^>. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 Uifw 2.5 1^ 12.2 III 1.8 L4_ ill 1.6 w v^ 7. 'V '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 72 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 \ iV \ \ ^.^ M 6^ "> POEMS, WRITTEN IN NEWFOUNDLAND, BY HENRIETTA PRESCOrr. is i, fc t .J a y « »• » U , 5 • ■ J ''ijt'tl''» I., I 1*11 l»t -f~r7. 4 I ; J 1 T- '■- °, "'»''' LONDON: SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. MDCCCXXXIX. r "W'lt LON DO N : PaiNTED BY W, Clowes and Sons. Stamford Street. y i I I « I < 1 •II;.. » < I, <••,»• ■ ' I , • . , •> "> » »!•• •<» ' 1 e • • « * • II \ t > 11; t I 1 • •, > .11, • • •* . V > ' I • . . » - ,' : t 1 i > t ' , , J 3 J i » t % a \ ' ^t I INSCRIBED TO &V »«loa«tr ^axfnu, HY THEIR GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER, HENRIETTA PRESCOi 1 w CONTENTS. Ode to the Queen Page xi Tasso (Part the First) . I Tasso (Part the Second) . 19 Tasso (Part the Third) . . . 45 lone . . . . . . 59 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Duke of Reichstadt A Traveller's Tale A Song for Exiles Stanzas written for an Italian Air Long Ago The Stars . 79 . 85 . 93 . 96 . 98 . 103 I ,jt viii CONTENTS. hA POEMS FOR YOUTH. :;i *;- Invocation to the Spirit of Poetry Page . 11.3 To my younger Sisters and Brother . 117 The Departure . . 119 A Spring Morning in Newfoundland . 124 A Summer Hymn . 12S The Beginning of Winter . 131 Christmas Day . 137 The Snow-Birds . 140 The Fog-Gun . 144 A Short Story . 148 Wishes . . 1.50 The Wallflowers . 1.'57 The Trees . 163 The Wind ,. 168 The Flowers . 171 The River .'l76 The Moon and Stars . 182 The Sea . . 186 The Coral Reef . . 189 A Riding Song . . 194 A Story .... . 198 A Meeting in the Desert . 204 / C0NTKNT8. The Grnndniother (A True St<»ry) The Forest-Pool The Old, Ohl Times The Prisoner of the Conciergerie A Prisoner at San Domingo (1500) The March of the Crusaders to Jerusalem The Widow of Nain The Meeting of the Circassian Chiefs Solemn Thoughts Thoughts on Immortality Lines to a Fading Geranium The Happy River Alma The Triumph of Peace . I'age . 20U . 214 . 217 . 222 . 228 . 234 . 240 . 244 . 248 . 252 . 256 . 262 . 269 . 293 « 3 ^^^ \J ODE TO THE QUEEN. I. Oh ! our's is the fairest land On which the sun looks down, And our's is the bri inest Queen That ever wore a crown. Old England's sons are kind and brave, Her daughters good and fair, With open hand, and gen'rous heart, And spirits free as air. No fields wear richer green than hers ! No streams more silv'ry sheen, — A blessing on our own dear land ! A blessing on our Quetn ! n. Old England's red-cross banner waves O'er many a foreign sod, — Where'er the foot of man can roam Her gallant sons have trod. a 5 Xii ODE TO THE QUEEN. On many a distant shore are laid Her brave, in battle slain, But the banner of Old England shone Victorious o'er the plain ! 'Tis planted 'neath the Indian skies. It cheers the Arctic scene, — A blessing on our own aoar land ! A blessing on our Queen ! III. Old England's sons have borne afar, Uncheck'd by want or pain, The words of faith, and love, and hope, By desert and by main ; Have bravely met the martyr's doom. And, with uplifted hand, Still pray'd that light might chase the shades From ev'ry heathen land. Fair temples in the wilderness Rise up where they have been. A blessing on our own dear land ! A blessing on our Queen ! ODK TO THK QLEKN. Mil IV. To cheer the sad, and help th' oppress'd, Is England's dearest care ; The homeless exile seeks her shores, Secure of welcome there ! Her gallant vessels ride the seas To free the trembling slave, — For tyranny is for the mean, And kindness for the brave ! Hope rises in the suit 'rer's heart When England's flag is seen. A blessing on our own dear land ! A blessing on our Queen ! Her nobles have their palace homo. Her poor their quiet cot. Beside the meanest door aye smiles The blooming garden-plot. Upon her hills arc waving woods, Along her vales broad parks, Upon her mighty rivers float Her merchants' freighted barks. Xiv ODE TO THK QUIJEN. There's not a port in foreign lands Where Britons are not seen. A blessing on our own dear land ! A blessing on our Queen ! VI. Oh ! many great and conq'ring kings Have ruled our lovely land, But happier is the gentle sway Of woman's sceptred hand ! A blessing on the fair young head Of her who rules the Isles, And loves to meet the cheering light Of a grateful people's smiles ! May the future of Victoria's life Be as the past has been ! A blessing on our own dear land ! A blessing on our Queen ! ■■4*'-^«'v;- '.f>"^"i'/".TT':-, -v-.j --rT*^,'-'.f'a TASSO, lONE. AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS \ T A S S 0. PART THE FIRST. ' *' peregriao erraate, infra gli scogli, K Ira V oude agitato, e quasi ubsortu." Tasso. " E^ spirito meschinu cbi si iimitu al prcsente. II tempo e cliiamato il Tiudice della verita, la quale e ii;;urata iiel sole : non sempre vi souo Quvole che coprono il sole." KOSSETTI. B Bernaiido Tasso, the father of the great Epic Poet, aft^r a long residence at the court of the Prince of Salerno, whose private secretary he had been appointed, was permitted to retire \yi\h his wife to a villa at Sorrento, some slight account of which I have versified from one of his letters. At Sorrento was born the son whose fame has eclipsed that of his father. From his happy retirement, Bernardo was recalled by his patron, whose fortunes he faithfully followed, even after the disastrous conclusion of the Neapolitan rebellion against the Spaniards. At length he returned to Rome, and sent for his young son, then about ten years old, who had previously re- sided at Naples with his mother. In the year 1556, the ap- proach of the Spanish army drove Bernardo from Rome, The subsequent history of the yormger Tasso is well known ; and a more sorrowful one has seldom been recorded. Yet he *' to one purpose clung" through all his afflictions, and left a noble monument of his genius and piety. I wished and intended to mak6 my Poem a much longer one ; but I thought it was presumptuous to write of Italy under the influences of a stormy sky and of a dreary land, TASSO. PART THE FIRST. I. It is the day's last, ling'ring hour ; A glory still is lent To broken wall, and massive tow'r, ^ id time-stained battlement. The ruddy light has not yet past From vast St. Peter's dome ; Fair is the smile the heavens cast On Rome 1 imperial Rome ! — Imperial still, — although no more Her legions pass from shore to shore, Led by great conquerors, — Although above the mighty dead Her humbled eagle bows his head, B 2 r TASSO. And 'mid the columns, where, of old, Her children's wondrous feats were told, The moaning nightwind stirs : Imperial still, though Time has rent Proud palace, hall, and monument. No more upon the Tiber's banks Are ranged her armies' countless ranks, — An altered fate is hers ! Her once victorious banner furled, Her sons who governed half the world, Her learned senators, — All these are of the things long gone, Yet she is still a mighty one ! She ruletli still a realm of thought ; By Pilgrims are her loved walls sought ; Still at her name the fond heart thrills,— Rome ! Empress of the Seven Hills ! II. And now, in that sweet evening-time, A Father and his Son Have lingered till the vesper-chime TelJs them the day is done. T.1S80. They linger on the Tiber's shore, Haunted with images of yore. The quiet stillness of the hour liatii awed the child's young heart, And, silent as a sleeping flow'r, Ho marks the day depart. The Father gazes on each pile, Honowned in ancient story, To which the ray gives back awhile More than its former glory ; The child is brooding o'er the morrow,- Thc Father o'er his present sorrow ! III. " My Boy !" — and at that voice's sound, So low, so passing sweet, The child hath knelt upon the ground Beside his father's feet ; He tosses back his clust'ring hair, He lifts his violet eyes, — He gazes not, while kneeling there, On field, or stream, or skies. 7AS80. Ho looks but on the mournful face That wears for him love's changeless grace : ■ *• Torquato 1 'tis a (^^fJomy fate To dwell with one so desolate, And in tliine early childhood's years, Be thus familiarized with tears ! My days are marked with woe and strife, But must thy parent's darkened life Cast shadows on thy road ? Better among these falling stones, Where lie the Roman heroes' bones. To make my last abode !'* No answer hath Torquf^to made, But o'er his brow a gath'ring shade Tells of his spirit's pain. " Torquato, raise thy pure young brow. No hope remains to me save thou, Oh smile on me again !" " Yet tell me. Father, — some fresh care Has bowed thy soul tbus low, — Shall not thine own Torquato's share "With thine its heavy woe ?" I " Yes, Boy !— the Spanish host is near, And ere to morrow's light, Like seamen, who in sadness steer Their bark in deepest night, ^"e must go forth to ask for bread And shelter for the exiles' head I Alas for our bright Italy, The garden of the earth I Her sons in gilded slavery Mocked by the stranger's mirth. Her gifted children forced to roam, From court to court, to seek a home, Discarded when some courtier's tongue A stain upon their name hath flung ! The flags of conquering potentates Are by her breezes fann'd — A battle-fleld for neighbouring states, — Such is our own bright land ! IV. •* Rememberest thou our home that stood Upon Sorrento's Bay ? 11 TASSO. How gently on the purple flood Its peaceful image lay ! Within its walls were loving words ; Fair children, glad as singing-hirds ; And one, in whose calm smile there dwelt A charm for ev'jry care I'd felt. Behind it rose the mountain-heights, And we could climb to distant sites And breathe their gladd'ning air. And, as we passed, the flowers and trees Were filled with sound of birds and bees,— Paphos was not more fair ! Amid that mountain-wilderness No noonday sunshine burns ; The Naiads, in each deep recess, Pour from their silver urns A thousand pure and laughing rills, That leap like fawns along the hills ; And far away, across the seas, Gleam Naples' marble palaces. It was a dwelling meet for me. Rejoiced in spirit to be free TASSO. From all the trammels of a court, And I have joined my children's sport With laugh as light as theirs : For like a weary bird that flies From bough to bough, when tempests rise, And finds at last its quiet nest,— So deemed I I had found my rest, So left my dreary cares ! 9 *' Thou knowest what wrongs fair Naples bore, Until her sons could bear no more. And all their sleeping pride awoke To burst the Spaniard's galling yoke. 'Twas then I left my home of love,— Ah ! well they deemed, of yore, That Syrens from Sorrento's grove Called voyagers to the shore ! And with Salerno's Prince I went. From land to land our steps we bent To ask the stranger's aid. i I 10 TASSO. A gloomy time was that, my son, For silent sadness ; one by one, I saw my dear hopes fade ! And when at last I rested here, I deemed no now distress or fear Should haunt my clouded way. There is no rest for me ! no peace. Till death the burdened soul release ! Why doth the loiterer stay ?" VI. The eve is fading into night ; The ruined piles, that were so bright Only an hour ago. Are frowning now like giant forms That dare the rage of wars and storms. And from the darkly-clouded sky A drear and chill solemnity Falls on the earth below. The child hath seized his father's hand. He whispers, " Linger not I Like spirits those lone ruins stand,— Come home from this sad spot !" TAS80. 11 " Nay, let us stay awhile, my Boy : Sad as this place may seem, 'Tis dear to those who feel that joy Is but a childish dream. Well does it suit the hearts that know Life's hollow vanity and woe ; For they who deemed themselves undying, Around us here in heaps are lying, Unnoticed or unknown ; And in yon proudest works of men The gliding snake has made its den ; — The very dust on which we tread Ts but the ashes of the dead. Or victor's arch o'erthrown. The young have nursed their dreams of fame Upon this river-shore, And fondly smiled to think their name Should live for evermore. Vain ! vain such thought ! and vainer still The eagerness to raise A token in this world of ill, — Of trouble-haunted days I" 12 TASSO. VII. " My Father, these are bitter words ! — Better to tend the lowing herds In peasant's rudest ignorance, Than thus, with a foreboding glance, To dwell on future sadness, And see the blight on ev'ry flow'r That might have cheered us one short hour, And pain in ev'ry gladness !" VIII. " Nay, Boy," — and all the shadows roll From the inspired Poet's soul, — " Nay ! think not genius bringeth sorrow- It is a false belief! Rather it giveth strength to borrow Joy from ev'ry grief. The eagle on the beetling rock May feel the tempest's frequent shock ; TASSO. IH But would he change his home of pride For forests, deep and dim ? His subjects in the shade abide, — It is no place for him ! His flight is ever tow'rds the sun, With an undazzled eye ; Though proud the eyrie he has won. His wish is still on high ; And upward io the heavens he springs. With glo« ing heart and fearless wings ! IX. n 'V The Poet hath a second being, — A world untouched by care ; From life's o'erwhelming troubles heeii:^. He findeth refuge there ! Oh ! what though the unthinking crowd. When storms were raging, long and loud. Might look with momentary pity Upon the aged man. Who wandered homeless in their city. Weary, and bliml, and wan? 14 TASSO, Such pity Homer could not need : He had his secret bliss ! What is the greatest warrior's deed To such a song as his ? He saw with a prophetic eye His earthly immortality ! X. " And what though want and fear may darken The current of our' days, And none may care awhile to hearken The Poet's murmured lays ? It is not for a fading wreath, That we have braved distress and death, With martyrs* cheerful constancy. A holier hope is our's ! We to our second world may flee. Whene'er the tempest lours ; And calling round us gentle vision, And fancy, not of Earth, TA8S0. 10 With things untainted and Elysian, May dwell amid a mirth, In which the world can take no part,- It reaches but the Poet's heart ! XI. " They heed not now the Poet's numbers, His song's sweet music chime. It matters not! the good ne'er slumbers Unheeded through all time ; But, floating down the stream of age, The thoughts of high and holy sage, The earnest words of faithful Bard, With Truth's unfailing force, Shall, by no human passion marr'd, Leave blessings on their course What though the Bard meet scorn and hate ? Deep joy his spirit hath ; His is no unrecorded fate, And angels guard his path ; His footsteps are 'mid grief and wars,— His hope is high above the stars I'' . K W ■ '^t^.T ^T^' ■••''-- 199BPr^, 10 TASSO. XII. A silence follows that wild song, Unbroken, save that ever. With music soft, there rolls along Broad Tiber's ancient river ; And lightly now the breezes move Around the silent orange-grove, And bend the branches of the tree That forms the Poet's canopy. The darkened clouds have passed away. The stars look calmly down. And, where the dreary shadows lay, A lovely light is thrown. Torquato feels his hope unbroken. As if a spirit's voice had spoken : — " Father, it is enough !" he saith, " Even with thy unshrinking faith I, too, my doom will brave. The Father's hope, — the mother's prayer, — These shall preserve me from despair, And cheer me to the grave I TA880. 17 I, too, will seek and love the truth From these sad hours of early youth ; And though no guerdon Fame may give, Though Tasso's name may die, — Shall not his soul's revealings live Through all eternity ? It is enough ! — my soul would ask No fading laurels here, — Torquato shall fulfil his task Without one selfish fear !" The light of hope is on his brow. And genius in his eye ; And that young Poet's earnest vow Is registered on high ! tV T A S S O. PART THE SECOND. " Nul mugjjiur dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice NelU mideria." Dante. "Oiiue! miseru me ! lu aveva disegnato di scrivere quattro trai;edio, &c. — e di accoppiare cou la filusoflai 1' eloquenzu. Id guisa die rimauesse di nie elerna memoria nel mondo, e mi aveva propusto un line di gloria e di onuru altissimo. Ma oru, oppresso dal peso di tante sciagurei hu mes8o iu abbandono ogni pensiero di gloria e di onore ; ed assai felice mi parrebbe se senza gospeUo potessi trarmi la sete, dalla quale continu- ameute sou travagliato." Scritto da T. Tatio al amico Scipione Oomagu. 2 i(^ T A S S O. PART THE SECOND. I. Years, changeful years have rolled away, And they who, side by side. Lingered to watch the close of day Near Tiber's flowing tide, — The fond and earnest-hearted child, The man of many cares. On whom no earthly fortune smiled, — What destinies are theirs ? II. The Bard whom Sorrow called her own Long in the grave hath slept ; 22 TA880. No word the monumental stone Tell of the tears he wept ; No word of grief and wrong, Nor tale of sickening hope is there. But proud and lasting words declare The beauties of his song. III. Ah ! little recks the joyous spirit How dark have been the days Of some, whose mighty works inherit Everlasting praise ! Full little dream we of the pain, The want, the weariness. Of many a Bard, whose hopeful strain Ten thousand lips may bless, — The petty cares, the daily sorrow, That made the heart their prey ; The shadow flung upon the morrow By the sadness of to-day ! TA.S80. 23 IV. Not to the Poet's living doom We give our sympathy ; We think but of the sculptured tomb, The glorious memory : We reck not that the cheering word It had been joy to hear. Remained for aye by him unheard, — 'Twas spoken round his bier ! V. But he, the Poet's gifted son, What fame, what horours, hath he won ? Still has his hope an unchecked wing ? Like murmurs from a hidden spring, Hath his rich song been breathed ? Or is his place acknowledged high Amor»g the sons of melody, — His home in palace halls, — his name • From land to land loud told by Fame, — His brow with laurel wreathed ? 24 TA8S0. VI. It has been so ! Princes have hung On the sweet accents of his tongue, And belted lords and ladies bright Have flocked in crowds to hear His gorgeous tales of love and fight,— The blossom and the spear ! VII. Ferrara's proudest sons have bowed To him whose praise all lips avowed ; And in the Duke Alphonso's hall He was more honoured than they all. Time was, when day's rude sounds all hush'd Along the twilight grove, The Lady Leonor hath blush'd To hear him speak of love. But clouds have darkened o'er his fate, And left him lone and desolate ; TAS80. The brightness of his spirit dim ; Fame but a mockery to him ; Disgraced, and torn from courts, to dwell A captive in a madman's cell ! VIII. The sultry heat of day is gone. And with a deep, rich music-tone, Each fainting flower caressing. As free and joyous as a child. The breeze sings now by wood and wild. And in Ferrara's crowded street The old and young its coming greet With smiles and words of blessing. 25 IX. The captive Poet loves to feel That fragrant breath across him steal ; He leans upon his prison bars To watch th' uprising of the stars. Oh ! little in that altered face. E'en in an hour of joy. wmm l_i.iil^ L.U.JH 26 TASSO. Remaineth now, wherein to trace Resemblance to the Boy ! The hollow cheek, with languor flush'd, The sunk yet restless eye,— These witness of a spirit crush'd By its adversity. X. But now all mournful thoughts depart ; A calm hath fallen on his heart, And through the vista of past years, Half blinded by delicious tears, He sees her radiant form once more, His own, his tender Leonor. Fondly now he breathes again The words of a once-welcome strain. XI. " Sorrow's shadow o'er me hung. Life was dark with weeping. Tremblingly my untried hand. O'er the harpstrings sweeping, TA8S0. 27 Woke a few low, wailing notes, Like the breeze that round us floats ; Now my song is glad and free. For I miu-mur it to thee, Leonor, my Leonor ! XII. " Like a dreary waste unblest E'en by one pale flower. Open to the blighting storm And the midnight shower. Cheerless, cheerless was the Past ! Hope, o'erwearied, sank at last. Folding her storm-ruflled wing ; — Upward now thou bidst her spring, Leonor, my Leonor ! XIII. " Like a star whose loved light falls In a mournful prison, Thou, my bright and dearest one. On my heart hast risen. ■IWS*' 1 H 'ifc j >^.p,i^i. 28 TASSO. Could thy form be mirrored there Side by side with wan despair ? On me while those fond eyes shine, Image there is none but thine, Leonor, my Leonor ! XIV. " Sayest thou I have won a page In Italia's story ? — Thine the inspiration was, Thine should be the glory ! Let me gaze upon thy brow. Beaming as it beameth now ! — What are wealth and fame to me. While I thus may sing to thee, Leonor, my Leonor ?" XV. The lay hath faded with the smile ; The spell that lulled his pain a while Hath passed, his dream of pleasure breaking Alas ! the anguish of such waking! TA8SO. 29 ,7;'T ^^-"« ^-inclose round hi. ^' He feels their shadow on his soul. Back, blighting recollections roll.' And as he turns hin. to the page' On which to trace his fears - His cares.-his Lord's relentless rage.-. ^18 wet with bitter tears ! XVI. "A woeful doom is mine. n^yfHend. A drear and woeful doom » ^o ray of hope, no thought of peace ^o cheer my spirit's gloom.- >^o changing of my sad estate Save for a lonely tomb ! XVII. "It was not thus I thought to be A prey to grief and shame; Far other was the fancied fate That to my vision came. T^^e thought ofall I might have been •^^corches my heart like flame? .„-..i>Jil>J... u jii 30 TASSO. XVIII. " The madman's shriek disturbs my rest,- I shudder as I feel Unearthly terrors at that sound Across my spirit steal ; — The horror of this dark abode Makes all my senses reel I XIX. " A fever rages in my veins, My lips are hot and dry ; And near my cell, I hear a stream Sing as it trickles by ; — To drink the waters of that stream In vain ! in vain I sigh ! XX. '* And I, whose hope it was to build A monument, — to be A marvel and an oft-sought shrine To all posterity ; — Alas I that I shall leave no work To hallow my memory ! TA8. lil XXL "I close xny eyes and dream again A wild and thrilling dream: ^^ stand once more at eventide Beneath the young Moon's beam And fair as Eden's blessed plains ' The things around me seem. " -f stand upon the dewy lawn, J feel the evening wind ; The lily lifts her chalices ' With fragrant incense lined. As if to drink the falling dew' For sustenance, she pined. XXIII. "The orange gently waves her boughs, VVith many a pearly flower Flinging adown the green, green leave Jn a richly-scented shower • The dove's low call comes sweetly now From distant citron bower. 1 ' ! r ai li 33 TA880. XXIV. " A melody is in mine ear, A voice of leaves and rills, I see the lovely moonlight sleep On the far mounds and hills : As beauty fills the earth and sky So joy my spirit fills ! XXV. " And far away on flowery bank, Half hidden by the trees, Whose ancient branches o'er it bend Like stately canopies, The young and fair are lingering To meet the joyous breeze. XXVI. » I see them gathered there in groups Some hearkening to a tale Of love and grief, that suiteth well The hght so dim and pale, And gentle sigh and pitying word Float near me on the gale. TA8B0. 33 XXVII. •' Or there some wilder legend breathes A spell of awe and dread, Speaking of spectres that have stood Beside the murderer's bed ; In low mysterious tones are told The fearful words they said. XXVIII. " The bravest of the list'ning throng Scarce dares to turn his head ; And cheeks are white with terror now That erst were rosy red : For the marble fauns among the woods Seem spirits from the dead ! XXIX. " And there a lover whispers low In maiden's willing ear, The blush is mantling on her cheek, She sheds a joyful tear ; Then timidly she bends to cull The flowers that cluster near. D 34 TA890. I i XXX. •• There, purple grape and downy peach Lie strewn upon the ground, And merrily a laughing ring Chanta to the harp's glad sound ; With praises of some radiant one Each brimming cup is crown'd. XXXI. " Far down yon path a gentle pair Are wandering apart, When suddenly, from deepest shade. Bright forms across them dart. And then rings out the music-laugh That springs from joyous heart ! XXXII. *• All thijj I see, all this I he«r While I am still alone. And near me is the heaving lake Making its constant moan ; While in its depths the calm soft stars Move to that lulling tone. TA8S0. 85 xxxiir. " I hear a light step on the grass, The boughs are pushed aside, — Like a pure spirit from on high I see my loved one glide. What are the glories now to me Of earth, or sky, or tide ? XXXIV. " I clasp her hand in mine — I read Love in her half-raised eyes,— I speak no greeting words to her, — What need of woids when tics Have bound us, heart to loving heart, With dearest sympathies ? I. XXXV. " I see the moonlight make her cheek Seem fairer than by day ; I see a smile of perfect joy Round rosy lips at play. And I ask if Time hath power to steal A bliss like our's away ! D 2 36 TASSO. XXXVI. " She answers with a serious smile, My blessed Leonor I * By the brightest of the stars above. Thine ! thine till life be o'er !'— A cloud comes o'er that brightest star. And we see its beams no more. XXXVII. " It is a sign of future ill. And yet I heed it not. But blessing her for that dear vow, I lead her from the spot, And as we wander she foretells A proud, a shining lot. XXXVIII. * Torquato, my beloved, mine own ! Fate has been just to thee ; The bay is on thy glorious brow. Thou King of Poecy I How blest is Leonor to share Thine immortality ! TASSO. 87 XXXIX. * Nay, fear thou not ! I cannot fear, Beloved, when thou art nigh ; 1 were unworthy love like thine If e'er my hope could die. Look up, and I will give thee back A smile for ev'ry sigh ! XL. * Nay, fear thou not ! In future years, Some tender Bard shall tell How once a Princess left a court, In cottage lone to dwell. And say how great the joy and love That to her portion fell. XLI. Will not the tale be sweet, mine own ? Far sweeter, then, the truth ; Fostering the noble thoughts that charm These palmy hours of youth ; And looking only forth to death, As a call to realms of ruth.' ^«» 88 TASSO. i XLII. " I hearken to her syren voice, I fondly press her hand,-- My Leonor ! and couldst thou leave Thy courtiers* flattering band, And dwell, a Poet's only joy, Unhonoured in the land ? XLIII. " And wouldst thou doff thy silken robe A humbler garb to wear, And cast aside the Eastern gems That gleam amid thy hair ? Such change would make thee to mine eyes, Beloved, seem more fair ! XLIV. " My hand should cull the dewy flowers, Meet gift for such as thou ! And thou shouldst weave them into wreaths. And bind them round thy brow, The while I sang some mournful strain Such as thou lovest now. TASSO. 39 XLV. " Dear one ! could such deep joy be mine ? And couldst thou turn aside From princely rank and gorgeous state, And leave thy home of pride To dwell beneath a lowly roof, A Poet's cherish'd Bride ? XLVI. ** T mark a tear steal calmly down, , i.nd drop upon the earth ; But such a sadness seems to me Far dearer now than mirth : It tells me that without my love All else were nothing worth. XLVII. " She loves me with a faithful love ; What bliss is in the thought ! Much have I wished, yet little hoped, And dared to ask for nought ;* And I have won that pure, high heart, So long, so humbly sought ! * " Brama assai, pooo speia, nulla chiede." La Oemalemme. 40 TA880. XLVIII. •' ^t is a wild and hrilling dream That binds me in its chain, And bids me thus in ray despair Live o'er past hours again ; I wake with anguish in my heart, And madness in my brain ! Kl;![ XLIX. " I hear a spirit-voice invite,— I follow where it calls, And seem to roam in solitude Through subterranean halls ; Wild, ghastly shapes and monsters dire Frown on me from the walls. L. " I cannot choose but follow still Where that low whisper leads, — That low sweet sound like midnight winds Stirring among the reeds, — But ever from my charmed ear The mystic voice recedes. TASSO. 41 LI. " On, on, through dim and rugged caves, For many a weary hour, I roam with slow, uncertain steps, Feeling my spirit cower, And yet I dare not pause, so great Is that low whisper's power. LII. •' I scarce can grope along my path Amid rude stones and mud, — I tremble at the dark, stiil pools. For I know they are of blood ! — At length I see the ruddy wave Of a deep and silent flood. LIII. " The voice which led me ceaseth now. No sound is in the cave, And there, beside that crimson stream. Reflected in its wave, I meet my Leonor again, — She cometh from the grave ! 42 TA890. LIV. " Her face ! I sec it still ! how changed From what it was of old ! The eyes that were so full of love, Are scornful nov. and cold ; And hitter taunts are on the lips That once of fondness told ! fi : LV. " I look upon her altered face, It changes in my sight, — The colour fades from off her cheeks, Her lips grow thin and white, And from her moveless eyes hath pass'd Even their scornful light. LVI. " Those fearful eyes ! they gaze on mo, I see the wan lips move, She speaks again the vow she spoke Once in Ferrara's grove. And viewless spirits echo round Those sacred words of love ! TAPS'). 4:t f LVII. " Those fearful eyes! their stony Raze Is fix 'd upon mo still! Vroiu vein to vein I feel the blood Creep tardily and chill, My limbs refuse to bear me thence, They move not at my will ; LVIII. " And jeering voices mock my pain, They (;all me by my name ; — • Fool ! has Time failed to teach thee yet Tliy soaring thought to tamo ? Blest lover I honoured Bard ! is this Thy dream of love and fame ?' " 1 (I /I a TASSO. PART THE THIRD. Sai tu ben qual K fra la sorte Omiserao Serena, eepremio e quale ^pena? Se stessa affina La vitm ne' travagli. M^TASTASK,. B 01 On ( OlK T T A 8 S O. PART THE THIRD. I. '• Doth not the morning dawn ? How heavily The hours of night drag on ! — I fondly pine But once again to gaze upon the sky, — The home of parted souls, — the home of mine ! Look forth ! look forth ! Is there no ruddy light Stealing across the Eastern bound of Heaven ? Oh ! that ere Death had wholly veiled my sight, One glance at all that I have loved were given ! One glance at Earth, — the loved, — the beautiful,— One kiss of the soft breeze to cool my brow, — Once more the voice of flowing streams to lull The pain that racks my frame so wildly now ! 4» TA880. I i Look forth ! docs not the morning star fade slow Like a fond friend, unwilling to depart ? Is not th' advancing daylight's joyous glow Like the free sunshine of a youthful heart, Bathing in glory every common thing On which its smile may fall ? Is not the dew Upborne to heaven with motion lingering ? Doth not the ancient City, on the view. Gleam through the passing shades, — how mighty still ! A City peopled with old imag'rics, That gives each pillar and each fane crown'd hill Familiar names, loved o'er far lands and seas ? Fling wide the casement ! let my fainting soul Drink in the loveliness of Earth once more I Let me but hear again the waters roll I Still let mc dream as I have dreamt of yore, Once, only once again !" IL 1, From pallid lips those whispers flow ; The few who hear them uttered know That life's last hour is nigh. TASsa Tliey dra«r a,i<,e ^^ c„tei„ ^jj Towatcluhefir,tfai„t«„ak,„fg„,j Tliattreiobleintliesky;- Tl.ey»atchi„sil,.„ee,f„rtl,Jyfec| A sha,Io„- o'er their spiriu steal. Andknoivitisofdegth. No sound awaken, in the rou,„ Where Taaso waits to meet h,sdoon. ^ave his own struggling b„ath. 49 ni. it is a solemn thing to see A spirit take its flight Andknow.whate'eritsdo^mn^aybe. 1 he secrets of Eternity Are breaking on its sight - The k„ge we have vainly sough V Too lofty for ourfetter'd thought -T ^hich yet the restless soul wiil yearn With a fond eagerness, to learn; ' Like some imprisoned bird.' £ Il ' 50 TASSO. That spreads its wings, and seeks to rise Far upward to the sunny skies, By native impulse stirr*d ; But hemmed in, — wounded by the walls Which still its course restrain. Faint, weary, trembling, sad, it falls. And pants with grief and pain : Yet when once more the impulse calls, Upward it springs again ! IV. f! I |i I It is a solemn thing to wait, Feeling the Angel near. Whose hand shall ope Death's awful gate For one our soul holds dear ! To see the face, whose smile hath been The sunshine of each earthly scene, Wearing a calm unknown, Till human grief, and fear, and care Had past, and left no token there. And Heaven had claimed its own. TASSO. A calm, as if the Dead had smiled, Rejoicing like a loving child Long absent from its home ; While they who watch the soul, forsake The Earth, and feel the sweet cords break Which bound them unto life, yet dare Breathe no wild murmur of despair. Because the hour is come ! V. It is a solemn time, when one. Whose mighty mind could raise An everlasting shrine, hath done With Earth's tear-watered bays, And passes forth unseen, alone. To answer at th' Immortal's throne For all the gifts he gave ; No voice to F'jothe the anxious heart That sadly watches him depart Replying from the grave ! 51 E '2 52 TASSO. VI. Fondly the Poet turns his eyes To meet the breaking dawn, While gentle music-sounds arise, — The whisper of the breeze, that sighs Across the blooming lawn ; The singing of a fountain, hidden In a thick bower of leaves. Most like a bird that chants unbidden Its gay song on the eaves ; The stirring of the boughs ; the notes Outpouring from a thousand throats. Like waters from a spring ; And, as the brilliant rays at last Pierce through the shades, there floateth past A sound of frequent wing. VII. It comes, — the glory of the morn ! Up springs the gorgeous Sun ; A joy, of his glad presence born, Through all the Earth does run. I TASSO. SH It comes ! and as a breath may thrill The harp's rich golden chords. So doth that morning glory fill The Poet's heart, so earnest still. That rife with all impassioned feeling, Like to a solemn music pealing, Burst forth his latest words. VIII. " Once more I see thy face, oh Earth ! fair Earth ! Once more my heart is open to thy smile ! There riseth from thy breast a voice of mirth, And I am passing to my grave the while ! Earth ! Mother Earth ! hast thou no sign of woe, No moan, no sigh of sympathy, to tell Thy love for him who prayed he might not go, Till he had murmured thee one last farewell ? Still canst thou echo voices of delight When death's chill, iron grasp is on me laid ? No token of distress doth meet my sight ; The gurgling waters laugh along the shade ; P 94 TASSO. The wnd is tossing high the willow boughs, Gay as the banners of a conquering chief : Why droop they not like plumes o'er mourning brows, Around a hero's bier, low bent in grief? Rich odours rise from every flower's cup ; Soft music warble forth the bird and bee; And far away the fountain flingeth up Its rainbow-tinted spray with noisy glee ; The clouds with slow, reluctant motion pass Across the heavens, in golden radiance drest ; The hum of insects creeps along the grass ; Gaily the child awakens from his rest. IX. " Is there no token. Earth, of sympathy ? Is all my love, mine earnest love forgot ? — Dark is the hour of my last agony,— Dark to my spirit, — yet thou grievest not ! I have claimed kindred with all beauteous things, Loving them with the fondness of a brother ; E'en now in death, thy child, departing, clings To thy beloved bosom. Earth, my Mother ! TASSO. 55 VS, Thy streams, thy calm blue lakes, thy mighty floods, The lonely echoes of thy rocks and hills. Thy secret dells, thy solitary woods, Thy flowers, waving as the soft air wills. My soul has loved all these, — hrs seem'd to hear Sweet utterance of truths from them awaking, — An utterance unheard by common ear Of truths, like heaven's own light upon me breaking. X. " And was it but a dream ? Is there no tie Linking thy beauty with the Poet's soul ? The veil of death already dims mine eye, And yet in gladness thine hours onward roll ! Was it a dream, oh Earth ? Dost thou rejoice To see a son pass from thy homes for aye, — One who hath miide thy loveliness his choice. Who weepeth, longing yet awhile to stay ? XI. " And yet why shouldst thou grieve tha* I have run Through all my troubled course? — My heart was torn a m TAS *0. f !^ sit ;| Pill! With cares and fears ere youth had well beguv» : Dim was the twiilnjht of mine early morn ! Smile on, great Mother ! It ia well to f^ee From chains that ever gall Ih* iuimort?.^ part, Whose strength, but half reveal cm! jrives misery Full scope to prey upon the eager hear!:. Smile on then, Mother, snuie ! for life hatb broupJifc Much Si>rrow to thy child : yet, Mother dear, T?ier(^ i; i l)itt'^v anguisii in the thought That i a75,i vfissiug to another sphere, Uncoitscioui? of the sights and sounds which there Incessant gladden the beatified ; — Thou Earth, whose aspect is so passing fair, I wc-ep to leave thee for a land untried I XII. " This is not well ! I am a murmurer yet ! It was a passing weakness,' — it is gone. Orce more my soul springs upward, and is met Midway by angels bidding me hope on ; And as the bird, which leaves its grassy nest To meet the earliest beams that earthward gl TA8S0. 67 The morning's dewy wet upon its breast, Feeleth that dew by those sweet sunbeams dried, So now my grief is o'er ! My thought can cleave The calm, blue, spiritual vault of heaven, Where the bright stars their midnight mazes weave. It mounts ! e'en now the fleshly bonds seem riven ! XIII. " I have not lived in vain ! My heart hath blung Still faithful to one hope,— a hope fulfiU'd ! The lofty strain that Tasso's lips have sung Shall live when all his busy cares are stilPd. It is enough ! My soul is willing now Friend-like to meet the great Destroyer, Death. My task is done ! I have performed my vow ! To thee, great Lord, I yield my latest breath !" XIV. His arms are folded on his breast, A smiie -^ on his face ; Calm is Tcquato Tasso's rest After a troubled rati'. ' OS TAS80. Once more the room is silent ; none Daies even breathe a sigh, For a mighty spirit hath begun Its course of bliss on high ! lONE. A POEM IN IRREGULAR VERSE. " Millions of spiritual creatures walk the eartli. Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." MlLTDN. DEDICATED TO A FRIEND, WHO SLGGESTED THE IDEA OF "GUARDIAN ANGliLS" AS A SUBJECT FOR A POEM. ! I s I ONE. i LS" i The glory hath l\( irted From her old ancestral halls ; — Earth covers the light-hearted Who dwelt within their walls. She hath watched beside the dead ; She hath raised the throbbing head. Feeling its last pulses flutter, While the lips still strove to utter. With their slow and struggling breath, Love unfailing even in death., One by one all, all have past To a brighter home, — For clouds can never overcast Eden's glorious dome. Change and gr.of are all unknown In the land where they have flown ; m lONE. M And Love, wiiosc steps arc haunted ever, Upon the oartli, by Fear, Wanders beside th' eternal river With no dark shadow near. All the lovely things that are, — Tlie opening'; rose, the early star, Thi^ moving shadow of the tree, Tlie waving of the grass, — Thut waveth like a summer sea When low winds o'er it pass, — The images alone can be Of Eden's beauteous scenery. And all the sounds whose music brings A calm and silent sadness. To which the earnest heart still clings More fondly than to gladness, — The many-voiced night-breezes pealing, Like some impassioned heart revealing Its bursts of high and chainless feeling, Scarce comprehended by the throng, Who lightly deem the daring song An utterance of madness ; — lONE. iy.\ The warblinp; of the hidden bird Among the leafy branches heard ; Tlie voice of solitary rills, Like happy children, sprin^in^ Adown the everlasting hills. Made joyous by their singing; These sounds, that now by secret spells Bid tears come softly from their cells, As if some gentle influence stole Across the half-unconscious soul, — Some lovely vision floating by From our eternal home on high, While, weeping as an exile weeps. We bless the sound that o'er us creeps. Scarce knowing, as we feel its pow'r, Whether the tearful sigh We breathe so calmly in that hour Is born of Hope or Memory ; These are but echoes, faint and dull Of Eden's melodies. All that we deem most beautiful Is harsh and rude to these. 64 lONE. R! I II. ;<'1 il lone knew they all were there, — The loved, — the lost, — the true ; She knew they twined around their hair Wreaths that in Eden grew ; She knew that young and old had won That holy place and calm, Where ihe stream of lif"! aye floweth on To the sound of the angels' psalm ! She saw them in her sleep,— -the same, And yet more pure and fair, And she knew they bore another name. And breathed another air. She longed to be like them, — to feel Unawed by their still gaze; Again beside them she would kneel Chanting her hymn of praise. For in her mother's smile there shone The glory of a ransomed one, Reflected from the face of Him, Beside whose glance the sun is dim I lONE. lone dared not look on her, — She saw her radiant garments stir, — She heard, but could not understand. The language of the better land ; And she would pray to be at rest, Pillow'd upon that loving breast ! A gulf between them now there was : She pray'd the Lord of Love, That she that gloomy gulf might pass,- Her soul be call'd above ; Even in sleep she pray'd to be Free as her cherish'd ones were free ! 65 IIL Night fell upon the earth,— a night Uncheer'd by moon or star ; The roaring blast, as it hurried past, Heeded nor bolt nor bar. lone felt its chilling power, And shudder'd as it came, Mocking her in that dreary hour, — Dimming her lamp's pale flame,— m m I * I I ii 66 lONE. As every treasured picture shaking. That hung around her room, It came with hoarse, deep murmur, waking Thoughts dire of dread and gloom. She fell upon her knees and wept, — Wept bitterly and long : Her tide of grief its bounds o'erleapt And flow'd deep, dark, and strong. And then she raised her eyes, and shook The tears away,* and pray'd, Up-gazing with an earnest look. To seek immortal aid. The storm that made the old walls reel Raged with a fearful noise, And yet that passionate appeal Rose clear above its voice. IV. " Great Father ! hear me, for my heart is lonely- No face in all the earth hath smiles for me ! There she shook Tlie holy water from her heavenly eyes. King Lfor. lONE. 67 All, all are gone ! Why should I linger only, Pining in vain the Spirits' land to see ? Take me to them whom Thou dost sanctify ! My heart is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die ! V. " I tremble at the silence of these chambers, Once rife with laughter and sweet, loving tones The ivy through each broken casemc at clambers ; All night the wind around the turret moans ; No mother's whisper soothes me as I lie. My heart is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die \ VL " They are with thee, great Lord !— My gifted brother, Taken in youth and manly strength away, And she who wept for him, my sainted mother ! I watched them in their death-sleep as they lay, — I heard f» blessing with their latest sigh. My heart is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die ! F 2 I 68 lONE. VII. " She too is gone, oh Lord ! the gentle being. Whose quiet gladness was not of the earth ; She was the first, from fleshy bondage fleeing, I'hat knew the glories of the heav'nly birth-, I saw the death-film dim her loving eye. My heart is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die I t VIII. " And he is gone, great Lord ! — he who had number'd Long thoughtful years, — my father is with Thee ! He who had wept with me for them that slumber'd, — I saw him droop, — I knew that it must be ! He smiled upon :ue in his agony. My heart is lonely, Lord, —oh ! let me die ! IX. * I did not mourn for him alone. One blessing Remain'd of all I once had call'd mine own : I felt his tender grasp, his lips' caressing, And joy 'd to think I was not all alone. Oh ! the fond passion of that last dear tie ! My heart is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die ! lONE. 69 r'd X. " Not long a young child's heart gives place to sorrow ; Full soon his laugh like merry music rang ; And I from him some cheerfulness could borrow, Ceasing from tears, when he so gaily sang. That bliss I did not fear could e'er pass by. My heart is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die ! XI. " He had my mother's smile, my father's spirit, — Fond, beautiful, and generous, and brave ; — Tis such as he thou callest to inherit. In youth, the glorious life beyond the grave I His spirit left its dwelling peacefully. My hear*^^ is lonely, Lord, — oh ! let me die ! XII. " Let me depart ! Lord, in thy mercy hear me Not one ! not one, in ail this dreary world. Blesses my presence ! Lord ! not one is near me I On me alone thy vengeance hath been hurl'd. — Great Father, hear my spirit's bittei cry ! My heart is lonely, Lor.l, — oh ! let me die 1" 70 lONE. ! XIII. That wild despairing voice is o'er ; She bows her head again ; And thick and fast upon the floor Her tears drop down like rain. But now there stealeth o'er her sense A soft and soothing influence, And, with her cheek still wet, a slumber Hath bound her in its chain, And she forgets the thoughts that cumber Her life with grief and pain. She dreams she sees a form draw nigh, With smile benign and pitying eye : It is a messenger of grace. lone feared the bliss That glisten'd in her mother's face, And yet she fears not this : She sees the palm-branch in his hand, The star-crown on his brow. For he is of the sinlesti band That in high !ieaven bow. lONE. No trace of human passion lurks In that untainted creature ; No dark, unworthy feeling works In his i Timortal nature I XIV. He speaks, — yet 'tis not to the ear That his soft words are spoken ; It is the heart that seems to hear, — That heart so faint and broken. XV. " lone, fear thou not ! Deem not the Lord, his ancient promise breaking. Thy sorrows hath forgot ! Fear not that He, his former ways forsaking, Neglecteth thee ! Lift up thy heart to heaven, Where dwell the loved, the faithful, the forgiven. They are but gone before, To rest from grief and care on th' eternal shore. XVI. "In heav'n thy dear ones rest, Where the angelic host for aye rejoices — lone ! they are blest ! 71 72 lONE. Vi\\ In heav'n are heard their rich, melodious voices, Minghng their praises with celestial choirs — Singing such words as heav'n's pure joy inspires In the redeemed soul, And sweet through Eden's plains the blissful murmurs roll. XVII. " Rejoice that they are gone. All ft 'thful to their God. Of all the treasures So loved, so mourn 'd, not one Hath failed to win the undecaying pleasures ! Not one, but wears the amaranthine crown ! Not one, but o'er his gold harp bows him down, And sings the joy jus strain, — Blessing and praise to Him, who died and ro^e again ! XVIII. " And thou, lone, thou. Whose home, once peopled with beloved faces, Seemeth so mournful now — Whose lieart turns sadly from long-vacant places ii lONE. 13 irs l\ Knowing the light f^^ human love no more, And dwelling ever ot* the doom that tore Thy kindred from thy side ; Thou for whom days and years so darkly seem to glide,— Think not thou art alone ! Each human soul is by a guide attended Until life's toil he done, And then the angel flees, his mission ended. Back to his home. How blest if he can bear The human soul committed to his care E'en to the Saviour's feet, While all the ransomed host a brother's coming greet ! XIX. " Thus have I been with thee, Communing with the spirit in temptation, While thou, unconsciously, Heeding the thoughts I whisper d of salvation Hast turn'd thee from a path beset y> *th snares. I knew that thou would'st bless me for my cares When death unveil'd thine e^es. And gave thee strength to see a native cf the skies. 74 lONE. XX. " lone, thou hast seen, With kindUng eye and heart with rapture swelling, The beauty that hath been Scatter'd so freely round thine earthly dwelling ; Hast read deep truths upon the starry sky, — Wisdom that leads to immortality ; Well hast thou loved the light, Whose rays, like friendly smiles, cheer'd thee in deepest night. I J I XXI. " And thou hast won sweet thought From wood-crown'd mountains, with long ages hoary ; The river's voice hath brought Visions to thee of an unfailing glory ; — All hath been full of blessing, — sight and sound, — E'en in the lily's whiteness thou hast found A sign of purity, Such as the just shall know through all eternity. li 11 : lONE. 75 m XXII. " lone! when such lea Of more than earthly glory wei ui ^e — When, in thy midnigl Sludows of parted ones from earthV . o won thee- It was my whisper, falling like the dew, That bids the fainting flow'r look up anew, Which to thy spirit gave A power to taste such joy as lives beyund the grave ! XXIII. " Still to thy steps I cleave ! Think not thy way is lone and unprotected — Fear not. nor grieve. But be thou faithful still and undejected ! Wait calmly till a messenger be sent To call thee to the great Omnipotent, When I again shall stand, Unblamed, among the shining crowd at His right hand. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 2.8 m 1^ 12.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1 1.6 ■• 6" — ► V] . 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 % t/ji h. 76 lONE. XXIV. " Unblamed, for I shall lead Thy soul, lone, to those heav'nly regions For the believer's meed ; And voices from the bright unnumber'd legions Shall utter as we pass their grateful songs — Glory to Him to whom all praise belongs, Great in his wondrous might, Yet greater in the love that brought this soul to light !" t!" MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. " Speak," said the child, " of tented field. Of banners in the breeze, Of crested helm and gleaming shield,— Tell me of these !" They told him of his mother's line, Who ruled, with princely sway, iOm Danube to the wooded Rhine, — Many and great were they ! They told him of a warlike band. The champions of the Cross, Who would have sought the Holy Land, But for their Leader's loss. They told him how each belted knight Turn'd sadly from the promised fight ■■' t 80 THE OVKE OF REICUSTADT. To bear the body of his Chief, Amid the Christians' muttered grief, Back to a royal tomb ;* And though at first they spoke of joy, And cheer' d the wild and gallant Boy, The end was all of gloom ! *• Tell me of him, beside whose fame All other fame is dim ! Speak ye my mighty Father's name ; Tell me of him!" Then told they of a mighty one, Whose name rang far and wide. And, while they spoke, the Hero's son Forgot how he had died ! They told of one, — the Conqueror In many a bloody fray ; They spoke of the exciting stir Where tented thousands lay ; * Frederick Barbarossa, drowned in the Cydnus, 1 188, when pn his way to assist the Cruaaders against Saladin, after having humbled the Greek emperor. THE DUKE OP RBICHSTABT. 81 I his the ' They told how each brave man would try To meet his chiefs approving eye ; They said Napoleon won and wore The crowns long lines of princes bore ; They said the people's shout, 0*er battle-field, through crowded street, The laurell'd Emperor's course to greet. Wildly and loud rang out I The gallant Boy's young eye flash'd fire, Proud thoughts rush'd o'er his brain ; — •• Oh ! speak ye still of my great Sire ! — Tell me again!" They told him ; — but a woeful change Came o'er the brilliant tale ; They told of things so sad and strange. The list'ner's cheek grew pale. They spoke of one, — the conquer'd now, In battle's bloody strife, — The laurel wither'd from his brow. The joy pass'd from his life ! They spoke of one on rocky strand, Far from his own adopted land, o 82 THE DUKB OF RRICHSTADT. Gazing intense from dreary steep, As if across the heaving deep His country he might see ; His heart crush'd down beneath its pride, And one friend only at his side — And this, they said, was He ! " My Father !" cried the weeping child ; " And was it thus he dwelt. Where rock on hopeless rock was piled ? Say what he felt!" They said the Hero loved full well To speak of his past days. Of deeds that future Bards should tell In their undying lays. They said at last his lion heart Mourn'd its unwonted fate. That deep and deeper sank the dart Of foes' unpitying hate : They said that, day by day, his mind. Like prison'd eagle, sank and pined ; TUB DUKE OP RBICHSTADT. 83 The head that once had worn a cirown, Now, night by night, lay sadly down Till death had rent his chain. They said a willow-shaded grave Was his, — the mighty and the brave, — Amid th' Atlantic main. They watch'd the Boy's oft-changing cheek As thus they spoke the rest ; They knew that thoughts he could not speak Woke in his breast. What were the thoughts that in him stirr'd, And burn*d his heart like flame, When he, Napoleon's son, had heard Of his great Father's shame ? It matters not I The Warrior's child Hath bow'd him down in death. And whisper'd murmurs, kind and mild. Came with his failing breath, Pard'ning his Father's enemies. And when the death-film dimm'd his eyes, 6 2 84 TUB. DUKB OP RBICUSTADT. A smile was on his fair, young face,- A smile of more than earthly grace ; And they, around the bed Of him who once was hail'd a King, Saw that from pain and sorrowing His soul for aye had fled ! 1 1 A TRAVELLER'S TALE. Founded on an Anecdote related in Burnes's Bokhara. L " Good Traveller, thou hast jowney'd far, Great wonders thou hast known ; Then tell us of thy wanderings In forests deep and lone, Or in those lands where some old tale Belongs to every stone." IL Yes, children ! many lands I've trod. And wondrous things I've seen: I've stood within Palmyra's hounds, — The Desert's fallen Queen, — In Petra's City of the Dead A wond'ring guest I've heen. 86 A traveller's story. III. My image has been given back By many a nameless pool ; I've linger'd in untrodden woods Till the torrid day grew cool ; I've uander'd by the Ganges' stream, And mountains of Cabool. IV. I'll tell you what befell me once In great Bokhara's street, Where Frank, and bearded Israelite, And turban'd Moslem meet. When through a lonely way I pa8s*d, A man knelt at my feet. V. He clung to me with close embrace ; — " Oh Stranger, hear me speak ! Such pity as thou feel'st for me, I long might vainly seek ; — I read it in thy tearful eye. And in thy changing cheek. A THAVBLLKR^H 8T0RY. 87 VI. " Tia five-and-twenty years ago, When I was ten years old, That I was stolen from my home, And brought here to be sold. Alas ! that men should be so base As thus to sin for gold I VII. " I am a Russian soldier's son, My sire had long been dead ; In fighting for his country's fame That gallant warrior bled. My mother lived with me alone. Beneath a lowly shed. VIII. " I was her stay, her only child ; And though our home was poor. And near it were the snow-capp'd hills, And round a barren moor, Yet joyfully my mother's smile Aye met me at the door ; 1 88 A traveller's story. IX. " And when, at eve, the pine-log blazed So cheerfully and bright, And we, whose greatest happiness Was in each other's sight, Sat, heedless of the storms without. In undisturb'd delight, X. " My mother told of mighty wars. And well-fought battle-ground, Until I felt my spirit stirr'd As by a trumpet's sound ; And then, with tears, she gently said, 'Twas there his death he found ! XI, " Thy father, boy, in battle fell I Alas ! when war began, The fields lay waste, the towns were burn'd. And blood in torrents ran. But thou,— in peace thou ''anst not live An undistinguished man I A travellrk's story. XII. " And so she gave me lofty hopes Of an unsullied fame : She told me that of noble race She and my father came ; And I, though poor and feeble now, Must ne'er disgrace my name. 89 XIII. " Each night she bless'd me lovingly, And taught my lips to pray. And all her sweet and hopeful words I thought on as I lay. I still remember that old time As though 'twere yesterday ! XIV. " I left her one bright, sunny morn, To seek a straying sheep ; At noon-day, wearied with my toil, I lay me down to sleep. Good Stranger, from my dreams of home I waken'd but to weep I 90 A traveller's story. XV. " I heard the tramp of rapid feet, The neigh of eager steed, Then felt that I was borne along With an unwonted speed. They led me over Don's dark wave It was a ruthless deed ! XVI. " An Arab face bent over me, — A voice spoke unknown words ; I look'd around, — I saw no sign Of quiet flocks and herds ; I heard the howl of savage beasts, And cry of unknown birds. XVII. " I dared not raise my head again, I closed my burning eyes. For many days, o'er hill and dale. On, on, our courser hies, Until we reach'd at last the plain Where these strong towers rise. L A XaAVELLEB S STORY. XVIII. " I wept not, though my heart was crush'd At thought of my lone mother. And though my anguish was so deep, My sobs I tried to smother ; The first who spoke a gentle word, I clave to as a brother. XIX. " For five-and-twenty long, long years I've lived a stranger's slave : I pine to hear the sound again Of Don's fast-rolling wave, — To see my country, though the sight Should bring me to the grave ! 91 XX. "The worshippers of Mahomet Believe I hold their creed : Oh no ! my mother's care had sown Betimes the precious seed, And I have learn'd its blessedness In hours of sorest need. 92 A trayem.ek's story. XXI. " Oh tell me of my own dear land. Is there no hope for us ? Is not our own great Emperor A brave, true-hearted Russ ? And will he let his children pine In bondage ever thus ?" XXII. My children ! many things I've seen, By hill and desert sand, But never saw I sadder sight, In any distant land, Than that poor Russian slave, who wept Upon my trembling hand. 93 A SONG FOR Exiles. I. By thy rich and peopled cities, With palace-border'd streets,— By the monuments and trophies That tell thy heroes' feats,— By thy towns and scatter'd hamlets, Thy cottages and halls,— By thy fair and ancient temples. Thy ruins' ivied walls, — By these in joy and sorrow, By these through good and ill,— Old England, blessed country ! Thy children love thee still. 11. By thy deep and pathless forests. Thy joyous singing birds,— By thy broad and sunny meadows, Thy grazing flocks and herds,— !f 94 A SONO FOR EXILES. By thy willow-shaded rivers, The breezes of thy hills, — By thy lone and mossy valleys, Thy rocks and laughing rills, — By thy lakes and mountain torrents. Thine ocean-bounded shore, — Old England, we shall love thee Till life itself be o'er I M III. By the splendour of thine annals. By our fathers' noble fame, — By thy warriors' fadeless laurels, Thy martyrs' sainted name, — By thine unforgotten sages, And the deeds which they have wrought,- By thy poets' treasure-volumes, Thy records of high thought, — By the hope thy sun of glory Through ages may not set,— By the past and by the future, Thy children love thee yet ! ■-ff-'T^^r^'" A SONQ FOR EXILES. 95 IV. By our heart's own best affections. Our childhood's quiet home, By the holy thoughts that cheer us Wherever we may roam,— By each ancient song and story That now most precious seems,— By the loved and loving faces That greet us in our dreams,— By the first low prayer we utter'd Around our mother's knee,— Our faithful love. Old England ! Till death, shall cleave to thee ! 95. ! I ! STANZAS WRITTEN FOR AN ITALIAN AIR. "BUONA NOTTE." I ^ i Oh ! awaken a strain of past hours, And call back the joys that are gone, — all gone ! Though above us a dark'ning sky lours. There's comfort e'en yet in its tone. For what, though the loved and true-hearted Have passed from the sun-light away, — far away ? The faces of all the departed Draw near at the sound of our lay ! For what, though the loved, &c. Arouse, then, the thoughts that are sleeping, The mem'ry of all we have wept, — ^long wept I Let thy fingers the silent chords sweeping Chase the shadows that round us have crept. STANZAS. 97 And again, once again, we will borrow, From the bliss of the days that are past, — long past! A ray to enliven the sorrow Which time o'er our pathway has cast ! And again, once again, &c. H i)8 LONG AGO. L " Long ago !" — How gently To a blest one's ear, Like the waters' warbling, Low, and sweet, and clear ; Or the fairy music Of a soaring bird. When, from sunny heavens, Falling notes are heard ; Or the tranquil whispers Of the midnight breeze Calling to the echoes 'Mid the forest-trees, — n. Do those sweet words murmur Tales of days long past, While the soul will linger Backward looks to cast, M IW ii lJ iii LONQ AGO. 99 I Ever fondly bending O'er its treasure store, All its hoarded records Telling o'er and o'er ! Deep and cherish' d feelings At the sound arise, Visions full of gladness Sweep before our eyes. III. Mem'ry o'er the spirit Welcome chains will fling, Bearing it, unwearied, Backward to its spring, Culling ev'ry blossom Scatter'd on its way, . . • .•••' ; • • Basking Uil.tJhJEf Wis^hStne^ Of affpption'a lay.:* • • ••, «•,.«• *', With a •yv,oildi*oUft jftower • Bidding it rejoice, Wak'ning buried pleasures With her mighty voice. . . • , • • I • • I I I • • r I . ' I I I I I * t t • t • i • ■ ■ I > H 2 lUO I.0NO AuuV IV. E'en tlr • bToken-lif»arted, Rising at h^^ rtM, Seems again to wander In his father's hall, While sweet Mem'ry ever, By her magic spells Rousing hidden feelings From their silent cells, Calleth the departed With her syren tone, Till the weary mourner Feels no longer lone. V. " Long ago !" How wildly '.Do those ^implq words, Freatae.l vv n the spi'^it. Wake its licliost chords ! Bringing sweat Vefcetrrih'jnoe Of our childhood's days Ere our weary footsteps Trod the world . '^arV irisze, LONQ AOO. Wlien a tlioiisand wonders On our young eyes broke, And Devotion's fervour In our hearts avokc. VI. Sti". our >, arning nature Lovetii to look back, Though no clouds may lower O'er our future track. Smiles, whose gladsome radiance Vainly round us shone. Tones that waked no fondness, Faces that are gone. Scenes we valued lightly In the days of yore. Now we love to think on,— They can bora? no mere ! , ' VII. Oh ! whea ft^eni'ry scundeth All her harp's rich strings, And a shining halo O'er our friendship flings. 101 :,\ i 102 I.0NO AGO. •■ 1 i; I I i f When she softly telleth Of the days gone by, Steeping paxted hours In her rosy dye, From each troubled moment Stealing its alloy, Till her warbling music Tells of nought but joy ; VIII. May*st thou gladly hearken To her gentle song, While her wondrous power Beareth thee along ! When, — her quiet footsteps Lingering awhile, — \il ourJoyiog converse ., , JSfighteins jrn her.*HiiJei' Mtiy Ihy Jw^art f.hinjk, kindly, • ' A3 liei- accents f^(^■,* \ ; , Of our fond communion Past "long, long ago !" 103 THE STARS. I. A BLESSING on your chanRolrss sight, Y(,' stars of lieavon ! Wo groot your rays with calm dolight Whene'er, at even, Upon the trouhlctl sea of life Their smile is cast, And, turninj; from all care and strife, We deem at last That peace is in the («artli. II. To joyous b(;inf?8 ye are dear, For they may look Upon your lii^ht so pure and clear. As on a book, And read, as from a glowing page. All beauteous dreams That have been dreamt in ev'ry age B(!neath your beams, Of things not known below. 104 TUB STARS. III. But, oh I to lone and weary hearts Far dearer still. When each wild hope of youth departs, And sorrow's chill Has wither'd ev'ry joy on earth ; Far dearer then Than ev'ry sign of common mirth. Or laugh of men, Are ye in far-off skies ! IV. Dear, — for a blessing ever falls From your glad home. The lonely one awhile recalls. When forth ye come, Of youth the fantasies and glow, The dreams long flown ; Forgetting for a time the woe He since has known, — He is once more a child ! Ill THE STARS. 105 V. Sweet thoughts of love and harmony Come stealing down Upon our spirits silently. When ye have thrown A veil of radiance o'er the sky. Upv, urd our sight, With awt v^e turn, and know not why, Sad thoughts take flight When ye look forth above. VI. What marvel then that, at the first, When Earth was young, Those souls which for the truth did thirst Deem'd that ye flung A spell upon our earthly fate, As, in your course, With music and in shining state. Ye moved, — the source Of high and holy visions ? 106 THE 9TAKS. tl I I 1 I VII. What are ye, then, ye radiant creatures. The domes of heaven ? Are ye the homes to lofty natures For ever given ? Have Sin and Death ne'er found a place In one bright dwelling ? Doth Beauty wear unsullied grace? Are hymns still swelling Of rapture never blighted ? VIII. Have ye deep vales, and ancient hills. And darken*d woods ? Have ye soft music sounds from rills. And mountain floods ? Do all glad breezes as they pass Sweet odours bring ? Are murm'ring reeds among the grass ? Do blossoms swing From aged trees like ours ? THE STARS. 107 IX. And is the warbling of the bird, Or hum of bees, Or joyous voice of insects, heard Among your trees ? Have ye the same glad sounds and sights Which greet us here, — The same fair davs and tranquil nights To us so dear, — The same sweet sympathies ? For you do oceans now display A boundless glory, Kissing with drops of snowy spray Cliffs wild and hoary ? For you do bright unnumber'd waves Make melody, Awak'ning from the coral caves Rich harmony, I n answer to their own ? THE STARS. XI. We may not know, we can but gaze, With trusting hope, Upon your still-unchanging blaze In heaven's cope ; That blaze which bids us look on high When Earth is dark, Till the faint heart and streaming eye Feel that a spark Of God'd own mercy hath enlighten'd you ! < POEMS FOR YOUTH. 'mmmam n ^^'1 THESE POEMS FOR YOUTH ABE INSCRIBED TO HER PARENTS Bt THEIR GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER. i i SS»B Bin INVOCATION TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. " These and Poetry are one." Bbvant. " SpiRiT of Poetry, where dost thou dwell ? Where is thy resting-place ? Answer, oh, tell !" " Thou hast rambled at morn, amid forest-trees, — I was floating along on the gladsome breeze. Thou hast gazed at eve on the sun's last ray, — In the crimson clouds of the west I lay. Thou hast wander'd forth in the starry night, — I was resting on high in the silv'ry light. Thou hast ridden the waves of the boundless sea,— And didst thou not feel I was there with thee ? Unfetter'd and free is my path to roam. The glorious universe all my home ! By the torrent wild or the gliding brook, — In the sunny plain or the darksome nook ; I „ ■ I : 114 THE SPIRIT iiV POETRY. |i< M^ I ' Wher(' clouds are passing tho mountain's brow. Or (K'^ep in tho shadowy valo bolow ; In the kingly oak, — in the lily's boll, — Wiiere Beauty is gloaming, oh ! there I dwell !'" " To hear thy soft minstrelsy where shall I seek ? Where dost thou warble it? Answer, oh, speak !"' " Thou hast listen'd at nigljt, when the strong winds blow ; Thou hast hoard the glad murmurs whoro waters flow : Thou hast hearken'd with joy to the song of birds, And the distant lowing of flocks and herds ; Thou hast loved sweet Melody's deepening swell. And the far-off sound of the village boll, — Thou hast heard my voice ! It was I who spoko When the fondest thoughts of thy heart awoke. I have spoken oft in the thunder's crash, In the stormy galo and the waters' dash. Thou hearest around thee my music's tone ; The voices of Nature are all mine own, From the bounding cataract's ceaselo?s roar, And the beat of waves on the rocky shore, i HHMMH THK NPIUir OK POKTHY. 116 To the sonft of the lark in tho suinmor ? ^y, And the hum of the bee as sh(? passeth by. r^y wood and by river, by stream and by grot, Have I strung my wild harp, and thou heed'at it not! ' " Yet tell m", bright Spirit, — oh, speak again ! Why do we seek the • so oft in vain?" " 'Tis that they whom I bless must from guile be free, Ere about them the trace of my steps they see. Their hearts must be fill'd with an earnest lov(» For the many around them and One above. Then will they look with a kindling eye Oil the beautiful things that before them lie ; Then in their hours of pain and grief My visits shall soothe them and give relief. I have wander'd at night to tlic captive's cell, When the calmness of slumber upon him fell, And have borne his spirit to those he loved Till he dream'd that their forms around him moved. I have w.'.tch'd by his side till I saw, at last. That a sinile o'er his sorrowful features past. I 2 t 11 116 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. All may not know me, yet blest is he Who heareth the voice of my harmony I It shall cheer him on Earth in a time of sorrow, From above shall a tone of rejoicing borrow ; And still, when this being hath pass'd away, Shall it sound in the regions of endless day !" I 117 TO MY YOUNGER SISTERS AND BROTHER. Upon each river bank in yore A modest chapel stood, In which the trav'ller knelt, before He ventured on the flood ; And many a gem and flowT hung there In token of an answer'd prayer. •a ','* fl Thus we, before we launch our soul Upon the stream of thought. Of which the mighty waters roll To gladness and to nought. Should humbly pause awhile to pray For blessings on our daring way. I My Children ! on this river's brink, This deep and changeful stream, I've paused in quiet joy to think That ev'ry gentle dream I've dreamt of Earth and Sky and Sea Remembrance kind should wake of me. 1 ;! I ! if i iiii mv ill i 'i|t '! 1)8 TO MY YOUNGER SISTERS AND UROTIIER. Oft thus, in hopeful prayer, I've knelt Beside this river's bed, Until the longing wish I felt Seem'd to its object sped, Such blessings aided from above The efforts of a sister's love ! t :i I I I i! 119 THE DEPARTURE. Once on a balmy suminer's eve, on England's happy strand, The flush of sunset linger'd still upon the meadow-^ land, The moon hung scarcely visible upon the rosy sky, The breeze was like a mother's kiss, it passed so softly by; The clouds, like fairy cities, in the west were gaily piled. The rippling of the stream was like the laughter of a child, The shadow of a lordly hall lay sleeping on the flood. And songs of birds came joyously from dark and leafy wood. A ship was anchor'd in the stream, her sails all closely furl'd, Awaiting there the morrow's dawn to seek the Western world. 120 THE DEPAIITURB. I ! And on the deck a quiet group stood gazing at the shore, Or heark'ning to the measured dip of passing boat- man's oar. Young children were among the group, — that eve they did not play, — And hearts that often lightly beat, — that eve they were not gay ; A shadow was on ev'ry brow, and tears in silence fell, They knew not, till that parting hour, they loved their land so well I They listen'd to familiar sounds, — the rustling of the trees, The murmur of far-distant bells borne sweetly on the breeze ; They heard wild shouts of laughter and gay childhood's ringing call. They heard the frequent chiming of the old clock at the Hall ; ^ They look'd on lawn and meadow, on deep wood and breezy hill, And almost seem'd to hear the voice of some far- gleaming rill ; TH£ DEPARTURE. 121 Thoy thought upon their trackle s voyage,— on oceans rg^ing foam, And, turning to that peaceful scene, they felt it was their Home. They thought of all that they had left,--the pale and tearful face Of some beloved one, grieving now to see their vacant place. They thought of all the earnest words, the fond, half- breathed farewell. The burst of sorrow that betray'd a love too deep to tell; They thought of those whose lips had blest their early helpless years. Of eyes once bright with happy smiles, now dim with falling tears ; They knew fond prayers would follow them across the stormy deep, Tliey knew they left sad friends behind,— what marvel they should weep ? I, 122 THE UKPAUTUUE. I I Soft music, from the neighb'ring coast, rose suddenly and stole Like spicy odours that from far rejoice the seaman's soul. It was an old and well-known strain, by blended voices utter'd, And at its rich and swelling tones the sad ones' pulses flutter'd. It was the song by Israel sung when God had set them free, It bade them pour the hymn of praise o'er Egypt's dreary sea ; Its tale was of a mighty arm that led from place to place, And guarded, with a Father's love, weak Israel's chosen race. It was a welcome tale to them whose way led o'er the wave; They trusted to the watchful eye, the arm so strong to save; I THB UEPARTURB. 123 suddenly seaman's led voices js' pulses set them Egypt's place to 3 chosen And when the sunset faded, and eve deepen'd into night, And hush'd were those glad voices in the pale and fair moonlight, The parting ones were leaning calmly o'er the vessels side, And speaking of the loveliness of earth, and sky, and tide; For hope had whisper'd to each heart the promise of a day Of glad returning to their home, when years had roll'd away. 'er the rong to i mvii 124 11 1 ; A SPRING MORNING IN NEWFOUNDLAND. ^M, Awake, dear child ! the sun hath long since risen ; Awake ! the smile of Spring is on the earth ; The streams have broken from their icy prison To fill the valleys with a voice of mirth ; The little waves creep slowly o'er the ocean. To cast their glist'ning spray upon the shore ; Full many a white-sail'd ship is now in motion, And many a boatman gaily plies his oar. Awake ! Is this a time to sleep, When joy is on the Earth, and music in the Deep ? Awake ! for now the breeze is onward sweeping, To dry the dew along the path we'll tread ; The torrent o'er its stony road is leapiiig, The harbour rocks, the shadows o'er it spread ; A SFRINO HORNING IN NEWFOUNDLAND. 125 LAND. The few white clouds, by Morn's soft breathing driven, Are beautiful as angels' cars might be ; A glory by this early light is given To barren mound, and lake, and flow'ry lea. Awake ! Is this a time to sleep, When joy is on the Earth, and music in the Deep ? sen ; 'P? •i 5l« Oh, come ! we'll wander, in these sunny hours, Over the grassy fields and rugged hill ; We'll wander far to seek the earliest flowers. We'll search the leafy banks of each glad rill ; And if some bird should chase the lone wood's sadness With music, joyous as the wild-harp's tone, We, too, will shout an answer of like gladness. We'll sing a lay as merry as his own ! Awake ! Is this a time to sleep. When joy is on the Earth, and music in the Deep ? Though there be here no yellow cowslip glowing. No primrose hidden in the hawthorn shade. No purple hyacinth its soft breath throwing Upon the air, along the forest glade ; ^ ll 12G A SPUING MORNINO IN NEWKOUNDLANU Yet there are flow'rs in lovely clusters beaiiiins;, Like fallen stars upon the wide lake's brim, And silvery bells about the dark marsh gleaming, While lily-leaves the waters' brightness dim. Awake ! Is this a time to sleep. When joy is on the Earth, and music in the Deep Are not the things around us fair and cheering ? Does not thine heart beat happily to-day ? Like the thin mists the glorious sun is clearing, Have not all angry feelings pass'd away ? In the soft murmur of the winds and waters Canst thou not hear a low, yet mighty voice, Bidding thee love and help Earth's sons and daughters, And weep when they are sad, and smile when they rejoice ? Awake ! Is this a time to sleep. This voice is in the Earth, — this voice is in the Deep ! Come ! let us hear and heed the tale it utters, — A tale of God's own care and love towards men. It is the same the breeze in d^^kness mutters, And torrents shout along the lonely glen ; A Sl'RINO MOHNINO IN NEWFOUNDLAND. 127 It is the same, — ever the same assurance, The stars repeat it from their homes above,— "There is a God who pities man's endurance, A God whose mi^ht is equalVd by His love !" Awake ! Is this a time to sleep ? This tale is in the Earth,— this tale is in the Deep ! ^%\ 128 A SUMMER HYMN. When the day-beam quivers O'er the rocky lieight, And the streams and rivers Roll along in light ; When the mighty ocean Lies as if asleep, And, with tender motion, Breezes o'er it creep ; When the wood-bird singetli In the forest-tree, And the petrel springeth Gaily o'er the sea ; Oh, Lord ! when all is calm and fair. Teach us to feel that Thou art there ! A SUMMER HYMN. When the day-beam dieth Slowly in the west, And the light breeze sigheth O'er the ocean's breast ; When the small birds nestle In their leafy home, And the fisher's vessel Rideth o'er the foam ; When the ripe fruit glanceth Through o'erhanging leaves, And the woodbine danceth 'Neath the cottage eaves ; Oh Lord 1 when all is calm and fair, Teach us to feel that Thou art there ! 129 When the stars are beamiif With a quiet ray, And all things are seeming Fairer than by day ; When the Moon upspringeth From the moaning deep ; When the river singeth, And the torrents leap ; 130 A SUMMER HYMN. ^Ilii' When soft slumber stealeth Over young and old. And the Spirit feeleth Peace and joy untold ; Oh Lord ! when all is calm and fair, Teach us to feel that Thou art there ! |i 131 THE BEGINNING OF WINTER. The glory of the Summer hours is passing from the land ; The foaming waves beat hoarsely, now, upon the rugged strand ; The radiant leaves are torn away in clusters from the woods ; The coming frost full soon will hush the voice of streams and floods ; The wind is roaring dismally around our pleasant home. And heavy clouds have gathered darkly o'er the Heaven's dome ; The snow-flake falleth silently upon the dreary earth ; The bitter wintry air hath stilled the joyous house-fly's mirth ; K 2 132 THE BEOINNINO OF WINTER. ill II I The Ousel in the wood's recess hath ceased to pour his lay ; And ye are mourning o'er the days so quickly past away. 'Tis true they have been happy days, — we've lingered on the hill, To mark awhile the glist'ning course of some low- singing rill ; We've loved to watch the painted boat pass gaily o'er the lake, We've hearkened to the torrent's roar, loud echoing down the brake ; We've paused to list the merry tone of hidden water- fall, Or hear, from out the bushy dell, a distant woodbird's call; We've sought and found, in secret nooks, full many lovely things, — The native Indian's natural cup, the gay wild rose that flings Its odour o'er the barren waste, the pale pink maiden- hair That looketh down into the stream to see its image there. THE ^BOINNIMO OF WINTER. 133 All these bright flowers we've often seen, and many more beside, — The yellow lily 'mid its leaves upon the sleeping tide, The blossoms of the shrubs that high among the rocks take root, And bear, as Autumn days come on, rich store of ruddy fruit. The iris, too, has raised its head within the marshy field; The Indian tea, whose v . i leaves a welcome harvest yield ; And like the coral branches, 'neath the waters of the sea, Was the moss that grew and blossomed on the marsh or grassy lea. What, though all these have passed away, we will but love them more. Their memory dwelleth in our hearts, although their life be o'er ! We'll gather with a thankful joy around the cheering blaze, And talk of all we've seen and done through long, glad summer days ; 134 THB BBaiNNINO OF WINTER. And though the snow lie deep and dreai upon the meadow-grass, And with a wild and moaning sound the nightly tempests pass. Though icebergs, shaped like palaces, should gleam all cold and bright. And e'en the broad Atlantic's waves be hidden from our sight, — Though, from the fir tree's feath'ry boughs the icicles may drop. And hang from rugged sea-cliff's brink, or from our own hou e-top. We'll look aroTu^d our " ingle-nook ;" and they who gather here, — Have they not love to gladden them, though all without be drear ? And let us seek for Beauty still, though death seem all around, And shrivelled leaf and withered bloom have fallen to the ground ; TUB BBOINNING OF WINTER. 135 Though storms may often round us break,— chill snow and driving rain, — Oh ! let us seek for Beauty still, — we shall not seek in vain. And upward let us look at eve, through clear and frosty air. E'en to the cloudless heav'ns, and watch the gath'ring glory there. As, one by one, the stars look forth ; and, like a long- loved friend. The gentle Moon unto the Earth a greeting seems to send. We'll watch the wild Aurora as it rushes o'er the sky, While its beams now fade, now brighter glow, and now in darkness die. And let us look upon the snow, as ;yhite and pure it lies, Where the vales are gently sloping, or the hill's tall summits rise ; Let us mark each branch and twig in the frequent " silver-frost," And confess that, e'en now, the trace of Beauty is not lost. I 136 THE BEOINNINa OV WINTER. We'll sing old songs and tell old tales,— we'll make these halls resound With echoes of glad music, and our voices' merry round. And as we bend in gratitude, to make our prayer to Him, Before whose blessed kingdom's joy all earthly joys are dim, — When we see the smile of peace and health on eacl^ beloved face,— Oh ! theriy we'll say, "Our lot hath fallen in a goodly place." 137 CHRISTMAS DAY. I. Come near, my little Boy, come near! Here is a pleasant seat ; The fire is blazing high and clear,— Sit down, then, at my feet. The snow is falling on the ground Like white flow'rs f^om a tree ; And oft the passing loud bell's sound Rings out right merrily. Come near, my little Boy, and say, Is this a pleasant Christmas Day ? II. Did you not see, as we rode past The houses of the poor, Some children running onward fast To reach their parents' door ? 138 CHHISTMAS DAY. And now, no doubt, they've gathered there In love, and peace, and glee, Around their lather's oaken chair, — The young ones on his knee, — All thanking God that even they Have such a happy Christmas Day ! III. And though a storm might come to night, They would not heed the noise. They're all so full of wild delight, Those happy girls and boys ! Do you not think that God is good To make such pleasure dwell In hovels built of clay and wood ? Should we not love Him well ? For it is He who makes us gay Upon this pleasant Christmas Day I IV. And you, my Child, look round you here, li! ':bis, your peaceful home, 1''' i» a nothing you dislike or fear Is e'er allowed to come ; CHRISTMAS DAY. Look at the Parents whom you love, Your Sisterb at your side ;— Should you not thank the God above, And ask Him still to guide, And bless, and keep us, that we may See many a happy Christmas Day ? V. Oh ! let us not forget, my Boy, Amidst our playful mirth, To think of Him who left all joy, And dwelt upon the Earth, To die at last a death of pain. And save us from oar sin ! Oh ! let us strive the road to gain. That we may enter in. When Death shall come, to that blest place Where God will meet us face to face ! 139 140 THE SNOW-BIRDS.* I. When flowers fade upon the Earth, And winds are hoarsely sighing, And leaves, that hailed the Summer's birth, Are dead or dying ; When frost is on the window-pane, And snow upon the mountains, And not a sound comes e'er the plain From rills or fountains ; II. When families in gladness meet. And watch the red blaze leaping, While the old house-dog, at their feet, Lies calmly sleeping ; * The Snow-bird, a native of Newfoundland, is small, and, during the winter, almost white. It is seen oft<2n in the immediate neighbourhood of human habitations, during the severe frosts. THE SNOW-BIROS. And children, as the daylight fails, Draw closer round the fire, To list the songs and merry tales That never tire ; — III. Oft, when they hear the fearful storm That bursts around their dwelling. While they are all so safe and warm. Gay stories telling. They ],duse a moment in their glee, And ev'ry cheek grows paler At thought of him that braves the Sea,- The wave-tost sailor. 141 IV. Yet, when the strong man quits his load To let the wind rush o'ci him, And sighs to see the dreary road That lies before him, E'en then a flutt'ring sound is heard, Although the blast be raving, — It is a solitary bird The tempest braving. 142 THE BNOW-BIHOSt V. Not one alone ! full many come Across 111 J white fields sweeping, E'en where the smoke from cottage home Is upward creeping. Who guides those small birds in their flight When men and children tremble, And, shiv'ring, round the wood-fire's light In groups assemble ? VI. When aged boughs are earthward borne. And ancient trees are shattered, And brickp from wall and house-roof torn. Are widely scattered, — Who feeds them when the Autumn fruit No more from green bough swingeth, And moss around the fir-tree's root No longer springeth ? VII. Who guides and feeds the helpless ones ? — A good and gracious Being, Whose mercy through all nations runs, — A God all-seeing ! THE KNOW'BIRDS. Tis He who feeds the humblest things To which He giveth motion, — 'Tis He who guides their wanderings By land and ocean ! 143 144 THE FOG-GUN.* I. The day is closing on the sea, A day of storm and dread, — The trembling ship meets wearily Each wave's foam-crested head ; The cracking poles, like willows bow To still increasing blasts ; The gallant crew, exhausted now, Are clinging to the masts, And calling on the sailor's friend His strong and pitying aid to lend. II. They drift along before the gale Whither, they cannot know. For the fog is hanging like a veil Around them as they go. * It is customary at St. Oohn's, Newfoundland, at Halifax, Nova Scotia, and in many other situations where fogs are frequent and dense, to lire a nxm every hour as a guide or warning to any vessels that may be near the coast. ii Scotia, , to fire H be near THE VOG-aUN. Darker and darker grows the day, Loud and more loud the storm. The fog so dense each sailor may Scarce see his neighbour's form — The brave turn pale to think that night May yield them to the wild Sea's might. III. A mother with her only child Is in the wave -tost bark, And, as the tempest grows more wild, The eve more drear and dark, She clasps the baby to her heart. And prays for him alone ; For she is ready to depart. So he, her precious one, Might still be saved by Him, who trod O'er raging waves,--the Son of God ! IV. And others, who, few hours before, Were full of joy and hope. All telUng of the days of yore, And giving boundless scope 145 146 THB VOa«GUN. To visions of their future hours — Alas ! how altered now ! The gayest of the hopeful cowers, The young girl hends her hrow. And weeps that, over dreams so fair, Should fall the shadow of despair ! V. A sound comes booming o'er the deep, Solemn, and sad, and slow, Yet instantly the sailors leap Once more to man the prow : The mother's tears fall thick and fast Upon her baby's face ; She trusts that they may reach at last Their home, their native place ; And, though she did not weep for fear, She weeps at thought of safety near. VI. The young are full of hope again. The girl hath dried her eyes, While, through the fog and driving rain. The laboring vessel flies. 1 THB FOG-OUN. 147 Again ! again the welcome sound, Nearer and nearer still ! It Cometh from their native ground, — The steep and well-known hill Frowns through the evening's darkening glooms As once again the Fog gun booms. VII. They pass at length the guarded fort ; They pass the rocky height ; And now, within the sheltered port, They're safe from Ocean's might. One cheer, one loud, long grateful cheer Bursts forth from ev'ry lip. As, in their welcome rest they hear The sound that led their ship. And brought them o'er the raging sea. To the calm port " where they would be !" L 2 148 A SHORT STORY. Theee are sunshine and gladness by lane and by lea, There is bloom on the grass, there is fruit on the tree. The song of the reaper awakes with the morn, For the farmer is cutting his ripe yellow corn ; Far off, in the forest, along the green brink. The deer have come down to the waters to drink ; And rivers are bounding from hill and from brake, To mingle their streams with the broad sunny lake. Two beingii are resting on yonder hill-side That slopes gently down to the waters' calm tide, — A child \v nose young spirit has never known care, And a thoughtful old man, with bent form and white hair ; — The child has been chasing the gay honey-bee. With songs, like the nightingale's, joyous and free ; The man has not moved from the lakes mossy brim, For his footstep is feeble, — his eyesight is dim. • 1 i A SHORT STORY. 149 " Oh I why," said the child, " do you stay here all day ? You see not the deer, nor the waters' bright play ; You see not the flight of tlie lark nor the dove ; You see not the grass, nor the tall boughs above. The hedge-row with beautiful blossoms is lined, — Old man ! these are nothing to one who is blind." " My child," said the man, — and a kind smile awoke, And brightened his time-wrinkled face as he spoke, — " There are joys by a merciful God ever given To the blind and the lonely whose hope is in heaven. I see not the lake nor the proud mountain-ueer. Yet the music of waters is sweet to mine ear : I think, as I hear it, of those that are blest. And pray to be with them in glorious rest." ite 150 WISHES. If we our wishes ecu id liui'l, What, pleafeaiTt hours wt 1 pass. To-day, in regioiis fair and still, Upon the velvet grass ! We'd seek some calm sequestered shade ; Some wild, untrodden woodland glade, Where tempests could not come : The bright laburnum, o'er us bent, Should form our lovely natural tent, Our happy summer home ! The proud magnolia should lift up For us its pure and scented cup ; The rose-acacia n'^ar our bower Be planted like a verdant tower ; The light leaves of the bamboo tree Should spread their fs'iry v 'opy ; WISHES. 151 The vine's rich fruit lie on the ground ; Th6 willow's drooping head Beside the gloomy pine be found ; The rose, by Nature led, Should fling abroad its crimson bloom ; The light gumscistus' flowers Cast down, near some dark cedar's gloom, Their snowy leaves in showers. We'd have all shrubs from southern lands: The bay from Grecian Isles ; The laden olive-tree that stands Where endless summer smiles ; The palm that o'er the desert flings A shadow, long and light. To warn the trav'ller of the springs That else might shun his sight ; And ev'ry lovely thing that grows, From torrid heats to Arctic snows : The orange, with its flow'rs and fruit, The mango, with its spreadi >5: root. And apples bv- .a as thostj thnX hung In gardens by old poets sung, 152 WI8HSB. I ! K And many a tr?e more gay and fair Than heart can dream, or lip declare ; And all things to which poetry gives A charm that through all ages lives. All flowers, such as we have seen By bahhling brook or forest-green : The hyacinth, whose purple bells, Still waving as they hang, Seem ringing everlasting knells For him from whom they sprang ; The white narcissus, bowing dovrn Its radiant and unspotted crown ; The daisy, that, by lawn and wood, Whispers of thoughts most pure and good ; And the gay flower of the wind. The sweet anemone, That has a tale for ev'ry mind Of childhood's artless glee ; The violet's blue and loving eye Should greet us on our way ; The primrose blossoms, pale and shy. Smile on us all the day ! 4 WISHES. 153 And thou shouldst read some wild old tale, Until the light of day grew pale, Of him* who on the Italian coast Plucked down the golden bough, And raised, 'mid Erebus* sad host, His young and crested brow. And, by the waves of Acheron, As the great Sibyl led him on. The slow and darkly-rolling stream Gave back his armour's fitful gleam. And all the frightened sprits fled To see the living 'mid the dead I Or thou shouldst speak awhile of him Who sang of battle-strife, With whitened hair and eyesight dim, And led a wand'ring life. We'd seem to see attentive groups Flock round the old man's knee. And children gathering in troops Stand near him silently. ^ 'W ' iEoeas. ISA WISHES. And hang upon old Hoinei a I'pi, Or question of the Grecian ships, And all the deeds of mighty chiefs Before the walls of Troy : We*d sorrow for the warriors* griefs, And glory ; a their joy ! Or, — dearer still, — thy lips should pour Some legend of the days of yore, That tells of high and gallant deed By Christian hero done ; And grieves for those whose hearts must bleed Ere Zion could be won ! And we should seem to see again An army on the Syrian plain, And ev'ry waving bough .round Should seem a warrior's plume. And ev'ry melancholy soun^' The mourning o*er his tomb ! And we should see great Godfrey star 1 Among his mighty host ; We'd hearken to his loud command, And see bright lances crost, WISHES. 155 And watch the red-cross banner shine Triumphant through all Palestine ! Or, when the passing breeze might stir The branches of the trees, We'd speak of early Mariner On unfrequented seas. And, spirit-like, our thought shi aid sweep With great Columbus o'er the Deep ; We'd watch with him by night and day Upon his wide and boist'rous way, — Kt )icing wh«n his noble heart li.e voyage knew was o'er ; And i) 'lis joy we'd bear a part On the dis( »vered shore. We'd talk of opanisih argosies Laden with gem and gold ; And many wondrous tales like these By ancient ballad told. And when we two had communed thus. Nor marked the hours flo t by, Till, meekly gazing down on us. The stars rose in the sky, 156 WISHES. Thy voice should breathe some dear old strain, Some Bard's unstudied rhymes, Whose sound might bring to us again Remembrance of past times. And, in the pauses of thy song. The evening wind should bear along The murmur of some far-ofF brook ; And we, within our happy nook, With quiet tears upon our cheek. Should feel a joy we could not speak : And with a deep and holy love, And ev'ry thought a prayer. We'd gaze upon the heav'ns above, And breathe the balmy air. If we our wishes could fulfil. What pleasant hours we'd pass To-day, in regions fair and still. Upon the tufted grass I 157 THE WALLFLOWERS. There stands a castle, old and grey, On England's southern shore ; Its days of warlike pageantry, And pomp, and pride, are o'er ; The din of arms, the clash of steel. Will sound there never more. No banner waves upon its tow'r. The ivy o'er it creeps, The stones that tumble from the walls Lie in neglected heaps. And from each crevice, hole, and chink The yellow wallflow'r peeps. No cannon on the battlements, No sentry going his round, No strong portcullis at the gate, No warder's bugle-sound. No shout of soldiers in the hall, No bark of watchful hound. 158 THE WALLFLOWEHS. The dungeons are half filled with earth, The prison chambers bare ; Between the iron-bars flows in The summer's scented air, And finds not now the captive band Who once were grieving there. They say the Romans bul'it that pile Hundreds of years ago ; Since then new empires have grown up, And old ones are laid low. Yet still that castle looketh down Upon the waves' calm flow. Green mossy turf and mallow flow'rs Now in the deep moat spring ; Rude brambles, lad-i v ith their fruit, To hoary buttress cling ; And, o'er the now deserted walls, The sea-gull flaps his wing. THE WALLFLOWERS. Yet all within the grass-grown court To ruin is not given : The chapel, where, in ancient days. Proud warriors' souls were shriven. Still, with its meek and ivied spire, Points upward to the heaven. 159 And still upon each Sabbath-day Throughout the peaceful year Its modest bell rings out to bid The village crowd draw near, To worship in that quiet place With calm and holy fear. No moan of " hope deferred " is there. No captive's tearful sigh ; The mo^^her leads her children now Where buried warriors lie ; And friends, within the churchyard's bound, May commune pleasantly. I i. ^• 160 THB WALLVLOWLRS. But of the castle, old and grey, Not much I meant to tell ; Unconsciously my thoughts have loved About its walls to dwell ; I've seemed to breathe the scented air, And hear the Sabbath bell. A laughing train passed from my home One glad, bright summer's day, And down the straggling village street We took our noisy way ; My mother, slowly following, Smiled kindly on our play. tu We pass'd the moat and thick-barred gate, We pass'd the castle court. And then we sought the broken stair And chambers of the fort. While e'en the dreary dungeon walls Gave echoes to our sport. I THE VfAIiLVLOWBRS. We climbed the falling battlements To look upon the scene That stretched around the castle-walls ; Broad meadows, fair and green, The waters moaning far below, As they for aye had been ; 161 And on the plain the parsonage With vine and rose o'er-grown. And, far away, the wide, wide hill On which our kite was flown, While o'er the blue and distant waves The white-sailed vessel shone. We turned not from that pleasant place Till eve began to fall, And when, with light and loving hearts, We heard my m.other's call, I lingered but to pluck the flow'rs That grow on crumlUng wall. M f / 162 THE WALLFLOWERS. Away ! away ! with bounding steps, Our young feet homeward sped, And then I ran to plant my prize In my loved flower-bed. — Alas ! when morning came again My nosegay was all dead ! My mother smiled to see my grief, And I this truth was taught — That things which have no root will fade, And die, and come to nought. My children, when you would do right, Let this be in youi thought ! ! 163 THE TREES I. Oh ! love you not the leafy trees, The children of the woods ? The murmur of the summer seas, The roar of mighty floods, Have not a richer sound than winds In leafy forest wake. When down they sweep from mountain steep. Through dell, and glade, and brake. Among the leafy trees ! II. The leafy trees ! the leafy trees ! Know you the ancient lime, Its drooping blossoms filled witli bees Ringing their pleasant chime ? Know you the beech, whose glossy leaves Half hide its rich nut store ? The yew, that stands, like one who grieves, Mid those who are no more ? Know you these leafy trees ? M 2 1G4 THE TREES. III. And love you not the forest-king ? It is old England's boast. That hearts of oak, which own no yoke. Do ji;uard her sea-girt coast. Her children, binding round their broAvs, With joy and loving pride, i\ '"hdplet of the oak's green boughs, Pro s ;m him far and wide King of the leafy trees ! IV. And there are willows bending low Above some lonely stream. Whose gentle waters onward flow, Like music in a dream ; And tall, old elms in stately rows, Flinging a welcome shade, While wheeling flocks of rooks and crows Fly round the nests they've made High in the leafy trees. And know you not the hardy fir ? Wherever it doth spring, THE TREES. IfiS Where summer airs its foliage stir Like spirits' passing wing, Or where the raging winter's blast May bend it to the earth, Whate'er of gloom be round it cast, It wears some sign of mirth,— Still 'tis a leafy tree ! VI. Oh ! pleasant is the shade they give. The leafy forest-trees ; Among them many creatures live In happiness and ease. Full many find a dwelling there ; The small bird makes her nest. The squirrel, though the fields be fair, Yet loves the trees the best ; He loves the leafy trees ! VII. And do not you, too, love them well, And long once more to look At evening, down the wooded dell. Or willow-shaded brook? 166 THE TREES. Do you not wish to hear again The young leaves rustling sound ; The ringing of the summer rain, Upon the forest mound, Among the leafy trees ? VIII. We see not now the giant forms Of trees of our own land ; There flourish in this land of storms Few of their joyous band, And these lift up their stunted boughs Between the iron rocks. And, though unbroken, many a token They bear of winter's shocks, These lone yet leafy trees ! IX. I They still are green through storm and show'r ; They wear thv.ir summer smile. Though chill winds beat and tempests lour ; And we, — shall we the while TUK TREBS. IC7 Neglect the lesson they may t ;, h, — A lesson of content ? Shall we not heed them when they preach By signs so eloquent ? — Not heed the leafy trees ? X. Yes ! we will heed them ! we will strive To smile, whate'er betide ; Like them, when chilling tempests drive, Their wrath we will abide ; And trustingly we '11 look above. Nor heed the wastes around. Feeling that He, whose name is Love, Hath bowM us to the ground To rise like leafy trees ! I 168 ip i THE WIND. I. What is it that hath wakened from their sleeping The lovely things of earth, and sky, and sea ? What is it that, o'er land and water sweeping, Pours loudly forth a music-tone of glee ? Hark ! as it cometh o'er the far-off ocean. The little billows rise to meet its kiss ; A melody as joyous as their motion They breathe in answer to that voice of bliss — It is the wind, thr* hi .trtri< r-breath of heaven ! II. What is it that, amid the dark recesses Of hidden caverns on the rocky shore, With murmurs like a mother's fond caresses, Moveth along the depths, so damp and hoiir ? That, with a sound as gay as childhood^s laughter, Secketh the swallow in her quiet nest Among the ivy by the cottage rafter, And cheereth with its joy her patient rest i* It is the wind, the summer-breath of heaven ! THB VriNU. 169 III. What is it tiiat unfoldeth from the mountains The mists that veil'd their summits from our sigf' What is it that, around the woodland fountains, Lingers awhile with whispers of delight, — That loves to wander near the bank of rivers, Gliding with mirth and gentleness along. While o'er their breast the parting daylight quivers, And birds raise cheerfully their even-song ? It is the wind, the summer-breath of heaven ! IV. What is it that, along the forest stealing. Calls leaf and branch to greet its welcome voice ? What is it that, through shelter 'd valL-y pealing. Bids giant trees and lowly plants rejoice, — That passes gaily o'er the fresh young flowers, And bears along their richly-scented breath, — Tliat chases winter from the plains and bowers. And wakens life and joy from blight and death ? It is the wind, the summor-breath of heaven ! IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // t ^ :/. "^ ^ // ^0 ^^ se MP rj,:%' . free chii in the blooming thyme, Is ringing gaily ium-; Thy steed, impatient, paws the ground, — Dear brother, mount ! Away we bound, Gay, as the laughing earth is gay, — Away ! away ! Where shall we turn ? Where the merry burn Calls with a loving tone, Or up yon mound, where the ocean's sound Comes like an infant's moan ? o 2 I 196 A RIDING SONG. The dove sings in the forest hollow, — Ride on ! her's is the voice we'll follow I Bow down to pass this leafy spray, This is our way ! VI. Hark to the song of birds among The shade of each darksome tree. And many a fount from the grassy mount. Making glad melody : The scent of flowers is rich and sweet. When they are crushed by tlie horses' feet. Is not our ride to-day, my boy. Quite full of joy? VII. Beware ! beware ! the timid hare Is skimming across our way ; The deer take flight to the upland height From the fern-leaves where they lay. See where the small green lizard creeps, And here is the nest where the dormouse sleeps. Look where the shadowy leaves are stirr'd By the glad bird ! A UIDINQ SONQ. 197 VIII. We'll quit the shade of this fair glade, Where flickering shad- j lie, And up yon slope, like the antelope. Our gallant steeds shall fly. And through long wintry hours we'll talk Of the day we threaded the woodland walk. And tell what breezy hills we clomb. Far, far from home. Away ! away I ere the light grows grey,— By mount and by valley, away ! away ! 198 A STORY. I. Come ! you would have me tell a story Of ramble in the grassy lane, Or visit to the castle hoary, Or gay shell-gath'ring by the main, — One of the many tales I've often told Of times when I was only six years old. 11. I love to think of those gone days When I'd one sister and a brother, And we together sang glad lays. Or sat in silence round my mother ; And hung, as you do now, on every word Of well-known tale, more loved the oftener heard. III. That brother is beyond the sea, That sister seen but in my dreams ; But ye grow up in love to me, Our parents' smile upon us beams* A STORY. 199 So 'tis not sad to think of that gone time, Tho' we are dwellers in a stranger clime. IV. Come, then ! sit round, and I will talk, — You, dear one, rest upon my knee ; My tale shall be about a walk, Not by the castle, nor the sea, But on a hill, with low, thick grass o'erspread, To which a long and shady pathway led. V. It was a pleasant place, — that hill, — Although no tree grew on its face, No sound was near of gurgling rill. And yet it was a pleasant place. For there the happy village child might find The early blue-bells dancing in the wind ; VI. And, as the bee was passing by. The rich thyme-flow'rs might tempt her there. Or in the furze-bloom she might lie, Rock'd in that nest so sweet and fair, 200 A STOIIY* n. Humming aloud all through the livelong day To call her sister bees to come and play. VII. And there were often moths that flew Close to the thymy grass at even, Their small wings lined with tender blue. Bright as the hue of summer heaven ; Many a time I've watch'd those fair moths skim Across the blooming turf when day grew dim. VIII. It was in summer, long ago, When I was but a little child, Not like the ancient dame you know. But very young and very wild, I went, with others young and wild as I, Up that wide hill, — a merry company. IX. Far off" we saw the water shining. And tall masts bending to the breeze ; Far off we saw green branches twining. And glad birds swinging in the trees, A STOHY. 201 And in the corn-fields, all along the lane, Red poppies gleam'd and danced among the grain. X. All these were sights we loved right well, And yet we did not linger long, But o'er each mound, and down each dell, With laugh, and joke, and shout, and song. Bounding in joy beneath the cloudless sun. We paused not till the destin'd place was won. XL And there how gay and pleased were we ! A large and pictured kite we'd brought ; The time was come ! we let it free, And up it rose as quick as thought. Till like a tiny speck on high it hung, — So far we scarce could see the shade it flung. XII. Oh ! had you heard our laughter then. Ringing along the broad hill-side ! [t must have startled every wren That in the hawthorn-bush did hide, 202 A STORY. Sitting within her warm and mossy nest, Her blue eggs cover'd by her russet breast ; XIII. It must have startled ev'ry bee That flew within long space around, For over field and over lea Rang gaily out that merry sound, While, like a living thing, our beauteous kite Rose up still higher in the sunny light. XIV. This is my tale, — is it too short ? Then, dear ones, I will tell you more ; It shall not be about our sport. For that, when night came on, was o'er ; But rather of the friends who play'd together Through that long, happy day of summer weather. XV. 'Twas not the last time, nor the first. For all were like one family, All often by the same arms nurst, All sharers in each other's glee. A STOUY. 203 Time has brought changes to us all, — to some No earthly change or trouble now can come. XVI. My children, some of those I said Were young, and wild, and full of play. Are number'd with the quiet dead. To them the cheerful light of day, The things they loved, the things most dear to us. Are nothing now. Know you why it is thus ? XVII. I see you do. Remember, then, To cast unkindness from your heart ; — We know not how, we know not when. We may be summon'd to depart ; Let us, then, love each other on the earth, In storm and calm, in sorrow and in mirth ; XVIII. For 'tis a bitter thing, indeed, When those we loved are dead and gone, To know we've made their kind hearts bleed, Tho' many a time we might have done Some action we should love to think of now, Wliile cold damp clay lies on the loved one's brow. I ', N I 1^ ,111 204 '11 ■ :4\ A MEETING IN THE DESERT .♦ I. A SIGN of human life and care upon the boundless plain ; The '* desert-ships" pass noiselessly along the sandy main; And silently the travellers gaze around them as they go To seek the palm-tree that betrays the waters' hidden flow. II. It is in vain ! around them spreads, far as the eye can see, The same wild, dreary barrenness ; — no shrub or tufted tree, — * These lines refer to an incident related by Captain Burnes, in his interesting " Travels in Bokhara." In crossing the Desert between Bok- hara and Persia with a caravan, he met seven Persians, captured by the Toorkmuns, at Ghaeeu, near Meshid, while cultivating their fields, and now on their way to be sold as slaves at Bokhara. Captain Burnes paused to hear their story, and gave them a melon, for which they ex- pressed much gratitude. A MRETINa IN TKR DESERT. 205 No passinj^ cloud or welling fount to cool the hot wind's breath, Nought but the burning sun on high, the desert-sands beneath ; III. Yet onward still the camels tramp, unwearied, swift, and strong. While far away some living thing to meet them moves along : A speck at first against the sky, upon the wide, wide plain, It Cometh near, and then they hear the clank of iron chain. IV. It is a weary captive train from Persia's land of roses. Where ev'ry hour throughout the day some fresh young bud uncloses ; Where sunbeams on the forest-grass, through arching branches quiver, And murmurs rise by niglit and day from stream and mighty river. ii ll 206 A MEBTINO IN THE DBHKRT. V. A shout to cheer the mournful troop from yonder trav'llera comes ; And one has paused upon his way to ask them of their homes, And give them, from his slender store, a fruit in fair climes grown. They weep to see a sympathy by passing stranger shown. VI. " A blessing, trav'ller, from above be with thy pitying heart ! Ne'er may'st thou know, as we have known, affliction's fiery dart ! A blessing, stranger, from on high go with thee to thy grave T Ne'er may'st thou feel, as we have felt, the anguish of a slave ! VII. " Thy face is tow'rds our father's land, thy path is to the free ; Thy feet will tread our native fields, — but they are nought to thee ! A MKRTINO IN THE DR8RRT. 207 While we, with hearts that sorrow sti'.^ for Persia's blooming sod. Must bear, in far and dreary lands, the rude oppressor's rod! VIII. " Our children mark the tears that fall upon their mother's cheek ; Our sisters look upon her grief, and weep, yet dare not speak ; Fond eyes will watch for us in vain through melan- choly hours ; Fond voices breathe our names unheard in Meshid's leafy bow'rs. IX. " They tore us from our quiet fields to this sad mlder- ness ; They heeded not the children's fear, the mother's wild distress : We know that there awaits us now the slave's un- varied doom, — A life of hopeless toil and pain, — a lone and foreign tomb !" I I ' amfi ■I 208 A MRKTINO IN TUK DKSBRT. X. The trav'llcr and tho captive band exchange a kind farewell ; They part, — the one in happy lands the sad one's fate to tell ; And they, the captives, o'er the sands and mountains wild and hoar, With anguish ever in their hearts, to mourn the days of yore,, ao9 THE GRANDMOTHER. A TRUE STORY. I. An aged woman, poor and weak, From her low door looks forth ; The snow falls on her wither'd cheek ; The wind blows from the north : Her clothes can scarcely keep her warm, They are so thin and old ; — She draws her cloak around her form, Yet shudders still with cold. II. "jDear Grandmother, I pray you stay !" " Nay, I must go," she said ; " Before another Christmas-day, I may be with the dead." *' But, Grandmother, the way is long. The snow lies very deep." " A hand, my darling, kind and strong, Will guard me down the steep. » 1 1 It 210 THE OHANDMOTHER. III. " I have obey'd the Sunday chime Through many a long, long year. The Lord is good, — I wait His time, — Why should Death make me fear ? I'll seek again the temple-door, I'll hear the Holy word, And I will kneel in faith once more At the table of my Lord." IV. She goes, with footsteps weak and slow, The wintry blast lo dare ; Her grandchild leads her o'er the snow With mute and watchful care. Within the house of God she prays Her end may quickly come. For all her days are troubled days. And Heaven is her home ! V. The hymn's last echo dies away, — That hymn, whose tale so sweet Is told upon this holy day Wherever Christians meet. THE OKANDUOTHEK. 211 To-day they hail the Saviour's birth In words by angels given, " Peace and good-w ill to men on earth, Glory to God in heaven !" VI. And now upon the altar-stairs An eager crowd is kneeling ; In silent awe each full heart shares That hour's grateful feeling. " Eat, Christian ! think of Him who died In agony for thee ! Drink ! for the blood flow'd from his side To make Sin's captives free !" VII. The guests have from the table pass'd, The calm yet happy crowd ; That aged woman is the last Before the altar bow'd. The rest have knelt in families. But she is there alone ; — At length she riseth from her knees,— The sacred rite is done. Fn 212 THE GRANDMOTHER. VIII. She moves to find a quiet seat Along the narrow aisle ; She scarce can feel her trembling feet. Yet you may see her smile, Because her prayer was not in vain ; She's heard the Holy word, And she has knelt in faith again At the table of her Lord ! IX. But sec !— she stops,— she cannot move, How eagerly she turns For one last lingering gaze above ! Still for the light she yearns. Though darkness gathers o'er her eyes; She cannot leave that spot — The people's mingled prayers arise. And yet she hears them not. X. A shriek ! another, yet more shrill, Her falt'ring lips outpour. And then she lieth pale and still At length upon the floor. THE QRANDMOTHER. And now her rigid form they bear Along the road she trod. They deem that from the house of prayer Her soul hath flown to God. XL It is not so. For many weeks She still must wait for death, Her limbs all trembling when she speaks, Or draws her painful breath. But when the wish'd-for hour comes near, So peacefully she dies. Her sobbing grandchild scarce may hear The last, faint, parting sighs ! 213 214 THE FOREST-POOL. I. Come for a while to the gay greenwood. Where the partridge is rearing her callow brood. Where the primrose and harebell look sweetly up. And the dew lieth yet in the violet's cup. By the shadowy path and the grassy lane ; By fields that are sown with the wheaten grain ; Come, let us roam while the sun rides high, And the hours of morning pass gaily by ! 11. Oh ! look at the woodbine on yonder bank. And the bough of the rose-tree, so wild and lank ;- Spring up ! you will seize it ! spring higher yet ! You see what the bold and the brave can get ! We'll linger a moment by yon hedge- side. Where the brighest and earliest blossoms hide- Now for a race, children ! one, two, and three. Who will be first at the alder-tree ? THE FOREST-POOL. 215 III. Come to the foot of the beech-crown'd hill Where the waters are slumbering dark and still ! Here we will rest till the day grows cool. Look down ! look down on the silent pool ! Look down, far down, yet ye strive in vain To see the pebble ye threw, again. They say men have tried with a long, long line, But of stone or of sand they could find no sign. IV. The waters close over the stone you throw, And it sinks far down to the depths below, But you hear it not ring on the land beneath, For the forest-pool is as still as death. Nobody knows how deep it may be, But ever it slum.bereth silently ; By day and by night it is always the same. Token of glee from its face never came. V. Sunbeam may ne'er in its waters sink, For tall trees above it their branches link ; Never the loveliest stars may see Those waters reflect their tranquillity ; ''K # ¥ V 216 THE VOKBST-POOL. And ne'er can the beautiful moonbeams kiss A pool so lonely and dark as this. A shadow is ever upon its face, — Look down I look down ! 'tis a dreary place. VI. The hills stand around it like mighty walls ; And when the glad breeze through the forest calls, It stirs not the pool, though its merry voice Bids every tree of the wood rejoice. And sends on the rills with a happier tone ; — These shadowy waters are sad alone ! Silent and dreary by night and by day. The one unrejoi(jing where others are gay. VII. Oh ! come from the pool — 'tis a mournful scene ! But let us remember how sad it has been. Think, dear ones, how dreary a heart would be That shaved not with others their grief and glee. That caught not the t-unshine that fell from heaven, The numberless blessings so freely given. Come from the pool, for it gives not back One sign of the gladness along our track. 217 THE OLD, OLD TIMES. I. 'Tis sweet to think of old, old times, When Earth was young, And in the fertile Eastern climes God's praise was sung : Before the crimson tide of slaughter Had stain'd Euphrates' quiet water ; Before the pride of man had huil'd Contention o'er our lovely world, And hathed its fields in blood : When life was calm, and men were few. And all things common now were new. And God declared them good ! Then holy hymns at eventide Rose sweetly from the water-side. And words of prayer awoke at morn With opening flowers. At mid-day from the waving corn And woodland bowers. -218 THE OLD, OLD TIMB8. Oh ! lovely were those Eastern climes. And happy were those old, old times ! II. For then, along the forest hollow Low whispers came. Bidding the eager child to follow, Calling his name. And guiding, by their low rich sound, His footsteps to the hallow'd ground Where radiant dwellers of the skies In glory stood before his eyes, And told him of their home ; Or breathed aloud their holy lays. Where now dark unbelievers raise Their minaret and dome. Then children knew that angels kept Bright watch around them while they slept, And often might with whisper'd words Glad dreams inspire, Or touch awhile the golden chords Of heav'nly lyre. n*;- THB OLD, OLD TIMER. Oh I lovely were those Eastern climes, And happy were those old, old times ! III. For then as evening shadows fell, And calm dews wept, And, murm'ring down the wooded dell. The soft wind swept, While sounds in harmony were blent, The Patriarch, before his tont. Calling his children round his knee, Pour'd forth beneath the cedar-tree His evening orison. And, as the early stars look'd out. He told them of the joyous shout, When the great work was done, That burst from all the sons of heaven. While lights so glorious were given To smile on new-createc: man And cheer his birth, Ere bitterness or death began To walk the Earth. Oh ! lovely were those Eastern climes, A nd happy were those old, old times ! 219 220 THE OLD, OLD TIMES. IV. For often would the river pour A sweeter sound, And odours richer than before Rise from the ground ; While the tamed lion from his den Came fearless to the homes of men, And, silently, the lamb drew near, Unconsciou.- of its usual fear, And lay down at his side ; And all acknowledged, by their gladness, And freedom from all passion's madness. That spirits near must glide ; And through the darkly-waving trees Came soft, unearthly melodies, While chasten'd glory fell from far Where meek heads bowed, Like rays that come from some pale star. Piercing the cloud. Oh I lovely were those Eastern climes. And happy were those old, old times ! THK UI.U, ULD TIMES. 221 I V. Those anpol-forms may greet our sight Now never more ; Those heav'nly lays that rose at night For aye arc o'er. No Proplict with his eye of fire, No Bard whom heav'n-born dreams inspire, No Poet bless'd with high revealings To move man's purest, holiest feelings, — We need not feel regret ; — Our Earth is glad and lovely still, And on each stream, and plain, and hill, A blessing lingers yet. Fair plants Moom still where angels trod, The grass grows thick upon the sod. The sun still smiles, the peaceful moon Looks from above ; The stars still give their blessed boon, — Their smile of love, That seems to bid us calmly wait For a more glorious future fate ! 222 THE PRISONER OF THE CONCIERGERIE* Give me your thought, my child, awhile ; We'll flee o'er space and time, And stand within a strong old pile In a far distant clime. The sun is shining on the street, The sky is calm and fair ; — Such pleasant sights can scarcely greet The mournful dwellers re ! The walls are thick, and grey with age ; Upon them you may trace The signs of many a winter's rage ; — It is a dismal place ; • Suggested by a picture in Thiers' " Histoire de la RevolutioH Franqaise." THE PKiaONBU OK TUB CUNCIEKUKHIR. This long dark passage, damp and still, Tiic windows far apart ! My child, does not a fearful chiil Fall now upon your heart? Look round us ! doors on cv'ry side As strong as they can be ; Alas ! how much those doors may hide Of human misery ! Perhaps some faithful spirits long For their immortal wreath, Perhaps, with unrepented wrong. Some dread to meet their death ! 2i3 My child, look through this iron jjratc, A solemn sight is here ! Where are the luxury and state, The subjects* humble fear, — The crowd of gay and ready friends That wait upon a queen ? That noble brow in sadness bends At thought of what has been. ! 224 THE PRISONER OP THE CUNCIBROERIB. It is the widow'd Queen of France, Good Marie Antoinette ! Of old her kind and joyous glance Bade Grief his pain forget. And are there none to comfort her, Some word of hope to bring ? She's daughter of an Emperor, And widow of a King ? Her cheeks are sunken, wan, and pale ; Her hair is white with sorrow ; She weeps, — the bravest heart might quail To think upon her morrow ; And yet 'tis not for this that tears Are rolling from her eyes. Her thoughts are with departed years ; — Heard you those stifled sighs ? It is not for herself she grieves, Though death comes with the morn. It is for those young hearts she leaves Uncared for and forlorn. THK PRISONER OF THE CONCIEROERIE. Her children ! she will look no more Upon their cherish'd forms ; She goeth to a happier shore, But they must meet Earth's storms ; 225 And she who smiled away their pain. And wept to see them weep, Upon whose bosom they have lain In their calm infant sleep,— She may not guide or cheer them now, When they are desolate ; Alas ! her lovely ones must bow To an unwonted fate. And Louis :— Scorn, and hate, and woe Were heap'd upon his head. Until that noble head lay low, And he was with the dead ! She thinks of his last parting word,— Their bitter parting hour ;— What is the fire, and what the sword To that one sorrow's power ? 226 THE PRISONER OF TBE CONCIEROBRIB. The sister, too, whose loving face. Amid their deepest gloom. Shed something still of joy and grace In the dark Temple room ; What trials yet are her's to pass ? Is she, too, doomed to death, — The victim of the cruel mass, — The pure Elizabeth ? Come fo i ' iy child ! we'll make no sound. Her hours are sad and brief; See ! the large tears fall on the ground, — It is a sacred grief ! She clasps her trembling hands in prayer, — It is from heav'n alone That comfort for her heavy care Can flow, poor lonely one ! This is no tale by Poet dream'd ; . It is a mournful truth ; Once gay where princely splendour beam'd, She perish'd in her youth,— nd. d. THE PRISONER OP THE CONCIEROBRIB. The bright, the fair, the envied Queen ! Oh ! let us not forget How sad our fancied sight has been Of Marie Antoinette ! 227 Q 2 228 A PRISONER AT SAN DOMINGO. (1500.) I. Another captive would you see ? Give me your thought again ! We'll fly to where the tamarind-tree Shadows the purple main ; And backward, over time's long road, We'll pass three hundred years, And linger where a dark abode Its solemn front uprears. II. We will not pause upon the strand Though all around be fair, Though blooming trees by breezes fann'd Breathe odours on the air ; Though butterflies with gorgeous wings On lovely blossoms rest, And many a bird unwearied sings Above his spicy nest ; A PRISONER AT SAN DOMINOO. III. 229 Though sunset fadeth on Uie woods, And stars are in the sky, And cataracts anc" mountain floods Pour their rich tones on high ; Though humming-birds from bough to bough Flit like a moving flower, And fire-flies wander gaily now Around the prison tower ; IV. Though far away the orange-tree Hangs out its golden fruit. And 'mid its branches merrily The brilliant parrots hoot ; And down beneath the forest-mound The waves of the great sea Mingle, with ev'ry gayer sound, Their endless melody. V. We'll go to yonder cell, where lies A captive good and great, The victim of his enemies,— Betray'd by envious hate. 230 A PUI80NEB AT SAN DOMINnO. The stars have flung upon the walls A pale and shadowy light ; Upon that high, calm brow it falls, — That eye that still is bright. VI. Yet, sorrow on his spirit weighs, — Is this to be the end Of him whose name with words of praise Posterity should blend ? Is it for him whose deeds fame spoke Among the sons of men, Thus, undeserved, to bear the yoke In a mean 'elon's den. VII. It is the noble Genoese, Whose high and faithful soul Fear'd not to bi ave tempestuous seas. And won the promised goal ! 'Tis he who dared his ship to steer To seek a Western World, And first in a new hemisphere Tho Spanish flag unfurl'd ! I '! A PRISONER AT SAN DOMINOO. 231 VIII. 'Tis he whose eye first saw a light On Hispaniola's shore, And deem'd that one, long-pray'd-for sight Repaid him, o'er and o'er. For years of toil, and want, and scorn. 'Tis he who silent stood To watch until the ling'ring morn Shone forth o'er lawn and wood. IX. Look on him now ! The vesper-toll Comes slowly through the air, Calling on ev'ry human soul To turn to God in prayer. He kneels upon his prison-stone At sound of that dull chime, ' And smiles, as if its passing tone Spoke hope of happier time. X. His chain-bound hands are raised on high, A flush is on his cheek, Upturn'd his dark and earnest eye. His Saviour's help to seek. 232 A I'UISONER AT SAN OOHINUO. And soon a ray of calm delight To cheer his soul is given ; As if the Lord of Love and Might Smiled on him from high heaven. XL He kneels with peace upon his brow. For hope is in his heart ; Report's false tale he fears not now, Nor envy's poisoned dart : He, who had borne him o'er the wave. And stilled the tempest's rage, — He, who was ever prompt to save. Would guaid him in his age ! XIL A sound disturbs him from his prayer ,- The bolts are drawn aside : A moment I 'mid the torches' glare, A friend* is at his side. • Villejo. A PRISONER AT SAN DOMINGO. A guard surrounds the dungeon-room, He lifts his noble head : — " You come to lead me to my doom, — I am prepared!" he said. 233 XIII. " No ! no ! my friend. To sunny Spain Thoy bid us bear thee forth, That all the world may learn again The great Columbus' worth !" " Thank God ! for He hath seen my pain,- A God of grace is He ! My name shall pass without a stain To all posterity !" 234 THE MARCH OF THE CRUSADERS TO JERUSALEM.* II \l I. A BREEZE floats o'er the Syrian plains, To tell that morn is near ; Already from the Christian camp Rise murmurs loud and clear. The Red-Cross Knights, with snowy plumes, On stately chargers prance. And, like the summer lightning's flash, Gleam out bright shield and lance. Now all are ready for the march Before the trumpet calls : At length upon each anxious ear The cheerful summons falls. * These lines, which have little pretension to the strictness of a trans- lation, were suggested, at least, by the early stanzas ot the Third Canto of " La Gerusaiemme Liberata." < THE MARCH OV THR CRUSADERS TU JERUaAI.Bll. 235 TO II. The wise and gallant leader speaks, — He gives to all their stations, — And they would follow him till death, — Those men of many nations ! 'Twere easier to stop the course Of whirlpools in the deep, Or lull the free aid stormy winds Of Apennine to sleep ; And yet he marshals all the host, — " March on, brave men I march on ! March onward to Jerusalem With Godfrey of Bouillon !" !i trans- d CiiDto III. With bounding feet and eager hearts Their march they have begun ; Yet not until the fields are scorch'd By the meridian sun. Jerusalem appears in sight. Ten thousand lifted hands Are pointing to the verdant hills Where widow'd Zion stands ! 236 THE UARCU OV TIIR CRUSAUEHS TO JEUUSALBM. I Ton thousand mingled voices raise A wild, triumphant cry, — " All hail ! all hail, Jerusalem !"— The shout rings to the sky ! IV. Thus, when o'er strange and doubtful seas The seamen guide their bark, Where tempests roar, and waves run high. And clouds are thick and dark, — If, haply, o'er the raging deep, They see their quiet home. How gladly from each laughing lip The words of greeting come ! Each sailor to his fellow calls To look at his abode, — And, in their joy, they all forget The dangers of the road. V. But to the first wild burst of joy That Zion's walls awaken Succeeds a deep and contrite grief, — Man's arrogance is shaken. TUK MARCH 01' TUB CHU8AUKRS TO JERUSAI.KU. They scarcely dare to look asain Upon that lioly place, Wherein the gentle Lord of Life First spoke the words of pjrace. Within those walls the Saviour died, — Upon those hills He trod, — And thence lie rose to dwell again At the right hand of God. 237 VL Faint, stifled sobs, and humble prayers, And low repentant sighs. Now, with a sad and murm'ring sound, From the great host arise ; As winds among the summer leaves Pour forth their wild, deep tones ; Or through the dark and narrow vale The gath'ring tempest moans: Or like the sea among the rocks Making a mournful sound. While flinging up its stormy spray Along the shelving ground. I\ 238 THE MARCH OF THE CRUSADERS TO JERUSALEM. VII. Each warrior meekly bares his feet, — The leader and the led, — And golden gem and waving plume Are torn from ev'ry head ; While, with the signs of outward pomp, They quit all pride of soul, And down the bravest hero's face Warm tears of sorrow roll. And while repentance chokes each voice, And pales each manly cheek, The humbled, self-accusing souls, Thus in the silence speak : — VIII. " Thou, here, great Lord, with streams of blood, Didst bathe the crimson'd earth ; Shall not a fount of bitter tears At such a thought have birth ? My frozen heart ! why dost thou not At such remembrance melt ? My harden'd heart ! why bend'st thou not Where once thy Saviour knelt ? THE MARCH OF THE CRUSADERS TO JERUSALEM. •239 tJnfeeling one ! and shall thy pride E'en here refuse to bow ? — For ever they deserve to weep Whose sad tears fall not now ! " 240 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 1. A SOUND is in the streets of Nain, of wailing for the dead, A weeping train moves slowly on, by dark-robed mourners led ; They weep that the departed soul so soon its race hath run, — They carry to his mountain-grave the widow's only son; They bear him to the city walls, and, ever as they go, Their blended voices breathe a strain of music sad and slow, — " Beloved ! thou hast departed I Thou of the bounding step and flashing eye, — Thou, — even thou couldst die ! And the high hopes we centred in thy name, — The promise of thy fame, — -Tj-*- **v THB WIDOW OF .