Songs of the Affections.

A SPIRIT'S RETURN.

This is to be a mortal,

And seek the things beyond mortality!

Manfred.

|Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre,

But ministered to that strange inborn fire.

Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells,
In noon-tide hours or golden summer-eves,

THY voice prevails; dear Friend, my gentle My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells

Friend!
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed,
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed
Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close
For evermore, above their dark repose.

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky
Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie;
Come to the woods, where all strange wandering

sound

Is mingled into harmony profound;

Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined,
The trembling reeds and fountains;-Our own
dell,

With its green dimness and Æolian breath,
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well-
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon-
I would thou hadst!-for then my heart on thine
Had poured a worthier love; now, all o'erworn
By its deep thirst for something too divine,
It hath but fitful music to bestow,
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago.

Yet even in youth companionless I stood,
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam;
For me the silver chords of brotherhood
Were early loosed;-the voices from my home
Passed one by one, and Melody and Mirth
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught,
In every still small voice and sound of power,
And flute-note of the wind through cave and
bower,

A perilous delight!--for then first woke
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest

Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves
Shakes out response;-O thou rich world un-

scen!

Thou curtained realm of spirits!—thus my cry
Hath troubled air and silence-dost thou lie
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen
Shut from us ever?-The resounding woods,
Do their depths teem with marvels?-and the
floods,

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill,
Have they bright dwellers?-are their lone do-
mains

Peopled with beauty, which may never still
Our weary thirst of soul?-Cold, weak and cold,
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold
Of our deep being!-Oh, for gifts more high!
For a seer's glance to rend mortality!

For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine,
The oracles divine!

I woke from those high fantasies, to know
My kindred with the Earth-I woke to love:-
O gentle Friend! to love in doubt and wo,
Shutting the heart the worshipped name above,
Is to love deeply—and my spirit's dower
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power
Of so adoring-with a buried care,
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer,
And with a deepening dream, that day by day,
In the still shadow of its lonely sway,
Folded me closer;-till the world held nought
Save the one Being to my centred thought.
There was no music but his voice to hear,
No joy but such as with his step drew near,
Light was but where he looked-life where e
moved-

Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.
Oh! but such love is fearful!—and I knew
Its gathering doom:-the soul's prophetic sight
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid light

Worlds far removed?-from o'er the grave to thee
Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be-Communion with the dead!—I sent a cry,
Sung like a lay of triumph!-Now return,
And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn,
And lift it once to light!

I sat beneath that planet,-I had wept
My wo to stillness! every night-wind slept;
A bush was on the hills; the very streams
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams,
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour,

I, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last! Stood motionless, even as the gray church tower

Whereon I gazed unconsciously:-there came
A low sound, like the tremor of a flame,

Nor say to him, "Farewell!"-He passed away-Or like the light quick shiver of a wing,

Oh! had my love been there, its conquering sway Flitting through twilight woods, across the air;
Had won him back from death!-but thus removed,
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding line hath proved,
Joined with the unknown, the viewless, he be

And I looked up!-Oh! for strong words to bring
Conviction o'er thy thought!-Before me there,
He, the Departed, stood !-Aye, face to face-
So near, and yet how far!-his form, his mien,
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace

Unto my thoughts another, yet the same-
Changed-hallowed-glorified !-and in his low Within:-Yet something awfully serene,

Told of the gulfs between our being set,
And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met,
Made my soul faint:-with fear?-Oh! not with

fear!

With the sick feeling that in his far sphere
My love could be as nothing!-But he spoke-
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill
My bosom's infinite?-O Friend, I woke
Then first to heavenly life !—Soft, solemn, clear,
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear,
Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells;
But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill
Passed from me, like a mist before the morn,
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne,
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still,

Through the young woods ?-Thou dost-And in that birth

Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth,
Thousands, like thee, find gladness!-Couldst thou
know

How every breeze then summons me to go!
How all the light of love and beauty shed
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the Dead!
The only beautiful that change no more,

| The only loved!—the dwellers on the shore
Of spring fulfilled!-The Dead!-whom call we so?
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know
Things wrapt from us!-Away!—within me pent,
That which is barred from its own element
Still droops or struggles!—But the day will come—
Over the deep the free bird finds its home,
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets
The sea at last; and the winged flower-seed meets
A soil to rest in:-shall not I, too, be,

Possessed my frame: I sought that lighted eye, My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?
From its intense and searching purity

Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish
stirred

tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard,
Whose agony of triumph won thee back
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track,
Yet shall we meet!--that glimpse of joy divine,
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!

I drank in soul!-I questioned of the dead-
Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread-The
And I was answered:-if remembrance there,
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air;
If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap,
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep;
If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast,
Find there the music of his home at last;
I asked, and I was answered:-Full and high
Was that communion with eternity,

Too rich for aught so fleeting!-Like a knell
Swept o'er my sense its closing words,-" Fare-
well,

On earth we meet no more!"-and all was gone-
The pale bright settled brow-the thrilling tone-
The still and shining eye!—and never more
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore
That radiant guest!-One full-fraught hour of
Heaven,

To earthly passion's wild implorings given,
Was made my own-the ethereal fire hath shivered
The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered,
Brightly, consumingly!-What now is left?—
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft,

A void, a chain!-I dwell, 'midst throngs, apart,
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart;
A fixed, immortal shadow stands between
My spirit and life's fast receding scene;
A gift hath severed me from human tics,
A power is gone from all earth's melodies,
Which never may return:-their chords are bro-
ken-

The music of another land hath spoken,
No after-sound is sweet!-this weary thirst!—
And I have heard celestial fountains burst!-
What here shall quench it?
Dost thou not rejoice,
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.*

Courage was cast about her like a dress
Of solemn comeliness,

A gathered mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace.

THE war-note of the Saracen

Donne

Was on the winds of France;
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night,
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,
On the old Provençal shore;
Many a Chatillon beneath,

Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath,

His shroud of armour wore.

And the glimpses of moonlight that went and

came

Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame,
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale
Of stern forms couched in their marble mail,
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,
The silent throngs of that burial-place.

Founded on an incident in the early French histor

They were imaged there with helm and spear,
As leaders in many a bold career,

And haughty their stillness looked and high,
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory;
But meekly the voice of the lady rose
Through the trophies of their proud repose;
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid,
Under their banners of battle she prayed;
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love,
Upraised to the Virgin's pourtrayed above,
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave.
And her fragile frame, at every blast,
That full of the savage war-horn passed,
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart,
When it vainly strives from its cage to part,-
So knelt she in her wo;

A weeper alone with the tearless dead-
Oh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed,
Or the dust had stirred below!

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone,
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild

wind's moan;

Is her lord returned with his conquering bands?
No! a breathless vassal before her stands!

"Hast thou been on the field?-Art thou come

from the host ?"

-"From the slaughter, Lady!--All, all is lost!
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low,
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe,
And thy Lord," his voice took a sadder sound—
"Thy Lord-he is not on the bloody ground!
There are those who tell that the leader's plume
Was seen on the flight through the gathering
gloom."

-A change o'er her mien and spirit past;
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,
She dashed the tears from her kindling eye,
With a glance, as of sudden royalty:
The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow,
Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow,
And her young voice rose till the peasant shook
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look:
--"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious
dead,

And fear not to say, that their son hath fled?
---Away! he is lying by lance and shield,—
Point me the path to his battle-field !"

The shadows of the forest

Are about the lady now;

She is hurrying through the midnight on,
Beneath the dark pine bough.

'There's a murmur of omens in every leaf,
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a
chief;

The branches that rock the teinpest-strife,
Are groaning like things of troubled life;
The wind from the battle seems rushing by
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky;
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,
But her frame in the daring of love is strong,
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne,
And girded all fearful things to scorn.

And fearful things were around her spread,
When she reached the field of the warrior-dead;
There lay the noble, the valiant, low-
Aye! but one word speaks of deeper wo;
There lay the loved-on each fallen head
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed;
Sisters were watching in many a home
For the fettered footstep, no more to come;
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken,
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken;
And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine
poured,

For those, now needing nor hearth nor board;
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,

And oh! ye beloved of women, farewell!

Silently, with lips compressed,
Pale hands clasped above her breast,
Stately brow of anguish high,
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye;
Silently, o'er that red plain,
Moved the lady 'midst the slain.

Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry,
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh;
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne;
And her maidens trembled;-but on her ear
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear;
They had less of mastery to shake her now,
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough
She searched into many an unclosed eye,
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky;
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast.
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest—

Not there, not there he lay!
"Lead where the most hath been dared and done,
Where the heart of the battle hath bled—lead ʊ»1ˇ
And the vassal took the way.

He turned to a dark and lonely tree,
That waved o'er a fountain red;
Oh! swiftest there had the currents free
From noble veins been shed.

Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed,
And the scattered plumage streained,
And the broken shields were tossed,
And the shivered lances crossed,
And the mail-clad sleepers round
Made the harvest of that ground.

He was there! the leader amidst his band,
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand,
He was there! but affection's glance alone
The darkly-changed in that hour had known;
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped,
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped,
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,
And the face-oh! speak not of that dead face!
As it lay to answer love's look no more,
Yet never so proudly loved before!

She quelled in her soul the deep floods of wo,
The time was not yet for their waves to flow;
She felt the full presence, the might of death,
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath,
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,
As she turned to his followers-"Your Lord is there!
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!--
Bear him away with his sires to rest!"

Another day--another night-
And the sailor on the deep

Hears the low chant of a funeral rite
From the lordly chapel sweep:

It comes with a broken and muffled tone,
As if that rite were in terror done;

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power,
And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and wo,

Through the aisle the mourners go;
With a hushed and stealthy tread,
Bearing on the noble dead,
Sheathed in armour of the field-

Only his wan face revealed,

Whence the still and solemn gleam
Doth a strange sad contrast seem
To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches wavering in every hand,
For they dread each moment the shout of war,
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar.

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend;
No sound comes back like the sounds of yore,
Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;
By the red fountain the valiant lie,
The flower of Provençal chivalry,
But one free step, and one lofty heart,
Bear through that scene, to the last, their part.
She hath led the death-train of the brave
To the verge of his own ancestral grave;
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway,
But the struggling passion must now have way.
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil,
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail;
The pride on the lip is lingering still,
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill;
Anguish and Triumph are met at strife,
Rending the chords of her frail young life;

And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier,
Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear.—

"I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong,
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!
Now call me hence, by thy side to be,
The world thou leav'st has no place for me.
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth—
Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth!
Give me my home on thy noble heart,—
Well have we loved, let us both depart!”—
And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay,
The living check to the cheek of clay;
The living cheek!—Oh! it was not vain,
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain;
She is there at rest in her place of pride,
In death how queen-like-a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed One!-she might not stay
When the crown had fallen from her life away;
She might not linger-a weary thing,

A dove, with no home for its broken wing,
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,
That know not its own land's melodies.
From the long heart-withering early gone;

She hath lived-she hath loved-her task is done'

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE

CASTRO.

Tableau, où l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; unio redoutable de la mort et de la vie ! Madame de Stael

THERE was music on the midnight;-
From a royal fane it rolled,
And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly tolled.
Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hushed the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.

There was hurrying through the midnight
A sound of many feet;

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness,
Along the shadowy street:

And softer, fainter, grew their tread,

As it neared the minster-gate,
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed
From a scene of royal state.

Full glowed the strong red radiance,
In the centre of the nave,
Where the folds of a purple canopy
Swept down in many a wave: