The cottage homes of England! THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. WHY do I weep?-to leave the vine A thousand thoughts of all things dear I leave thee, sister! we have play'd Through many a joyous hour, Where the silvery green of the olive shade Have been as we may be no more Kind sister, let me weep! I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, Lay tones of love so deep, Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiledI leave thee! let me weep! Mother! I leave thee! on thy breas Pouring out joy and wo, I have found that holy place of rest Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain, THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, There woman's voice flows forth in song, That breathes from Sabbath-hours! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! And bright the flowery sod, THE HOUR OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set,-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer: But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, Is it when spring's first gale Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?— Thou art where billows foam, Thou art around us in our peaceful home, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beats down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. "And none did love him,-not his lemans dear,But pomp and power alone are woman's care; And where these are, light Eros finds a frere." No mistress of the hidden skill, Went up by night to heath or hill, Of vine-encircled France Her philosophic glance: "I bind thee with a spell," said she, "I sign thee with a sign; No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine! "And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek Is colourless and cold, Nor that thine eye is slow to speak Hath caught its fire from bliss; And while the young stars shine, No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine! "And 't is not that thy spirit, awed By beauty's numbing spell, BYRON. Shrinks from the force or from the fraud For thou hast learn'd to watch and wake, What we must still deny; I cannot tell the charm was wrought "Yet thine the brightest smile shall be Friendship, oh! such as saints in heaven If she shall meet thee in the bower, Oh! wear the ring, and guard the flower,- "Go, set thy boat before the blast, The haven shall be reach'd at last, And patriot hands shall sound applause, Go, dig the diamond from the wave, "I charm thee from the agony From doubt, and from disdain; Be thou from woman's love as free THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd; And the heavy night hung dark When a band of exiles moor'd their bark Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came, Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, They shook the depths of the desert's gloom Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam, There were men with hoary hair Lit by her deep love's truth; What sought they thus afar? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?- Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God! BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh, break my father's chain!" Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this day; Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see.' His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went; He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took, What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? "I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet, I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met, Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee my fields were won, And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead! "Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this! The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-gave answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! "Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,— Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, That hand was cold—a frozen thing—it dropp'd Thou canst not-and a king?-His dust be moun from his like lead, He look'd up to the face above-the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow-the brow was fix'd and white; He met at last his father's eyes-but in them was no sight! Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. "Father!” at length he murmur'd low, and wept like childhood then, Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought of all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown, He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. tains on thy head!" He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,-upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look-then turn'd from that sad place: His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain, His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. WHAT secret current of man's nature turns Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star, darkly mournful brow, "No more, there is no more," he said, “to lift the sword for now.— Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain. KINDRED HEARTS. On! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below; Few are the hearts whence one same touch Such ties would make this life of ours It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns: It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone, A rapture o'er thy soul can bring— A dream, to his unknown. The tune that speaks of other times,— The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night; Yet scorn thou not for this, the true If there be one that o'er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart! But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade Never to mortals given,- HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRIS TIAN. For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Thou hast made thy children mighty Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! We are watchers of a beacon Whose lights must never die; We are guardians of an altar Midst the silence of the sky; The rocks yield founts of courage, Struck forth as by thy rod, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, For the dark, resounding heavens, For the storms on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad,— For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master Seeks there his wild delights; But we for thy communion Have sought the mountain sod,- The banner of the chieftain Can not reach our lofty caves; Of freedom's last abode; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! For the shadow of thy presence Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead; For the snows, and for the torrents, WASHINGTON'S STATUE. YES! rear thy guardian hero's form For all things good shall plead. Shall pour o'er chainless earth. And let that work of England's hand, Sent through the blast and surge's roar, So girt with tranquil glory, stand For ages on thy shore! Such through all time the greetings be, That with the Atlantic billow sweeps! Telling the mighty and the free Of brothers o'er the deep! |