MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE

career in arms.

["I CAME upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin -a plain, quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious He fell here, at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle-his foot in the iron stirruphis fingers reined the young war-horse to the last." Notes and

Reflections during a Ramble into Germany.]

THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;

Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast,
Thy long bright years had sped ;

And a warrior's bier was thine at last,

When the snows had crowned thy head.

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.

The soldier's heart at thy step leapt high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigl.
Wert thou, the bold and true.

Now may'st thou slumber-thy work is done

Thou of the well-worn sword!

From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,

But not to the festal board.

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flowed:

O lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couched in a still abode.

A quiet home from the noon-day's glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast-

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Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair, To win thee but this at last?

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE

O JOY of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fallen in thy golden honey-time!
Thou whose wavy shadows

Long and long ago

Screened our gray forefathers

From the noontide's glow;

Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touched with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets

Wrapt in fairy dreams.

O tree of our fathers! O hallowed tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey

As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove

Build again her nest?

She so long the inmate

Of thy fragrant breast!

But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee !

These may yet find coverts

Leafy and profound,

Full of dewy dimness,

Odour, and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,

When shall they be gathered

Round another tree?

O pride of our fathers! O hallowed tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee !

THE BIRD AT SEA

BIRD of the greenwood!
Oh, why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.

All the sweet waters

Far hence are at play-
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

Where the mast quivers
Thy place will not be,
As midst the waving
Of wild-rose and tree.

FAR AWAY

How shouldst thou battle

With storm and with spray?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind

Vine leaves are fanned?

Midst the wild billows

Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

"Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;

A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark -

A heart that hath cherished

Through winter's long day:
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!"

FAR away!

-

FAR AWAY

my home is far away,

Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,

Midst the flowers my sister sings once more,
Far away!

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Far away!

my dreams are far away,

When at midnight stars and shadows reign:" "Gentle child!" my mother seems to say,

"Follow me where home shall smile again,
Far away!"

Far away! - my hope is far away,

Where love's voice young gladness may restore.
O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!

KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH
MOTHER OVER HER SON

[THIS lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]

DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son!
Silent and dark!

There is blood upon the threshold

Whence thy step went forth at morn

Like a dancer's in its fleetness,

O my bright first-born!

At the glad sound of that footstep
My heart within me smiled;
Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!