THE GUERILLA LEADER'S vow. I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor, The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood, Bore witness that wild night; The stars, the searching stars of heaven, With keen looks would upbraid, If from my heart the fiery vow, They have no cause!-Go, ask the streams The red waves that unstain'd were born- And other eyes are on my soul, The sad, sweet glances of the lost They leave me no repose. 51 Haunting my night-watch 'midst the rocks, Alas! the mountain eagle's heart, But I-your soft looks wake the thirst Ye drive me back, my beautiful! THE RETURN. "HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? The free, the pure, the kind?" -So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, As they play'd to the mountain-wind. "Hath thy soul been true to its early love?" Whisper'd my native streams; "Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?" "Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Of the child in his parent-halls?” -Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, THE RETURN. "Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, Whose place of rest is nigh? With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, -Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, I bring not my childhood's heart again "I have turned from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring's glorious dreams. 53 "And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd— The prayer at my mother's knee; Darken'd and troubled I come at last, Home of my boyish glee! "But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone; And oh! ye scenes of those blessed years, 5* THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE. Thither where he lies buried! That single spot is the whole world to me. COLERIDGE's Wallenstein. THY voice was in my soul! it call'd me on: Now speak to me again! we loved so well- Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom! This lone, full, fragile heart!-the strong alone 1See Wallenstein, Act 6. THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE. I hear the rustling banners; and I hear 55 The winds low singing through the fretted stone? I hear not thee; and yet I feel thee near What is this bound that keeps thee from thine own? Breathe it away! I wait thee-I adjure thee! hast thou known Thou canst not come! or thus I should not weep! But I shall come to thee! our souls' deep dreams, Our young affections, have not gush'd in vain ; Soon in one tide shall blend the sever'd streams, The worn heart break its bonds-and death and pain Be with the past! |