That mother left that child-went hurrying by She hung-but no! it could not thus have been, Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife; That love was not for her, though hearts would melt To bless the young Isaure. One sunny morn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest more- And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o'er her--called her-'t was too late! TO THE IVY. OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN OH! how could Fancy crown with thee, Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound The Roman, on his battle plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Around the victor's grave. Where sleep the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past, Thou in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. t Oh! many a temple, once sublime, And reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine High from the fields of air, look down Those eyries of a vanished race, Homes of the mighty, whose renown Hath passed and left no trace. But thou art there-thy foliage bright, Unchanged, the mountain-storm can braveThou that wilt climb the loftiest height, And deck the humblest grave. The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round Grandeur's marble halls; The vivid hues by painting thrown Rich o'er the glowing walls; Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes, In sculpured beauty waving fair.— These perish all-and what remains?— Thou, thou alone art there. 'Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled, Left to Decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strengthDays pass, thou "Ivy never sere,”* And all is thine at length. ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. AND was thy home, pale withered thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy? Those suns in golden light, e'en now, Look o'er the Poet's lonely grave, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave. The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow, May cluster in their purple bloom, But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough, Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. ⚫ "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas. Thy place is void-oh! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain. Another leaf ere now hath sprung, On the green stem which once was thineWhen shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine? FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. CREATURE of air and light, Emblem of that which may not fade or die, To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky? With Silencé and Decay, Fixed on the wreck of cold Mortality? The thoughts once chambered there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are goneWill the dust tell us where They that have burst the prison-house are flown? If thou wouldst trace their way- Who seeks the vanished bird By the forsaken nest and broken shell ?— Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell. Take the bright wings of morn! THE LOST PLEIAD. "Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." Byron. AND is there glory from the heavens departed? Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye. Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning- free; And from the silvery sea To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, And was there power to smite them with decay? Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, And the red blood stained his crest; While she-the gentlest wind of heaven Might scarcely fan her breast. Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, That perish with a breeze. As roses die, when the blast is come, THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON. I LAY upon the solemn plain And by the funeral mound, Where those who died not there in vain, Their place of sleep had found. T was silent where the free blood gushed, When Persia came arrayed So many a voice had there been hushed, So many a footstep stayed. I slumbered on the lonely spot, I slumbered but my rest was not As theirs who lay beneath. For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, They rose-the chainless deadAll armed they sprang, in joy, in power Up from their grassy bed. I saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by Chased to the seas, without his shield I saw the Persian fly. I woke the sudden trumpet's blast Called to another fight From visions of our glorious past, Who doth not wake in might? THE TRUMPET. THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land, -A hundred hills have seen the brand A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have castAnd hark!-was that the sound of seas? -A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye- The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. The blast that wakes the dead? TROUBADOUR SONG. THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam, For the stormy fields of warThe maid was left in a smiling home, And a sunny iand afar. His voice was heard where javelin showers Poured on the steel-clad line; Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, Her seat beneath the vine. THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY THE Hall of Harps is lone this night, And I depart-my wound is deep, Bear it, where on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country's noble slainSay to him-Saxon!-think not all is won. Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, The minstrel's chainless hand; Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land. Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased, The soul of song is flown? No! by our names and by our blood, We leave it pure and free- We leave it, 'midst our country's wo, We leave it, as we leave the snow, We leave it with our fame to dwell, Upon our children's breath Our voice in theirs through time shall swellThe bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. He dies-but yet the mountains stand, Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride. THE WRECK. ALL night the booming minute-gun Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. Had vailed her topsails to the sand, And bowed her noble mast. The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn, We saw her treasures cast away- Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon. Eneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard. And strangely sad, the ruby's ray Flashed out o'er fretted stone. We saw the strong man still and low, Not without strife he died. For her pale arms a babe had prest, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet long streamers clung, All tangled by the storm. And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, Gleamed up the boy's dead face, Like Slumber's trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. Deep in her bosom lay his head, Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart, Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe. Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry, Know ye my home, with the lulling sound Like shooting stars in the forest-glades, -Hold me not, brethren, I go, I go, To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, To the depths of the woods, where the shadows Massy and still, on the greensward's breast, I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way! Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar, THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER. Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 20th tion of his popular piece, "The Sword Song." of August, 1813, a few hours after the composiHe was buried at the village of Wöbbelin in Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses comfall-posed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and a sword, a favourite emblem of Körner's, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines. The heavy-rolling surge, the rocking mast! blast! Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth! That steeps the woods when the sun is low, I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell, And waken my youth in its hour of prime. spray! "Vergiss die treuen Tödten nicht." See Downes's Letters from Mechlenburg and GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, Rest, Bard, rest, Soldier!-by the father's hand It is there!-down the mountains I see the With his wreath-offering silently to stand, sweep Of the chesnut forests, the rich and deep; rloating upborne on the blue summer air, And the flashing forth of a thousand streams. In the hushed presence of the glorious dead. Soldier and Bard! for thou thy path hast trod With Freedom and with God.✨ • The poems of Körner, which were chiefly devoted to the cause of his country, are strikingly distinguished by religions feelings, and a confidence in the Supreme Justice for the final deliverance of Germany. |