SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL. "It may be deep amidst heavy chains, I have slow dull steps and lingering pains, "Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest, But the Cross is bound upon my breast, 175 "Sound, clarion, sound!-for my vows are given 1 SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL. OH! if thou wilt not give thine heart, For if in thine I have no part, Why should mine dwell with thee?1 Yet no! this mournful love of mine, Let me but dream 'twill win me thine, Can aught so fond, so faithful, live Through years without reply? -Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give, Give me a thought, a sigh! The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the German. TO THE MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY, SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE, AND LAMENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE. "Time cannot teach forgetfulness, When grief's full heart is fed by fame." BYRON. THOU should'st have slept beneath the stately pines, Yet to thy name a noble rite was given, Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave, Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave: And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, With all that sanctifies the inspiring air. Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep, But a bright memory claims a proud regret- THE BROKEN CHAIN. Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet, 177 Whose soul can number with love's holy things, A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot, A gem is hers, laid up where change is not. THE BROKEN CHAIN. I AM free! I have burst through my galling chain, The life of young eagles is mine again; I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, I may rove where the wind roves-my path is free! The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,— And is not my spirit as one of these? Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain? But must thou not mingle with throngs the more? The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, May the fiery word from thy lip find way, May the care that sits in thy weary breast No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn; No! thou art chain'd till thy race is run, On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be- THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER. "La voilà telle que la mort nous l'a faite." Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment. osities of Literature. Curi THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER. "TWAS a dream of olden days, That Art, by some strange power From the ashes of a flower. That a shadow of the rose, By its own meck beauty bow'd, Or the hyacinth, to grace, For the glory of the bloom That a flush around it shed, And the soul within, the rich perfume, Nought but the dim faint line To speak of vanish'd hours- Shadows of buried flowers! 179 LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. CREATURE of air and light! Emblem of that which will not fade or die! Wilt thou not speed thy flight, To chase the south wind through the glowing sky? |