Were there not friends with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh? And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the glazing eye?
A peasant girl that royal head
Upon her bosom laid,
And shrinking not for woman's dread,
The face of death surveyed.
Alone she sat from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood-
Treason its worst had done.
With her long hair she vainly pressed
The wounds, to stanch their tide-
Unknown, on that meek humble breast,
Imperial Albert died!
"Umile in tanta gloria."-PETRARCH.
IF it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius called too soon away,
Of light from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day—
How shall our grief, if mournful these things be,
Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee!
Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in every word
Wont from thy lip as Hermon's dew to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burned—
Of heaven they were, and thither have returned.
How shall we mourn thee? With a lofty trust,
Our life's immortal birthright from above!
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,
And yet can weep !—for nature thus deplores
The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.
And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture, be allowed!
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,
Not to decay, but unto death hast bowed,
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won.
Praise for yet one more name with power endowed
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;
Yet one more image on the heart bestowed
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!
Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led!
"WHY wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall-
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams."
"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know.
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!"
"Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell-
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune,
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard."
"Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree
To the babe half slumbering on her knee
I dreamt last night of that music low-
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!"
"Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest-
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye."
"Is my mother gone from her home away?
But I know that my brothers are there at play-
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flowLady, kind lady! oh, let me go!"
"Fair child thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow;
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot."
"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?—
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow-
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!"
BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
"We have swept o'er cities in song renownedSilent they lie with the deserts round!
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-trees or monarch's dome."
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ?-
"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt-
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!"
O joyous birds! it hath still been so ;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep :
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last we parted from that sweet spot?
"A change we have found there-and many a change! Faces and footsteps, and all things strange !
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were have a brow of care,
And the place is hushed where the children played — Naught looks the same save the nest we made!"
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have passed-
So may we reach our bright home at last!
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