Midst the young leaves are heardThere-lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her-
Now may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:

Low on sweet nature's breast
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep, and still!

Murmur, glad waters! by;
Faint gales with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where on a gentle head

Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind?

Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew
Thence in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow;

And o'er that holy earth

Scents of the violet's birth

Still come and go !

Oh! then, where wild flowers wave, Make ye her mossy grave,

MIGNON'S SONG

In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird

Midst the young leaves are heard-
There-lay her there!

MIGNON'S SONG

185

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE

[MIGNON, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and break forth into the following song.]

"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?"

KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold orange lights the dusky grove?

High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,

And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove.
Know'st thou it well?

There, there, with thee,
O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know'st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes

To say 'Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?'
Know'st thou it well?

There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee!

Know'st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung,
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way;
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among,

O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray.
Know'st thou it well?

With thee, with thee,

There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND

HARK from the dim church-tower,
The deep slow Curfew's chime !—
A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheered the board with the mirthful word,

And the red wine's foaming flow;

Until that sullen boding knell,

Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then

In the wild-deer's forest far!
No cottage lamp to the haunts of men
Might guide him, as a star.

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND

187

And woe for him whose wakeful soul,

With lone aspirings filled,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were stilled!

And yet a deeper woe

For the watcher by the bed,

Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!

For the mother, doomed unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,

And to feel its sleeping pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!

Darkness in peasant's cot!

While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flowed like rain,
Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high

Till the red light fills the room!
It is Home's own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth!

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days.

THE CALL TO BATTLE

"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne'er might be repeated."- BYRON.

THE Vesper-bell from church and tower
Had sent its dying sound;

And the household in the hush of eve
Were met their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet's power—

"We rise on all our hills! Come forth! 'tis thy country's gathering-hour.

There's a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell:

Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!"

66

Then the father gave his son the sword

Which a hundred fights had seen

'Away! and bear it back, my boy,

All that it still hath been!"

'Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand

The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land? Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion's blast,

With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages

past."