On all her hills awakening to rejoice, Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean wave, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts be- Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light! THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Where's the coward that would not dare The stately Homes of England, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Of breeze and leaf are born. The Cottage Homes of England! As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England! THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. I have dreamt thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness; afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, THE champions had come from their fields of war, They had brought back the spoils of a hundred Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars. They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured, And the swan glides past them with the sound And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England! Around their hearths by night, There woman's voice flows forth in song, The blessed Homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath-hours! The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme, But the swell was gone from the quivering string, Lonely she stood:-in her mournful eyes Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine. And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, Stately she stood-though her fragile frame Seemed struck with the blight of some inward flame, And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, Under the waves of her dark hair worn. And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze, She had been torn from her home away, They bade her sing of her distant land— Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow, "They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee! It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home, And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their cloudless dome, And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore, And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no more. "And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who may dream or tell, Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves, And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves; The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath, And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath. "And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day, Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away! They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas, They mingle with the orange-scents that load the Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there ;—it were sleepy breeze; a bliss to die, Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn-As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Si ful-sounding sea? Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?-in silence let me die, In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy pure deep sapphire sky; How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth? Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north? "Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit shall awake, And through the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake! That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light, And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight! Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by, Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my Sicily! cily! "I may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no! Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so! My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main, And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again. Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet chain-I come air, my home!" And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre For her head sank back on the rugged wall,— "There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence! A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall; but oh! their glorious blue! Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue! She had poured out her soul with her song's last tone; The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone! IVAN THE CZAR. "Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assiégoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL. Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss Ihn wieder haben! Tros lose allmacht, Die nicht einmal in Gráber ihren arm Verlängern, eine kleine Ubereilung Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann! He sat in silence on the ground, The old and haughty Czar; Lonely, though princes girt him round, And leaders of the war: He had cast his jewelled sabre, That many a field had won, To the earth beside his youthful dead, His fair and first-born son. With a robe of ermine for its bed, Was laid that form of clay, Where the light a stormy sunset shed, Through the rich tent made way: And a sad and solemn beauty Schiller. On the pallid face came down, Low tones at last of wo and fear How then the proud man spoke! Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, "There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath, I call thee, and dost thou not speak- For the honour of thy father's name, CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast, Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! 'Tis well thou shouldst depart. A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sear leaf's trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. • Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." But thou art sent For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind's low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily And the woods—but they hear not thee! Long have I striven With my deep foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, With a bridal white-rose wreath,- Fair art thou Morna! Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful roundBut soon it must be still! Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie, Make not the strength of love thy trust, A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow That my hand for thee hath tried, Young art thou, Morna! A spirit hath been shed! Through nature's awful heart- Yet shall I weep? I know that in thy breast Too powerful for thy rest! And the chill of this world's breathGo, all undimmed, in thy glory go! Young and crowned bride of death! Take hence to heaven Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track, This parting should not be! But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee! The ivy of its ruins; unto which There was a burst of tears around the bard: And spring returned, His fading life seemed bound. Day rolled on day, As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke THE MOURNER FOR THE BARME-Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak CIDES. O good old man! how well in thee appears As You Like It. FALLEN was the House of Giafar; and its name, Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, "Twas desolate Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, Was there the fountain's; through those eastern Over the broken marble and the grass, And still another voice!-an aged man, Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine forth. Was it to sue for grace?-his burning heart "And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave, With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave? What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land?— I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band! that "My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes, That bore your children in his arms, your name Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart? "It shall not be!-a thousand tongues, though human voice were still, With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill; The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wandering seeds are sown, And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and thrilling tone. "For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves expires, And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires; It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword, It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in bless ings poured. |