowed, Each sunset ray that mixt by chance With the wine's sparkles, showed How sunbeams may be taught to dance. If not in written form exprest, 'Twas known at least to every guest, That, tho' not bidden to parade Their scenic powers in masquerade, (A pastime little found to thrive In the bleak fog of England's skies, Where wit's the thing we best contrive, As masqueraders, to _disguise_,) It yet was hoped-and well that hope Was answered by the young and gay-- That in the toilet's task to-day Fancy should take her wildest scope;-- That the rapt milliner should be Let loose thro fields of poesy, The tailor, in inventive trance, Up to the heights of Epic clamber, And all the regions of Romance Be ransackt by the _femme de chambre_.

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas-- Circassian slaves whom Love would pay Half his maternal realms to ransom;-- Young nuns, whose chief religion lay In looking most profanely handsome;-- Muses in muslin-pastoral maids With hats from the _Arcade-ian_ shades, And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, As fortune-_hunters_ formed their train.

With these and more such female groups, Were mixt no less fantastic troops Of male exhibitors--all willing To look even more than usual killing;-- Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios, And brigands, charmingly ferocious:-- M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then, Who, last night, voted for the Greeks; And Friars, stanch No-Popery men, In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she--the nymph whom late We left before her glass delaying Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, In the clear wave her charms surveying, And saw in that first glassy mirror The first fair face that lured to error. "Where is she," ask'st thou?--watch all looks As centring to one point they bear, Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks, Turned to the sun--and she is there. Even in disguise, oh never doubt By her own light you'd track her out: As when the moon, close shawled in fog, Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven _incog_., Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night Hath our young heroine veiled her light;-- For see, she walks the earth, Love's own. His wedded bride, by _holiest_ vow Pledged in Olympus, and made known To mortals by the type which now Hangs glittering on her snowy brow, That butterfly, mysterious trinket, Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it), And sparkling thus on brow so white, Tells us we've Psyche here tonight! But hark! some song hath caught her ears-- And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'er Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres, Her goddess-ship approves the air; And to a mere terrestrial strain, Inspired by naught but pink champagne, Her butterfly as gayly nods As tho' she sate with all her train At some great Concert of the Gods, With Phoebus, leader--Jove, director, And half the audience drunk with nectar.

From the male group the carol came-- A few gay youths whom round the board The last-tried flask's superior fame Had lured to taste the tide it poured; And one who from his youth and lyre Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire, Thus gayly sung, while, to his song, Replied in chorus the gay throng:--

SONG.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; But, as I'm not particular--wit, love, and wine, Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. Nay--humble and strange as my tastes may appear-- If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven, To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven. So pledge me a bumper--your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offered, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! In the mean time, a bumper--your Angels, on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are _not_ Angels, why--let the flask fly-- We must be happy _all_ ways that we can.

* * * * *

Now nearly fled was sunset's light, Leaving but so much of its beam As gave to objects, late so blight, The coloring of a shadowy dream; And there was still where Day had set A flush that spoke him loath to die-- A last link of his glory yet, Binding together earth and sky. Say, why is it that twilight best Becomes even brows the loveliest? That dimness with its softening Touch Can bring out grace unfelt before, And charms we ne'er can see too much, When seen but half enchant the more? Alas, it is that every joy In fulness finds its worst alloy, And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed, Is sweeter than the whole possest;-- That Beauty, when least shone upon, A creature most ideal grows; And there's no light from moon or sun Like that Imagination throws;-- It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks Even from a bright reality, And turning inly, feels and thinks For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bower, Now wandered thro' this fairy ground; And thus did Fancy--and champagne-- Work on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain, Now brightened in the gloom to belles; And the brief interval of time, 'Twixt after dinner and before, To dowagers brought back their prime, And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; And now along the waters fly Light gondoles, of Venetian breed, With knights and dames who, calm reclined, Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide-- Astonishing old Thames to find Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river, With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver, That many a group in turn were seen Embarking on its wave serene; And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay, A band of mariners, from the isles Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, As smooth they floated, to the play Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:--

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy, Our home is on the sea; When Nature gave The ocean-wave, She markt it for the Free. Whatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall, The island bark Is Freedom's ark, And floats her safe thro' all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, Behold yon sea of isles, Where every shore Is sparkling o'er With Beauty's richest smiles. For us hath Freedom claimed, boy, For us hath Freedom claimed Those ocean-nests Where Valor rests His eagle wing untamed.

And shall the Moslem dare, boy, And shall the Moslem dare, While Grecian hand Can wield a brand, To plant his Crescent there? No--by our fathers, no, boy, No, by the Cross, we show-- From Maina's rills To Thracia's hills All Greece re-echoes "No!"

* * * * *

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind A minute come and go again, Even so by snatches in the wind, Was caught and lost that choral strain, Now full, now faint upon the ear, As the bark floated far or near. At length when, lost, the closing note Had down the waters died along, Forth from another fairy boat, Freighted with music, came this song--

SONG.

Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales, Gentle river, thy current runs, Sheltered safe from winter gales, Shaded cool from summer suns. Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide. Fenced with flowery shelter round; No rude tempest wakes the tide, All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come, When, wooed by whispering groves in vain, Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, To mingle with the stormy main. And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass Into the world's unsheltered sea, Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas, All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon, Resplendent as a summer noon, Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-- (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)-- Quadrille performs her mazy rites, And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;--

Working to death each opera strain, As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs thro' sacred and profane, From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"--[3] Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, Till fagged Rossini scarce respires; Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, And Weber at her feet expires.

And now the set hath ceased--the bows Of fiddlers taste a brief repose, While light along the painted floor, Arm within arm, the couples stray, Talking their stock of nothings o'er, Till--nothing's left at last to say. When lo!--most opportunely sent-- Two Exquisites, a he and she, Just brought from Dandyland, and meant For Fashion's grand Menagerie, Entered the room--and scarce were there When all flocked round them, glad to stare At _any_ monsters, _any_ where. Some thought them perfect, to their tastes; While others hinted that the waists (That in particular of the _he_ thing) Left far too ample room for breathing: Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes, The isthmus there should be so small, That Exquisites, at last, like fishes, Must manage not to breathe at all. The female (these same critics said), Tho' orthodox from toe to chin, Yet lacked that spacious width of head To hat of toadstool much akin-- That build of bonnet, whose extent Should, like a doctrine of dissent, Puzzle church-doors to let it in.

However--sad as 'twas, no doubt, That nymph so smart should go about, With head unconscious of the place It _ought_ to fill in Infinite Space-- Yet all allowed that, of her kind, A prettier show 'twas hard to find; While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men," The male was thought a first-rate specimen. Such _Savans_, too, as wisht to trace The manners, habits, of this race-- To know what rank (if rank at all) 'Mong reasoning things to them should fall-- What sort of notions heaven imparts To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts And how far Soul, which, Plato says, Abhors restraint, can act in stays-- Might now, if gifted with discerning, Find opportunities of learning: As these two creatures--from their pout And frown, 'twas plain--had just fallen out; And all their little thoughts, of course. Were stirring in full fret and force;-- Like mites, through microscope espied, A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek, The tempest of their souls to speak: As Opera swains to fiddles sigh, To fiddles fight, to fiddles die, Even so this tender couple set Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

WALTZ DUET.

HE. Long as I waltzed with only thee, Each blissful Wednesday that went by, Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee Adorned a youth so blest as I. Oh! ah! ah! oh! Those happy days are gone--heigho!

SHE. Long as with thee I skimmed the ground, Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane, No blither nymph tetotumed round To Collinet's immortal strain. Oh! ah! etc. Those happy days are gone--heigho!

HE. With Lady Jane now whirled about, I know no bounds of time or breath; And, should the charmer's head hold out, My heart and heels are hers till death. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round thro' life we'll go.

SHE. To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son, A youth renowned for waistcoats smart, I now have given (excuse the pun) A vested interest in my heart. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE. What if by fond remembrance led Again to wear our mutual chain. For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle dead, And I _levant_ from Lady Jane. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE. Tho' he the Noodle honors give, And thine, dear youth, are not so high, With thee in endless waltz I'd live, With thee, to Weber's Stop-- Waltz, die! Oh! ah! etc. Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.

[_Exeunt waltzing_.

* * * * *

While thus, like motes that dance away Existence in a summer ray, These gay things, born but to quadrille, The circle of their doom fulfil-- (That dancing doom whose law decrees That they should live on the alert toe A life of ups-and-downs, like keys Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:--) While thus the fiddle's spell, _within_, Calls up its realm of restless sprites. _Without_, as if some Mandarin Were holding there his Feast of Lights, Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers, Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, Till, budding into light, each tree Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er, As tho' the Spirits of the Air Had taken it in their heads to pour A shower of summer meteors there;-- While here a lighted shrubbery led To a small lake that sleeping lay, Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head, Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; While round its rim there burning stood Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, That shrunk from such warm neighborhood, And, looking bashful in the flood, Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.

Hither, to this embowered retreat, Fit but for nights so still and sweet; Nights, such as Eden's calm recall In its first lonely hour, when all So silent is, below, on high, That is a star falls down the sky, You almost think you hear it fall-- Hither, to this recess, a few, To shun the dancers' wildering noise, And give an hour, ere night-time flew, To music's more ethereal joys, Came with their voices-ready all As Echo waiting for a call-- In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee, To weave their mingling ministrelsy, And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed-- Like her whom Art hath deathless made, Bright Mona Lisa[4]--with that braid Of hair across the brow, and one Small gem that in the centre shone-- With face, too, in its form resembling Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes, Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling, Now soft as if suffused with sighs-- Her lute that hung beside her took, And, bending o'er it with shy look, More beautiful, in shadow thus, Than when with life most luminous, Past her light finger o'er the chords, And sung to them these mournful words:--

SONG.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying-- Here will I lay me and list to thy song; Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long, Chase them away-they bring but pain, And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute--day is fast going, Soon will its light from thy chords die away; One little gleam in the west is still glowing, When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay. Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled! Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group that late in garb of Greeks Sung their light chorus o'er the tide-- Forms, such as up the wooded creeks Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide, Or nightly on her glistening sea, Woo the bright waves with melody-- Now linked their triple league again Of voices sweet, and sung a strain, Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear But caught it, on the fatal steep, She would have paused, entranced, to hear, And for that day deferred her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling, Beneath my casement, low and soft, I heard a Lesbian lover sing; And, listening both with ear and thought, These sounds upon the night breeze caught-- "Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung, In the first love-dreams of her lyre, When words of passion from her tongue Fell like a shower of living fire. And still, at close of every strain, I heard these burning words again-- "Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turned Each asking eye--nor turned in vain Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned Bright o'er her cheek and died again, Showed with what inly shame and fear Was uttered what all loved to hear. Yet not to sorrow's languid lay Did she her lute-song now devote; But thus, with voice that like a ray Of southern sunshine seemed to float-- So rich with climate was each note-- Called up in every heart a dream Of Italy with this soft theme:--

SONG.

Oh, where art thou dreaming, On land, or on sea? In my lattice is gleaming The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers Should wake from their rest; 'Tis the hour of all hours, When the lute singeth best, But the flowers are half sleeping Till _thy_ glance they see; And the husht lute is keeping Its music for thee. Yet, thou com'st not!

* * * * *

Scarce had the last word left her lip, When a light, boyish form, with trip Fantastic, up the green walk came, Prankt in gay vest to which the flame Of every lamp he past, or blue Or green or crimson, lent its hue; As tho' a live chameleon's skin He had despoiled, to robe him in. A zone he wore of clattering shells, And from his lofty cap, where shone A peacock's plume, there dangled bells That rung as he came dancing on. Close after him, a page--in dress And shape, his miniature express-- An ample basket, filled with store Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore; Till, having reached this verdant seat, He laid it at his master's feet, Who, half in speech and half in song, Chanted this invoice to the throng:--

SONG.

Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?-- We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; Besides our usual fools' supply, We've lots of playthings, too, for sages. For reasoners here's a juggler's cup That fullest seems when nothing's in it; And nine-pins set, like systems, up, To be knocked down the following minute. Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make. For bards to wear in dog-day weather; Or bards the bells alone may take, And leave to wits the cap and feather, Tetotums we've for patriots got, Who court the mob with antics humble; Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, A glorious spin, and then--a tumble, Who'll buy, etc.

Here, wealthy misers to inter, We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper; While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver, That, fast as they can wish, will caper. For aldermen we've dials true, That tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new, That suit alike both saint and sinner. Who'll buy, etc.

No time we've now to name our terms, But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you, This oldest of all mortal firms, Folly and Co., will try to please you. Or, should you wish a darker hue Of goods than _we_ can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. Who'll buy, etc.

While thus the blissful moments rolled, Moments of rare and fleeting light, That show themselves, like grains of gold In the mine's refuse, few and bright; Behold where, opening far away, The long Conservatory's range, Stript of the flowers it wore all day, But gaining lovelier in exchange, Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!--blithe repast Of other times, now dwindling fast, Since Dinner far into the night Advanced the march of appetite; Deployed his never-ending forces Of various vintage and three courses, And, like those Goths who played the dickens With Rome and all her sacred chickens, Put Supper and her fowls so white, Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight. Now waked once more by wine--whose tide Is the true Hippocrene, where glide The Muse's swans with happiest wing, Dipping their bills before they sing-- The minstrels of the table greet The listening ear with descant sweet:--

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE.

Call the Loves around, Let the whispering sound Of their wings be heard alone. Till soft to rest My Lady blest At this bright hour hath gone, Let Fancy's beams Play o'er her dreams, Till, touched with light all through. Her spirit be Like a summer sea, Shining and slumbering too. And, while thus husht she lies, Let the whispered chorus rise-- "Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright eyes."

But the day-beam breaks, See, our Lady wakes! Call the Loves around once more, Like stars that wait At Morning's gate, Her first steps to adore. Let the veil of night From her dawning sight All gently pass away, Like mists that flee From a summer sea, Leaving it full of day. And, while her last dream flies, Let the whispered chorus rise-- "Good morning, good morning, to our Lady's bright eyes."

SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee, If to love thee be to prize Naught of earth or heaven above thee, Nor to live but for those eyes: If such love to mortal given, Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven, 'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, For from those eyes the madness came. Forgive but thou the crime of loving In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong with thee approving, Than right with all a world to praise!

* * * * *

But say, while light these songs resound, What means that buzz of whispering round, From lip to lip--as if the Power Of Mystery, in this gay hour, Had thrown some secret (as we fling Nuts among children) to that ring Of rosy, restless lips, to be Thus scrambled for so wantonly? And, mark ye, still as each reveals The mystic news, her hearer steals A look towards yon enchanted chair, Where, like the Lady of the Masque, A nymph, as exquisitely fair As Love himself for bride could ask, Sits blushing deep, as if aware Of the winged secret circling there. Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse, What, in the name of all odd things That woman's restless brain pursues, What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale:--yon blushing maid, Who sits in beauty's light arrayed, While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise, (Who from her eyes, as all observe, is Learning by heart the Marriage Service,) Is the bright heroine of our song,-- The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long We've missed among this mortal train, We thought her winged to heaven again.

But no--earth still demands her smile; Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile. And if, for maid of heavenly birth, A young Duke's proffered heart and hand Be things worth waiting for on earth, Both are, this hour, at her command. To-night, in yonder half-lit shade, For love concerns expressly meant, The fond proposal first was made, And love and silence blusht consent Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in the air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown Of Ducal shape--but, oh, such gems! Pilfered from Peri diadems, And set in gold like that which shines To deck the Fairy of the Mines: In short, a crown all glorious--such as Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun Up in the bright orient hath begun To canter his immortal beam; And, tho' not yet arrived in sight, His leaders' nostrils send a steam Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light. What's to be done? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we: And when the day thus shines outright, Even dearest friends must bid good night. So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, Now almost a by-gone tale; Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, Now, by daylight, dim and pale; Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; Mothers who, while bored you keep Time by nodding, nod to sleep; Heads of hair, that stood last night _Crépé_, crispy, and upright, But have now, alas, one sees, a Leaning like the tower of Pisa; Fare ye will--thus sinks away All that's mighty, all that's bright: Tyre and Sidon had their day, And even a Ball--has but its night!

[1] Archimedes.

[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

[3] In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting,--_Vasari_, vol. vii.

EVENINGS IN GREECE

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."--Vol. vi. p. 174.

T.M.

EVENINGS IN GREECE.

FIRST EVENING.

"The sky is bright--the breeze is fair, "And the mainsail flowing, full and free-- "Our farewell word is woman's prayer, "And the hope before us--Liberty! "Farewell, farewell. "To Greece we give our shining blades, "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!

"The moon is in the heavens above, "And the wind is on the foaming sea-- "Thus shines the star of woman's love "On the glorious strife of Liberty! "Farewell, farewell. "To Greece we give our shining blades, "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"

Thus sung they from the bark, that now Turned to the sea its gallant prow, Bearing within its hearts as brave, As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave; And leaving on that islet's shore, Where still the farewell beacons burn, Friends that shall many a day look o'er The long, dim sea for their return.

Virgin of Heaven! speed their way-- Oh, speed their way,--the chosen flower, Of Zea's youth, the hope and stay Of parents in their wintry hour, The love of maidens and the pride Of the young, happy, blushing bride, Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died-- All, all are in that precious bark, Which now, alas! no more is seen-- Tho' every eye still turns to mark The moonlight spot where it had been.

Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires, And mothers, your beloved are gone!-- Now may you quench those signal fires, Whose light they long looked back upon From their dark deck--watching the flame As fast it faded from their view, With thoughts, that, but for manly shame, Had made them droop and weep like you. Home to your chambers! home, and pray For the bright coming of that day, When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep The Crescent from the Aegean deep, And your brave warriors, hastening back, Will bring such glories in their track, As shall, for many an age to come, Shed light around their name and home.

There is a Fount on Zea's isle, Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile All the sweet flowers, of every kind, On which the sun of Greece looks down, Pleased as a lover on the crown His mistress for her brow hath twined, When he beholds each floweret there, Himself had wisht her most to wear; Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreath Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines, And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe Their odor into Zante's wines:-- The splendid woodbine that, as eve, To grace their floral diadems, The lovely maids of Patmos weave:--[2] And that fair plant whose tangled stems Shine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread, Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:-- All these bright children of the clime, (Each at its own most genial time, The summer, or the year's sweet prime,) Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn The Valley where that Fount is born; While round, to grace its cradle green Groups of Velani oaks are seen Towering on every verdant height-- Tall, shadowy, in the evening light, Like Genii set to watch the birth Of some enchanted child of earth-- Fair oaks that over Zea's vales, Stand with their leafy pride unfurled; While Commerce from her thousand sails Scatters their fruit throughout the world![4]

'Twas here--as soon as prayer and sleep (Those truest friends to all who weep) Had lightened every heart; and made Even sorrow wear a softer shade-- 'Twas here, in this secluded spot, Amid whose breathings calm and sweet Grief might be soothed if not forgot, The Zean nymphs resolved to meet Each evening now, by the same light That saw their farewell tears that night: And try if sound of lute and song, If wandering mid the moonlight flowers In various talk, could charm along With lighter step, the lingering hours, Till tidings of that Bark should come, Or Victory waft their warriors home!

When first they met--the wonted smile Of greeting having gleamed awhile-- 'Twould touch even Moslem heart to see The sadness that came suddenly O'er their young brows, when they looked round Upon that bright, enchanted ground; And thought how many a time with those Who now were gone to the rude wars They there had met at evening's close, And danced till morn outshone the stars!

But seldom long doth hang the eclipse Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts-- The breath from her own blushing lips, That on the maiden's mirror rests, Not swifter, lighter from the glass, Than sadness from her brow doth pass.

Soon did they now, as round the Well They sat, beneath the rising moon-- And some with voice of awe would tell Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell In holy founts--while some would time Their idle lutes that now had lain For days without a single strain;-- And others, from the rest apart, With laugh that told the lightened heart, Sat whispering in each other's ear Secrets that all in turn would hear;-- Soon did they find this thoughtless play So swiftly steal their griefs away, That many a nymph tho' pleased the while, Reproached her own forgetful smile, And sighed to think she _could_ be gay.

Among these maidens there was one Who to Leucadia[5] late had been-- Had stood beneath the evening sun On its white towering cliffs and seen The very spot where Sappho sung Her swan-like music, ere she sprung (Still holding, in that fearful leap, By her loved lyre,) into the deep, And dying quenched the fatal fire, At once, of both her heart and lyre.

Mutely they listened all--and well Did the young travelled maiden tell Of the dread height to which that steep Beetles above the eddying deep--[6] Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round The dizzy edge with mournful sound-- And of those scented lilies found Still blooming on that fearful place-- As if called up by Love to grace The immortal spot o'er which the last Bright footsteps of his martyr past!

While fresh to every listener's thought These legends of Leucadia brought All that of Sappho's hapless flame Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame-- The maiden, tuning her soft lute, While all the rest stood round her, mute, Thus sketched the languishment of soul, That o'er the tender Lesbian stole; And in a voice whose thrilling tone Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own, One of those fervid fragments gave, Which still,--like sparkles of Greek Fire, Undying, even beneath the wave,-- Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire.

SONG.

As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid In love-sick languor hung her head, Unknowing where her fingers strayed, She weeping turned away, and said, "Oh, my sweet Mother--'tis in vain-- "I cannot weave, as once I wove-- "So wildered is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace, But tears fell o'er each tangled thread; While looking in her mother's face, Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said, "Oh, my sweet Mother--'tis in vain-- "I cannot weave, as once I wove-- "So wildered is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

* * * * *

A silence followed this sweet air, As each in tender musing stood, Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer, Of Sappho and that fearful flood: While some who ne'er till now had known How much their hearts resembled hers, Felt as they made her griefs their own, That _they_ too were Love's worshippers.

At length a murmur, all but mute, So faint it was, came from the lute Of a young melancholy maid, Whose fingers, all uncertain played From chord to chord, as if in chase Of some lost melody, some strain Of other times, whose faded trace She sought among those chords again. Slowly the half-forgotten theme (Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot) Came to her memory--as a beam Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;-- And while her lute's sad symphony Filled up each sighing pause between; And Love himself might weep to see What ruin comes where he hath been-- As withered still the grass is found Where fays have danced their merry round-- Thus simply to the listening throng She breathed her melancholy song:--

SONG.

Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day, Lonely and wearily life wears away. Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night-- No rest in darkness, no joy in light! Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead-- Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!

* * * * *

Of many a stanza, this alone Had 'scaped oblivion--like the one Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown With the lost vessel's name ashore Tells who they were that live no more. When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power-- As when the air is warm, the scent Of the most wild and rustic flower Can fill the whole rich element-- And in such moods the homeliest tone That's linked with feelings, once our own-- With friends or joy gone by--will be Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!

But some there were among the group Of damsels there too light of heart To let their spirits longer droop, Even under music's melting art; And one upspringing with a bound From a low bank of flowers, looked round With eyes that tho' so full of light Had still a trembling tear within; And, while her fingers in swift flight Flew o'er a fairy mandolin, Thus sung the song her lover late Had sung to her--the eve before That joyous night, when as of yore All Zea met to celebrate The feast of May on the sea-shore.

SONG.

When the Balaika[7] Is heard o'er the sea, I'll dance the Romaika By moonlight with thee. If waves then advancing Should steal on our play, Thy white feet in dancing Shall chase them away.[8] When the Balaika Is heard o'er the sea, Thou'lt dance the Romaika My own love, with me.

Then at the closing Of each merry lay, How sweet 'tis, reposing Beneath the night ray! Or if declining The moon leave the skies, We'll talk by the shining Of each other's eyes.

Oh then how featly The dance we'll renew, Treading so fleetly Its light mazes thro':[9] Till stars, looking o'er us From heaven's high bowers, Would change their bright chorus For one dance of ours! When the Balaika Is heard o'er the sea, Thou'lt dance the Romaika, My own love, with me.

* * * * *

How changingly for ever veers The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears! Even as in April the light vane Now points to sunshine, now to rain. Instant this lively lay dispelled The shadow from each blooming brow, And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held Full empire o'er each fancy now.

But say--_what_ shall the measure be? "Shall we the old Romaika tread," (Some eager asked) "as anciently "'Twas by the maids of Delos led, "When slow at first, then circling fast, "As the gay spirits rose--at last, "With hand in hand like links enlocked, "Thro' the light air they seemed to flit "In labyrinthine maze, that mocked "The dazzled eye that followed it?" Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"-- While one young, dark-eyed Amazon, Whose step was air-like and whose glance Flashed, like a sabre in the sun, Sportively said, "Shame on these soft "And languid strains we hear so oft. "Daughters of Freedom! have not we "Learned from our lovers and our sires "The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free-- "That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, "But sword and shield clash on the ear "A music tyrants quake to hear? "Heroines of Zea, arm with me "And dance the dance of Victory!"

Thus saying, she, with playful grace, Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face (From Anatolia came the maid) Hung shadowing each sunny charm; And with a fair young armorer's aid, Fixing it on her rounded arm, A mimic shield with pride displayed; Then, springing towards a grove that spread Its canopy of foliage near, Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said, "To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head She waved the light branch, as a spear.

Promptly the laughing maidens all Obeyed their Chief's heroic call;-- Round the shield-arm of each was tied Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be; The grove, their verdant armory, Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied; And as their glossy locks, let free, Fell down their shoulders carelessly, You might have dreamed you saw a throng Of youthful Thyads, by the beam Of a May moon, bounding along Peneus' silver-eddied stream!

And now they stept, with measured tread, Martially o'er the shining field; Now to the mimic combat led (A heroine at each squadron's head), Struck lance to lance and sword to shield: While still, thro' every varying feat, Their voices heard in contrast sweet With some of deep but softened sound From lips of aged sires around, Who smiling watched their children's play-- Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:--

SONG.

"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!"

Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy Danced in those happy days when Greece was free; When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy, Thus trained their steps to war and victory. "Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" Such was the Spartan warriors' dance. "Grasp the falchion--gird the shield-- "Attack--defend--do all but yield."

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night, Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea That morning dawned by whose immortal light They nobly died for thee and liberty![11] "Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

* * * * *

Scarce had they closed this martial lay When, flinging their light spears away, The combatants, in broken ranks. All breathless from the war-field fly; And down upon the velvet banks And flowery slopes exhausted lie, Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, Resting at sunset from the chase.

"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said-- One who himself had fought and bled, And now with feelings half delight, Half sadness, watched their mimic fight-- "Fond maids! who thus with War can jest-- "Like Love in Mar's helmet drest, "When, in his childish innocence, "Pleased with the shade that helmet flings, "He thinks not of the blood that thence "Is dropping o'er his snowy wings. "Ay--true it is, young patriot maids, "If Honor's arm still won the fray, "If luck but shone on righteous blades, "War were a game for gods to play! "But, no, alas!--hear one, who well "Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave-- "Hear _me_, in mournful ditty, tell "What glory waits the patriot's grave."

SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day, A vanquished chief expiring lay. Upon the sands, with broken sword, He traced his farewell to the Free; And, there, the last unfinished word He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell Of him who thus for Freedom fell; The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were covered by the sounding sea;-- So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for Liberty!

* * * * *

That tribute of subdued applause A charmed but timid audience pays, That murmur which a minstrel draws From hearts that feel but fear to praise, Followed this song, and left a pause Of silence after it, that hung Like a fixt spell on every tongue.

At length a low and tremulous sound Was heard from midst a group that round A bashful maiden stood to hide Her blushes while the lute she tried-- Like roses gathering round to veil The song of some young nightingale, Whose trembling notes steal out between The clustered leaves, herself unseen. And while that voice in tones that more Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred, Came with a stronger sweetness o'er The attentive ear, this strain was heard:--

SONG.

I saw from yonder silent cave,[12] Two Fountains running side by side; The one was Memory's limpid wave, The other cold Oblivion's tide. "Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood, As deep I drank of Lethe's stream, "Be all my sorrows in this flood "Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank Where joy was lost as well as pain? Quickly of Memory's fount I drank. And brought the past all back again; And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot, "Still let this soul to thee be true-- "Rather than have one bliss forgot, "Be all my pains remembered too!"

* * * * *

The group that stood around to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had by degrees as came the lay More strongly forth retired away, Like a fair shell whose valves divide To show the fairer pearl inside: For such she was--a creature, bright And delicate as those day-flowers, Which while they last make up in light And sweetness what they want in hours.

So rich upon the ear had grown Her voice's melody--its tone Gathering new courage as it found An echo in each bosom round-- That, ere the nymph with downcast eye Still on the chords, her lute laid by, "Another song," all lips exclaimed, And each some matchless favorite named; while blushing as her fingers ran O'er the sweet chords she thus began:--

SONG.

Oh, Memory, how coldly Thou paintest joy gone by: Like rainbows, thy pictures But mournfully shine and die. Or if some tints thou keepest That former days recall, As o'er each line thou weepest, Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly Thou paintest grief that's past; Joy's colors are fleeting, But those of Sorrow last. And, while thou bringst before us Dark pictures of past ill, Life's evening closing o'er us But makes them darker still.

* * * * *

So went the moonlight hours along, In this sweet glade; and so with song And witching sounds--not such as they, The cymbalists of Ossa, played, To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13] But soft and holy--did each maid Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile, And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place, On the sea-shore a ruin stood;-- A relic of the extinguisht race, Who once o'er that foamy flood, When fair Ioulis[14] by the light Of golden sunset on the sight Of mariners who sailed that sea, Rose like a city of chrysolite Called from the wave by witchery. This ruin--now by barbarous hands Debased into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy head-- Formed, as they tell in times of old The dwelling of that bard whose lay Could melt to tears the stern and cold, And sadden mid their mirth the gay-- Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years And ages past still bright appears-- Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now--to catch a view Of the white waters as they played Silently in the light--a few Of the more restless damsels strayed; And some would linger mid the scent Of hanging foliage that perfumed The ruined walls; while others went Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy space between, Where gilded chambers once had been; Or, turning sadly to the sea, Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest To some brave champion of the Free-- Thinking, alas, how cold might be At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song From the dark ruins--a faint strain, As if some echo that among Those minstrel halls had slumbered long Were murmuring into life again.

But, no--the nymphs knew well the tone-- A maiden of their train, who loved Like the night-bird to sing alone. Had deep into those ruins roved, And there, all other thoughts forgot, Was warbling o'er, in lone delight, A lay that, on that very spot, Her lover sung one moonlight night:--

SONG.

Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bowers? They are gone--all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone That all who heard him wisht his pain their own-- He is gone--he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die-- She is gone--she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say Of her who hears and him who sings this lay-- They are gone--they both are gone!

* * * * *

The moon was now, from heaven's steep, Bending to dip her silvery urn Into the bright and silent deep-- And the young nymphs, on their return From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates ranged around The sacred Spring, prepared to tune Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon, To that fair Fountain by whose stream Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

Who has not read the tales that tell Of old Eleusis' sacred Well, Or heard what legend-songs recount Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17] Gushing at once from the hard rock Into the laps of living flowers-- Where village maidens loved to flock, On summer-nights and like the Hours Linked in harmonious dance and song, Charmed the unconscious night along; While holy pilgrims on their way To Delos' isle stood looking on, Enchanted with a scene so gay, Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade And its fair inmates now displayed. As round the Fount in linked ring They went in cadence slow and light And thus to that enchanted Spring Warbled their Farewell for the night:--

SONG.

Here, while the moonlight dim Falls on that mossy brim, Sing we our Fountain Hymn, Maidens of Zea! Nothing but Music's strain, When Lovers part in pain, Soothes till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!

Bright Fount so clear and cold Round which the nymphs of old Stood with their locks of gold, Fountain of Zea! Not even Castaly, Famed tho' its streamlet be, Murmurs or shines like thee, Oh, Fount of Zea!

Thou, while our hymn we sing, Thy silver voice shalt bring, Answering, answering, Sweet Fount of Zea! For of all rills that run Sparkling by moon or sun Thou art the fairest one, Bright Fount of Zea!

Now, by those stars that glance Over heaven's still expanse Weave we our mirthful dance, Daughters of Zea! Such as in former days Danced they by Dian's rays Where the Eurotas strays, Oh, Maids of Zea!

But when to merry feet Hearts with no echo beat, Say, can the dance be sweet? Maidens of Zea! No, naught but Music's strain, When lovers part in pain, Soothes till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!

SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

When evening shades are falling O'er Ocean's sunny sleep, To pilgrims' hearts recalling Their home beyond the deep; When rest o'er all descending The shores with gladness smile, And lutes their echoes blending Are heard from isle to isle, Then, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over, Now Ocean toils no more, And wings of halcyons hover Where all was strife before. Oh thus may life in closing Its short tempestuous day Beneath heaven's smile reposing Shine all its storms away: Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

On Helle's sea the light grew dim As the last sounds of that sweet hymn Floated along its azure tide-- Floated in light as if the lay Had mixt with sunset's fading ray And light and song together died. So soft thro' evening's air had breathed That choir of youthful voices wreathed In many-linked harmony, That boats then hurrying o'er the sea Paused when they reached this fairy shore, And lingered till the strain was o'er.

Of those young maids who've met to fleet In song and dance this evening's hours, Far happier now the bosoms beat Than when they last adorned these bowers; For tidings of glad sound had come, At break of day from the far isles-- Tidings like breath of life to some-- That Zea's sons would soon wing home, Crowded with the light of Victory's smiles To meet that brightest of all meeds That wait on high, heroic deeds. When gentle eyes that scarce for tears Could trace the warrior's parting track, Shall like a misty morn that clears When the long-absent sun appears Shine out all bliss to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!-- More fond of change than a young moon, No joy so new was e'er possest But Youth would leave for newer soon. These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spot Where first they held their evening play As ever fell to fairy's lot To wanton o'er by midnight's ray, Had now exchanged that sheltered scene For a wide glade beside the sea-- A lawn whose soft expanse of green Turned to the west sun smilingly As tho' in conscious beauty bright It joyed to give him light for light.

And ne'er did evening more serene Look down from heaven on lovelier scene. Calm lay the flood around while fleet O'er the blue shining element Light barks as if with fairy feet That stirred not the husht waters went; Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'er The blushing wave, with mainsail free, Had put forth from the Attic shore, Or the near Isle of Ebony;-- Some, Hydriot barks that deep in caves Beneath Colonna's pillared cliffs, Had all day lurked and o'er the waves Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs. Woe to the craft however fleet These sea-hawks in their course shall meet, Laden with juice of Lesbian vines, Or rich from Naxos' emery mines; For not more sure, when owlets flee O'er the dark crags of Pendelee, Doth the night-falcon mark his prey, Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade Where these young island nymphs are met! Full-orbed yet pure as if no shade Had touched its virgin lustre yet; And freshly bright as if just made By Love's own hands of new-born light Stolen from his mother's star tonight.

On a bold rock that o'er the flood Jutted from that soft glade there stood A Chapel, fronting towards the sea,-- Built in some by-gone century,-- Where nightly as the seaman's mark When waves rose high or clouds were dark, A lamp bequeathed by some kind Saint Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint. Waking in way-worn men a sigh And prayer to heaven as they went by. 'Twas there, around that rock-built shrine A group of maidens and their sires Had stood to watch the day's decline, And as the light fell o'er their lyres Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea That soft and holy melody.

But lighter thoughts and lighter song Now woo the coming hours along. For mark, where smooth the herbage lies, Yon gay pavilion curtained deep With silken folds thro' which bright eyes From time to time are seen to peep; While twinkling lights that to and fro Beneath those veils like meteors go, Tell of some spells at work and keep Young fancies chained in mute suspense, Watching what next may shine from thence, Nor long the pause ere hands unseen That mystic curtain backward drew, And all that late but shone between In half-caught gleams now burst to view.

A picture 'twas of the early days Of glorious Greece ere yet those rays Of rich, immortal Mind were hers That made mankind her worshippers; While yet unsung her landscapes shone With glory lent by heaven alone; Nor temples crowned her nameless hills, Nor Muse immortalized her rills; Nor aught but the mute poesy Of sun and stars and shining sea Illumed that land of bards to be. While prescient of the gifted race That yet would realm so blest adorn, Nature took pains to deck the place Where glorious Art was to be born.

Such was the scene that mimic stage Of Athens and her hills portrayed Athens in her first, youthful age, Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18] Which then adorned her had shone down The glory of earth's loftiest crown. While yet undreamed, her seeds of Art Lay sleeping in the marble mine-- Sleeping till Genius bade them start To all but life in shapes divine; Till deified the quarry shone And all Olympus stood in stone!

There in the foreground of that scene, On a soft bank of living green Sate a young nymph with her lap full Of the newly gathered flowers, o'er which She graceful leaned intent to cull All that was there of hue most rich, To form a wreath such as the eye Of her young lover who stood by, With pallet mingled fresh might choose To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was formed; the maiden raised Her speaking eyes to his, while he-- Oh _not_ upon the flowers now gazed, But on that bright look's witchery. While, quick as if but then the thought Like light had reached his soul, he caught His pencil up and warm and true As life itself that love-look drew: And, as his raptured task went on, And forth each kindling feature shone, Sweet voices thro' the moonlight air From lips as moonlight fresh and pure Thus hailed the bright dream passing there, And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19]

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth with eyes of love To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in Painting's art, But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart Can shed o'er Nature's charms till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose And sketched the rays that light the brook; But what were these or what were those To woman's blush, to woman's look? "Oh, if such magic power there be, "This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, "To paint that living light I see "And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard; His pallet touched by Love grew warm, And Painting saw her hues transferred From lifeless flowers to woman's form. Still as from tint to tint he stole, The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul, Where only colors glowed before.

Then first carnations learned to speak And lilies into life were brought; While mantling on the maiden's cheek Young roses kindled into thought. Then hyacinths their darkest dyes Upon the locks of Beauty threw; And violets transformed to eyes Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe, All that's fair and bright below. Song was cold and Painting dim Till Song and Painting learned from him.

* * * * *

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer Of gentle voices old and young Rose from the groups that stood to hear This tale of yore so aptly sung; And while some nymphs in haste to tell The workers of that fairy spell How crowned with praise their task had been Stole in behind the curtained scene, The rest in happy converse strayed-- Talking that ancient love-tale o'er-- Some to the groves that skirt the glade, Some to the chapel by the shore, To look what lights were on the sea. And think of the absent silently.

But soon that summons known so well Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands, Whose sound more sure than gong or bell Lovers and slaves alike commands,-- The clapping of young female hands, Calls back the groups from rock and field To see some new-formed scene revealed;-- And fleet and eager down the slopes Of the green glades like antelopes When in their thirst they hear the sound Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene--a waste Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray; An ancient well, whereon were traced The warning words, for such as stray Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20] While near it from the night-ray screened, And like his bells in husht repose, A camel slept--young as if weaned When last the star Canopus rose.[21]

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;-- While nearer lay fast slumbering too In a rude tent with brow serene A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale That he had been to Mecca's Vale: Haply in pleasant dreams, even now Thinking the long wished hour is come When o'er the well-known porch at home His hand shall hang the aloe bough-- Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]

But brief his dream--for now the call Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, "Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all The widely slumbering caravan; And thus meanwhile to greet the ear Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, The song of one who lingering near Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound Wakes the slumbering camp around; Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone, Armed sleeper, up, and on! Long and weary is our way O'er the burning sands to-day; But to pilgrim's homeward feet Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night, Looking up to heaven's light, Hearing but the watchman’s tone Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24] Oh what thoughts then o'er us come Of our distant village home, Where that chant when evening sets Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!--soon shall signal lights, Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights, Kindling quick from man to man, Hail our coming caravan:[25] Think what bliss that hour will be! Looks of home again to see, And our names again to hear Murmured out by voices dear.

* * * * *

So past the desert dream away, Fleeting as his who heard this lay, Nor long the pause between, nor moved The spell-bound audience from that spot; While still as usual Fancy roved On to the joy that yet was not;-- Fancy who hath no present home, But builds her bower in scenes to come, Walking for ever in a light That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried A mountain realm-rugged as e'er Upraised to heaven its summits bare, Or told to earth with frown of pride That Freedom's falcon nest was there, Too high for hand of lord or king To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land--her ancient hills, The abode of nymphs--her countless rills And torrents in their downward dash Shining like silver thro' the shade Of the sea-pine and flowering ash-- All with a truth so fresh portrayed As wants but touch of life to be A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance-- Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand Linked in the Ariadne dance; And while, apart from that gay throng, A minstrel youth in varied song Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills Of these wild children of the hills, The rest by turns or fierce or gay As war or sport inspires the lay Follow each change that wakes the strings And act what thus the lyrist sings:--

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die, Or should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, "We come--we come," Each crag that towers in air Gives answer, "Come who dare!" While like bees from dell and dingle, Swift the swarming warriors mingle, And their cry "Hurra!" will be, "Hurra, to victory!"

Then when battle's hour is over See the happy mountain lover With the nymph who'll soon be bride Seated blushing by his side,-- Every shadow of his lot In her sunny smile forgot. Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's. His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die. Nor only thus thro' summer suns His blithe existence cheerly runs-- Even winter bleak and dim Brings joyous hours to him; When his rifle behind him flinging He watches the roe-buck springing, And away, o'er the hills away Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing, To his rebeck's drowsy song, He beguiles the hour along; Or provoked by merry glances To a brisker movement dances, Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, He dreams o'er chase and dance again, Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

* * * * *

As slow that minstrel at the close Sunk while he sung to feigned repose, Aptly did they whose mimic art Followed the changes of his lay Portray the lull, the nod, the start, Thro' which as faintly died away His lute and voice, the minstrel past, Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er Their startled ears--song that at first As solemnly the night-wind bore Across the wave its mournful burst, Seemed to the fancy like a dirge Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause The wondering nymphs; and as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws, With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy? Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark which now Courses the bright waves swift along And soon perhaps beneath the brow Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed 'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence, Flew to the rock and saw from thence A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide, Whose shadow as it swept the spray Scattered the moonlight's smiles away. Soon as the mariners saw that throng From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slacked their sail and song, And while their pinnace idly rolled On the light surge, these tidings told:--

'Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they came-- Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame That e'er in life's young glory set!-- And now were on their mournful way, Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;-- News that would cloud even Freedom's ray And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain, Out spread the galliot's wings again; And as she sped her swift career Again that Hymn rose on the ear-- "Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!" As oft 'twas sung in ages flown Of him, the Athenian, who to shed A tyrant's blood poured out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no. Thy soul to realms above us fled Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head Still lights this world below. Thou art _not_ dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread And flowers ethereal blow, Thy god-like Spirit now is led, Thy lip with life ambrosial fed Forgets all taste of woe. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread Which struck the immortal blow, Throughout all time with leaves unshed-- The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread-- Round Freedom's shrine shall grow. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, Tho' quenched the vital glow, Their memory lights a flame instead, Which even from out the narrow bed Of death its beams shall throw. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said, From age to age shall go, Long as the oak and ivy wed, As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head, Or Helle's waters flow. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

* * * * *

'Mong those who lingered listening there,-- Listening with ear and eye as long As breath of night could towards them bear A murmur of that mournful song,-- A few there were in whom the lay Had called up feelings far too sad To pass with the brief strain away, Or turn at once to theme more glad; And who in mood untuned to meet The light laugh of the happie train, Wandered to seek some moonlight seat Where they might rest, in converse sweet, Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night To sadness lent more soothing light. On one side in the dark blue sky Lonely and radiant was the eye Of Jove himself, while on the other 'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed, The young moon like the Roman mother Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around, A pensive maid--one who, tho' young, Had known what 'twas to see unwound The ties by which her heart had clung-- Wakened her soft tamboura's sound, And to its faint accords thus sung:--

SONG.

Calm as beneath its mother's eyes In sleep the smiling infant lies, So watched by all the stars of night Yon landscape sleeps in light. And while the night-breeze dies away, Like relics of some faded strain, Loved voices, lost for many a day, Seem whispering round again. Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed Such glory once--where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that down the sky Art pointing like an angel's wand, As if to guide to realms that lie In that bright sea beyond: Who knows but in some brighter deep Than even that tranquil, moonlit main, Some land may lie where those who weep Shall wake to smile again! With cheeks that had regained their power And play of smiles,--and each bright eye Like violets after morning's shower The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wandering nymphs their path retrace, And reach the spot with rapture new Just as the veils asunder flew And a fresh vision burst to view.

There by her own bright Attic flood, The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;-- Not as she haunts the sage's dreams, With brow unveiled, divine, severe; But softened as on bards she beams When fresh from Poesy's high sphere A music not her own she brings, And thro' the veil which Fancy flings O'er her stern features gently sings.

But who is he--that urchin nigh, With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropt from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid with eye So full of thought for one so young?-- That child--but, silence! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:--

SONG.

As Love one summer eve was straying, Who should he see at that soft hour But young Minerva gravely playing Her flute within an olive bower. I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion That grave or merry, good or ill, The sex all bow to his dominion, As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given To learned dames his smiles or sighs, So handsome Pallas looked that even Love quite forgot the maid was wise. Besides, a youth of his discerning Knew well that by a shady rill At sunset hour whate'er her learning A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,-- Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.-- For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic, To Love seem always out of tune. But long as he found face to flatter, The nymph found breath to shake and thrill; As, weak or wise--it doesn't matter-- Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming, "How rosy was her lips' soft dye!" And much that flute the flatterer blaming, For twisting lips so sweet awry. The nymph looked down, beheld her features Reflected in the passing rill, And started, shocked--for, ah, ye creatures! Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious. That graceless flute the Goddess took And while yet filled with breath melodious, Flung it into the glassy brook; Where as its vocal life was fleeting Adown the current, faint and shrill, 'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating, "Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

* * * * *

An interval of dark repose-- Such as the summer lightning knows, Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright The quick revealment comes and goes, Opening each time the veils of night, To show within a world of light-- Such pause, so brief, now past between This last gay vision and the scene Which now its depth of light disclosed. A bower it seemed, an Indian bower, Within whose shade a nymph reposed, Sleeping away noon's sunny hour-- Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, And there, as Indian legends say, Dreams the long summer hours away. And mark how charmed this sleeper seems With some hid fancy--she, too, dreams! Oh for a wizard's art to tell The wonders that now bless her sight! 'Tis done--a truer, holier spell Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell. Thus brings her vision all to light:--

SONG.

"Who comes so gracefully "Gliding along "While the blue rivulet "Sleeps to her song; "Song richly vying "With the faint sighing "Which swans in dying "Sweetly prolong?"

So sung the shepherd-boy By the stream's side, Watching that fairy-boat Down the flood glide, Like a bird winging, Thro' the waves bringing That Syren, singing To the husht tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy, "Fairy-boat, stay, "Linger, sweet minstrelsy, "Linger a day." But vain his pleading, Past him, unheeding, Song and boat, speeding, Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes Joy and hope shone; So while we gazed on them Fast they flew on;-- Like flowers declining Even in the twining, One moment shining. And the next gone!

* * * * *

Soon as the imagined dream went by, Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon She waited from that sun-bright dome, And marvelled that it came not soon As her young thoughts would have it come.

But joy is in her glance!--the wing Of a white bird is seen above; And oh, if round his neck he bring The long-wished tidings from her love, Not half so precious in her eyes Even that high-omened bird[26] would be. Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies To wear a crown of royalty.

She had herself last evening sent A winged messenger whose flight Thro' the clear, roseate element, She watched till lessening out of sight Far to the golden West it went, Wafting to him, her distant love, A missive in that language wrought Which flowers can speak when aptly wove, Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

And now--oh speed of pinion, known To Love's light messengers alone I-- Ere yet another evening takes Its farewell of the golden lakes, She sees another envoy fly, With the wished answer, thro' the sky.

SONG.

Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging, Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea, Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing Love's written vows from my lover to me. Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!-- Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?" But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber, And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.

Yet dost thou droop--even now while I utter Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away; Cheer thee, my bird--were it life's ebbing flutter. This fondling bosom should woo it to stay, But no--thou'rt dying--thy last task is over-- Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me! The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover, Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

* * * * *

While thus this scene of song (their last For the sweet summer season) past, A few presiding nymphs whose care Watched over all invisibly, As do those guardian sprites of air Whose watch we feel but cannot see, Had from the circle--scarcely missed, Ere they were sparkling there again-- Glided like fairies to assist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From the stray glance of curious eyes, A feast of fruits and wines was laid-- Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore In safety thro' that deep of night Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, To some remote immortal shore, Had half-way sped her glorious way, When round reclined on hillocks green In groups beneath that tranquil ray, The Zeans at their feast were seen. Gay was the picture--every maid Whom late the lighted scene displayed, Still in her fancy garb arrayed;-- The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here Beside the nymph of India's sky; While there the Mainiote mountaineer Whispered in young Minerva's ear, And urchin Love stood laughing by.

Meantime the elders round the board, By mirth and wit themselves made young, High cups of juice Zacynthian poured, And while the flask went round thus sung:--

SONG.

Up with the sparkling brimmer, Up to the crystal rim; Let not a moonbeam glimmer 'Twixt the flood and brim. When hath the world set eyes on Aught to match this light, Which o'er our cup's horizon Dawns in bumpers bright?

Truth in a deep well lieth-- So the wise aver; But Truth the fact denieth-- Water suits not her. No, her abode's in brimmers, Like this mighty cup-- Waiting till we, good swimmers, Dive to bring her up.

* * * * *

Thus circled round the song of glee, And all was tuneful mirth the while, Save on the cheeks of some whose smile As fixt they gaze upon the sea, Turns into paleness suddenly! What see they there? a bright blue light That like a meteor gliding o'er The distant wave grows on the sight, As tho' 'twere winged to Zea's shore. To some, 'mong those who came to gaze, It seemed the night-light far away Of some lone fisher by the blaze Of pine torch luring on his prey; While others, as 'twixt awe and mirth They breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name, Vowed that such light was not of earth But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame Which mariners see on sail or mast When Death is coming in the blast. While marvelling thus they stood, a maid Who sate apart with downcast eye, Not yet had like the rest surveyed That coming light which now was nigh, Soon as it met her sight, with cry Of pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!" Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea. At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed, All stood like statues mute and gazed Into each other's eyes to seek What meant such mood in maid so meek?

Till now, the tale was known to few, But now from lip to lip it flew:-- A youth, the flower of all the band, Who late had left this sunny shore, When last he kist that maiden's hand, Lingering to kiss it o'er and o'er. By his sad brow too plainly told The ill-omened thought which crost him then, That once those hands should lose their hold, They ne'er would meet on earth again! In vain his mistress sad as he, But with a heart from Self as free As generous woman's only is, Veiled her own fears to banish his:-- With frank rebuke but still more vain, Did a rough warrior who stood by Call to his mind this martial strain, His favorite once, ere Beauty's eye Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:--

SONG.

March! nor heed those arms that hold thee, Tho' so fondly close they come; Closer still will they enfold thee When thou bring'st fresh laurels home. Dost thou dote on woman's brow? Dost thou live but in her breath? March!--one hour of victory now Wins thee woman's smile till death.

Oh what bliss when war is over Beauty's long-missed smile to meet. And when wreaths our temples cover Lay them shining at her feet. Who would not that hour to reach Breathe out life's expiring sigh,-- Proud as waves that on the beach Lay their war-crests down and die.

There! I see thy soul is burning-- She herself who clasps thee so Paints, even now, thy glad returning, And while clasping bids thee go. One deep sigh to passion given, One last glowing tear and then-- March!--nor rest thy sword till Heaven Brings thee to those arms again.

* * * * *

Even then ere loath their hands could part A promise the youth gave which bore Some balm unto the maiden's heart, That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er, To home he'd speed, if safe and free-- Nay, even if dying, still would come, So the blest word of "Victory!" Might be the last he'd breathe at home. "By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark; "But should I come thro' midnight dark, "A blue light on the prow shall tell "That Greece hath won and all is well!"

Fondly the maiden every night, Had stolen to seek that promised light; Nor long her eyes had now been turned From watching when the signal burned. Signal of joy--for her, for all-- Fleetly the boat now nears the land, While voices from the shore-edge call For tidings of the long-wished band.

Oh the blest hour when those who've been Thro' peril's paths by land or sea Locked in our arms again are seen Smiling in glad security; When heart to heart we fondly strain, Questioning quickly o'er and o'er-- Then hold them off to gaze affain And ask, tho' answered oft before, If they _indeed_ are ours once more?

Such is the scene so full of joy Which welcomes now this warrior-boy, As fathers, sisters, friends all run Bounding to meet him--all but one Who, slowest on his neck to fall, Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him circled round With beaming faces at that board, While cups with laurel foliage crowned, Are to the coming warriors poured-- Coming, as he, their herald, told, With blades from victory scarce yet cold, With hearts untouched by Moslem steel And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.

"Ere morn," said he,--and while he spoke Turned to the east, where clear and pale The star of dawn already broke-- "We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!" Then wherefore part? all, all agree To wait them here beneath this bower; And thus, while even amidst their glee, Each eye is turned to watch the sea, With song they cheer the anxious hour.

SONG.

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy As he saw it spring bright from the earth, And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy, To witness and hallow its birth. The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale; "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" every Spirit exclaimed "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew, While a light on the vine-leaves there broke In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew T'was the light from his lips as he spoke. "Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried, "And the fount of Wit never can fail:" "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire Each tendril and cluster it wore, From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, As made the tree tremble all o'er. Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky, Such a soul-giving odor inhale: "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die, Came to crown the bright hour with his ray; And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye, When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;-- A laugh of the heart which was echoed around Till like music it swelled on the gale: "T is the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

[1] "_Nerium Oleander_. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days."--_Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey_.

[2] _Lonicera caprifolium_, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.

[3] _Cuscuta europoea_. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."-- _Walpole's Turkey_.

[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals."--_Clarke's Travels_.

[5] Now Santa Maura--the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.

[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks."--_Goodisson's Ionian Isles_.

[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika."

[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave."--Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure,"

[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.

[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country.

[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks."--_Williams's Travels in Greece_.

[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.

[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name."

[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears."

[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. _De Guys_ tells us that he has seen "the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them."

[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification."_--Clarke_.

[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."--_Pindar_.

[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, _Lib_. 35 c. 40.

[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is received into a large basin called _Shrub wee krub_, "Drink and away"-- there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.

[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk."--_Richardson_.

[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey."--_Hasselquist_.

[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:--"For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, 'Bind on your burden'?"

[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one," etc.

[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."

[26] the Hume.

[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.

ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT.