Poems

"'There is no glory left us now,
Like the glory with the dead:-

I would that where they slumber low
My latest leaves were shed!"

Oh! thou dark Tree, thou lonely Tree
That mournest for the past!

A peasant's home in thy shades I see,
Embowered from every blast.

A lovely and a mirthful sound

Of laughter meets mine ear;

For the poor man's children sport around On the turf, with nought to fear.

And roses lend that cabin's wall

A happy summer-glow;

And the open door stands free to all
For it recks not of a foe.

And the village bells are on the breeze,
That stirs thy leaf, dark Tree!
How can I mourn, 'midst things like these,
For the stormy past, with thee?

YE have been holy, O founts and floods!
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods,
Ye that are born of the valleys deep,
With the water flowers on your breast asleep,
And ye that gush from the sounding caves—
Hallowed have been your waves.

Hallowed by man, and his dreams of old,
Unto beings not of this mortal mould
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers,
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours,
And sought with its fancied sound to still
The heart earth could not fill.

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone,
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown
Thousand of gifts, to the sunny sea

Have ye swept along in your wanderings free,
And thrilled to the murmur of many a vow-
Where all is silent now!

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been
So linked in love to your margins green;
That still, though ruined, your early shrines
In beauty gleam through the southern vines

And the ivyed chapels of colder skies. On your wild banks arise.

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth, Are those, bright streams! where your springs have birth;

Whether their caverned murmur fills,

With a tone of plaint the hollow hills,
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow
Is heard 'midst the hamlets low.

Or whether ye gladden the desert-sands,
With a joyous music to Pilgrim bands,
And a flash from under some ancient rock,
Where a shepherd-king might have watched his
flock,

Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads,
And a green Acacia spreads.

Or whether, in bright old lands renowned,
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound,
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine,
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming line,
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves
Beside heroic graves.

Voices and lights of the lonely place!
By the freshest fern your path we trace;
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss,
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss,
By the rainbow-glancing of insect-wings,
In a thousand mazy rings.

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers
Are all your own through the summer-hours.
There the proud stag his fair image knows,
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs,
And the Halcyon's breast, like the skies arrayed,
Gleams through the willow-shade.

But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays
Peopled your banks in olden days,
And the memory left by departed love,
To your antique founts in glen and grove,
And the glory born of the poet's dreams--

These are your charms, bright streams

Now is the time of your flowery rites,
Gone by with its dances and young delights:
From your marble urns ye have burst away,
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day;
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown,

-And the woods again are one.

Yet holy still be your living springs
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things.
Holy, to converse with nature's lore,
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more,
And to silent thoughts of the love divine,
Making the heart a shrine!

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit-Gray's Letters.

OH! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine,

From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bearest a sound and sigr.;

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own,

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone.

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew,

Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true;

Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled,

Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead!

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind? these many notes in thee?

Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount must surely be;

Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there Thougnt watches, Memory lies,

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where From whose deep urn the tones are poured,

shivered helmets lie,

And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a

clarion in the sky;

A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,―

All these are in thy music met, as when a leader

comes.

through all Earth's harmonies.

THE VIGIL OF ARMS.*

A SOUNDING step was heard by night
In a church where the mighty slept,

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, wastes brought back Midst the tombs his vigil kept. Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of He walked in dreams of power and fame, thy track; He lifted a proud, bright eye, The chime of low soft southern waves on some For the hours were few that withheld his rame green palmy shore,

The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered bil

lows roar.

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind!

And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined;

The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and free,

Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee.

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing by,

Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry;

The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall,

The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fal!.

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient minsters vast,

Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing hath passed;

Thou nast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the stately dirge's tone,

From the roll of chivalry.

Down the moon-lit aisles he paced alone,
With a free and stately tread;
And the floor gave back a muffled tone
From the couches of the dead:
The silent many that round him lay,

The crowned and helmed that were,
The haughty chiefs of the war-array-
Each in his sepulchre!

But no dim warning of time or fate

That youth's flushed hopes could chill,
He moved through the trophies of buried state
With each proud pulse throbbing still.
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung,
A swell of the trumpet's breath;

He looked to the banners on high that hung,
And not to the dust beneath.

And a royal masque of splendour seemed
Before him to unfold;

Through the solemn arches on it streamed,
With many a gleam of gold:

• The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity to a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to church, and completely armed. This was called "the Vigi of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a of Arms."

his place of slumber gone.

There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame,

Glittering athwart the gloom,

And he followed, till his bold step came

To his warrior-father's tomb.

But there the still and shadowy might
Of the monumental stone,

And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light,
That over its quiet shone,

And the image of that sire, who died

In his noonday of renown

These had a power unto which the pride Of fiery life bowed down.

And a spirit from his early years

Came back o'er his thoughts to move, fill his eye was filled with memory's tears, And his heart with childhood's love!

And he looked, with a change in his softening glance,

To the armour o'er the grave,―

For there they hung, the shield and lance,
And the gauntlet of the brave.

And the sword of many a field was there,
With its cross for the hour of need,

When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer,

And the spear is a broken reed!

-Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh?
Did the folds of the banner shake?
Not so!-from the tomb's dark mystery
There seemed a voice to break!

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow,
He had caught its last blessing's breath,—
'Twas the same-but its awful sweetness now
Had an under tone of death!

And it said," The sword hath conquered kings,
And the spear through realms hath passed;
But the cross, alone, of all these things,
Might aid me at the last."

Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent,-save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;
Silent-save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound ther-
-Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep,
In this nameless valley deep?

No! brave heart!--though cold and lone
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O'er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute, yet stately tread,
Shedding their pale armour's light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.
Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Armed to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont,
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee;-
-Dreams! the falling of a leaf
Wins me from their splendours brief;
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot;

Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!

THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.

HEART! that didst press forward still,
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart!-and liest thou here?
May this narrow spot inurn

Aught that so could beat and burn?

NATURE'S FAREWELL.

The beautiful is vanished, and returns not. Coleridge's Wallenstein

A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home, Through the crowded paths of the world to roam And the green leaves whispered, as he passed, "Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast? "Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here, Long wouldst thou linger in douot and fear; Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours, Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wid flowers.

"Under the arch by our mingling made, Thou and thy brother have gaily played;

*"Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce, into mid-Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, battle against the Moors of Spain.

But as ye have met there-oh! never more!"

On rode the youth-and the boughs among,
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung:
"Wherefore so fast unto life away?
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!

"Thou mayst come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain;
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell—
A change must pass o'er thee-farewell, farewell!"

On rode the youth:-and the founts and streams
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams:
"We have been thy playmates through many
day,

Wherefore thus leave us?-oh! yet delay!

"Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee 't is a melody passing from earth.
Never again wilt thou find in its flow,
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.
"Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.
"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part-
What should it do for a burning heart?
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill,
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.
"Farewell!-when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tell—
Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!"
And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed,
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!

THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.

The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray,
And more beloved existence; that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage.

Byron.

COME to me with your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought!

I sit alone with flowers and vernal boughs,
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought;
'Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone!

Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed

With life, and love, and many a burning word, That bursts from grief, like lightning from a cloud,

And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.

Come to me! visit my dim haunt!--the sound
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath;
The stock-dove's note above; and all around,
The poesy that with the violet's breath
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams,
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams.
Friends, friends!-for such to my lone heart ye

are

Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes The glory melts not as a waning star,

And the sweet kindness never, never dies; Bright children of the bard! o'er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell! Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending

In patient grief, a smiling with a sigh;"*
And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending

That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky;
Thou of the soft low voice!-thou art not gone!
Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.
And come to me!-sing me thy willow-strain,

Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain,
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies;
Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn,
As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne.

And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here, That well might win thy footsteps to the spotPale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier,

And pansies for sad thoughts,t-but needed not! Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light In that wild eye still tremulously bright.

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining

All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, The soul its nightingales pour forth in song! Thou, making death deep joy!-but couldst thou die?

No!-thy young love hath immortality!

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn,
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone;
But ye, the children of the soul, were born
Deathless, and for undying love alone;
And, oh! ye beautiful! 't is well, how well,
In the soul's world, with you, where change is not,
to dwell!

THE LYRE'S LAMENT.

A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth melancholy music to the wind-but no human being was one seen.-Salathiel

A DEEP-TONED Lyre hung murmuring To the wild wind of the sea: "O melancholy wind," it sighed,

"What would thy breath with me?

"Thou canst not wake the spirit

That in me slumbering lies,

Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire Of buried melodies.

"Wind of the dark sea-waters!

Thou dost but sweep my strings

Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.

"But the spell-the gift-the lightning-
Within my frame concealed,
Must I moulder on the rock away,

With their triumphs unrevealed?

"I have power, high power, for freedom To wake the burning soul!

I have sounds that through the ancient hills Like a torrent's voice might roll.

"I have pealing notes of victory

That might welcome kings from war; I have rich deep tones to send the wail For a hero's death afar.

"I have chords to lift the pæan From the temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons

When sweeping winds are high.

"And Love-for Love's lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violet's faint farewell:

"Soft-spiritual-mournfulSighs in each note enshrined

But who shall call that sweetness forth? Thou canst not, ocean-wind!

"I pass without my glory, Forgotten I decay

Where is the touch to give me life? Will fitful wind, away!"

So sighed the broken music

That in gladness had no part

How like art thou, neglected Lyre, To many a human heart!

TASSO'S CORONATION.*

A crown of victory! a triumphal song'
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest:
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony!

A TRUMPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky,

Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory;

There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial streets along,

For again a conqueror must be crowned,—a kingly child of song:

Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
'Midst the joy of Rome.

A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far,

To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;

A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers,

To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gemlike showers.

Peace! within his chamber

Low the mighty lies;

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.

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