Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep
A solemn glory broods;
A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,
And all the golden woods:
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn within the amber light;-
What spell, from that rich pageantry,
Chains down thy gazing sight?
A softening thought of human cares,
A feeling linked to earth!
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears
The loved of many a hearth?
Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear,
Crowd her frail world even now,
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear,
Follow her venturous prow?
Bright are the floating clouds above,
The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love
To kindred weal and wo.
Therefore, amidst this wide array
Of glorious things and fair,
My soul is on that bark's lone way,
For human hearts are there.
THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? -"We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
"We have swept o'er cities in song renowned— Silent they lie, with the deserts round!
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?
-"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt,
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built!"
Oh! joyous birds, it hath still been so;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep.
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?
"A change we have found there-and many a change!
Faces and footsteps and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were, have a brow of care,
And the place is hushed when the children
played,-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have passed,-
So may we reach our bright home at last!
A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstances as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which ne laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.
These birds of Paradise but long to flee
Back to their native mansion.
Prophecy of Dante.
A REQUIEM!-and for whom?
For beauty in its bloom?
For valour fallen-a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for king or chief,
With pomp of stately grief,
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?
Not so, it is not so!
That warning voice I know,
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone; A solemn funeral air
It called me to prepare,
And my heart answered secretly-my own!
One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain
Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral
And let me breathe my dower
Of passion and of power
Full into that deep lay-the last of all!
The last!-and I must go
From this bright world below,
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound Must leave its festal skies,
With all their melodies,
That ever in my breast glad echoes found
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!
Therefore disturbing dreams
Trouble the secret streams
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast;
Something far more divine
Than may on earth be mine,
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest.
Shall I then fear the tone
That breathes from worlds unknown ?Surely these feverish aspirations there
Shall grasp their full desire,
And this unsettled fire,
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.
One more then, one more strani,
To earthly joy and pain
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!
I pour each fervent thought
With fear, hope, trembling, fraught,
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.
A strange dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!
Haply of that fond bosom,
On ashes here impressed,
Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.
Perchance all vainly lavished,
Its other love had been,
And where it trusted, nought remained
But thorns on which to lean.
Far better then to perish,
Thy form within its clasp,
Than live and lose thee, precious one!
From that impassioned grasp.
Oh! I could pass all relics
Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument,
Cast in affection's mould.
Love, human love! what art thou?
Thy print upon the dust
Outlives the cities of renown
Wherein the mighty trust!
Immortal, oh! immortal
Thou art, whose earthly glow
Hath given these ashes holiness—
It must, it must be so!
THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony!
Temple and tower have mouldered,
Empires from earth have passed,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!
And childhood's fragile image
Thus fearfully enshrined,
Survives the proud memorials reared
By conquerors of mankind.
Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb
Snut round each gentle guest?
The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasp. to the busom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneuin.
Something whereunto I may bird my heart; Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp Aflection's tendrils round.
WOULDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom 1
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb
Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought;
Drink, and the spoiler shail pass thee by,
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves Ee
And would not the youth of my soul be gone,
If the loved had left me, one by one?
Take back the cup that may never bless,
The gift that would make me brotherless!
How should I live, with no kindred eye
To reflect mine immortality?
Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell,
Over the mighty in air that dwell?
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and stee.
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep?
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand,
And would not fear, at my coming then,
Hush every voice in the homes of men?
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail?
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale?
No gift be mine that aside would turn
The human love for whose founts I yearn!
Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose?
Wear this rich gem! it is charmed to show
When a change comes over affection's glow;
Look on its flushing or fading hue,
And learn if the trusted be false or true!
Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust,
Though my heart's wealth be but poured on dust!
Let not a doubt in my soul have place,
To dim the light of a loved one's face;
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile-
That glory would pass could I look on guile!
Say then what boon of my power shall be
Favoured of spirits! poured forth on thee?
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine,
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine,
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest-
Answer me! how may I grace it best?
Oh! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen,
But a human heart where my own may lean!
A friend, one tender and faithful friend,
Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend,
And leaving not either on earth alone,
Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one!
"Oh! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelqefois mes vers; mon ame y est empreinte."-Corinne.
WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?
When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away,
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought;
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime;
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may
tread;
BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream.
When the clustering pearls lay fair
'Midst thy braids of sunny air,
And the white veil o'er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellowed all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or wo beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flowed that crimson from th' unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?
-Who shall tell us?-from thy bower,
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion's glad salute,
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride!
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcomed thee triumphantly!
From love's wane-a death in life
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment,-
"From the home of childhood's glee
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears!
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee."
Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
'Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
'Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quivered to some bosom storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love's unfinished vow;
When, like scattered rose-leaves, fied
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sank heavily;
Was that drooping but th' excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might.
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest shower,
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?
-Who shall tell us?-on thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rushed again the crimson streak
Never to thine eye returned
That which there had beamed and burned!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy wo,
With thy marriage-robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair,
Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust,
Into darkness-terror-dust!
There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral-wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell;
-"From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
But to watch-a mortal strife:
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, away—
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Comfort 'midst our tears for thee!"
A long war disturbed your mind-
Here your perfect peace is signed,
"T is now full tide 'twixt night and day,
End
your moan, and come away!
Webster-Duchess of Malfy.
THERE were faint sounds of weeping;-fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan's old halls:-rich odours there
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver thrown,
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch:-there emeralds gleamed,
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine.-Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly;-for there one lay
Passing from all Earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those qucenly treasures: They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands,
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now-
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow,
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed,
Though not from Earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! her handmaids watched around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-swayed lamps, made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn
train,
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the sealed heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain,
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Thronged with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness!
We have wept, that weep not now-
Calm is each once beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'t is hushed 't is well!
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever-thirst is stilled,
All the ai: with peace is filled,—
Come, come, come!
And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay,
She passed, as twilight melts to night, away!
How lived, how loved, how died they?
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? sha they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array!
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn
Robed for the feast of victory shall return
As on their proudest day.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?-
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel boughs,
But silent as a dream."
"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallowed for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
"But, if the narrow house may so be moved, Call the bright shadows of the most beloved, Back from their couch of rest! That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled With peace, if human love hath ever stilled The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth!-An idle quest is thine; These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! 'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and
Have passed, and left no trace.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, Their covering turf may bloom;
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers, Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers Or poet hailed their tomb."
"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
"THE Dead! the glorious Dead!—And shall they I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright
Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, Records of joy and wo."*
Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1830.
|