Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,

With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;

With all the Elysian hues

Thy pathway that suffuse,

With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!"

A SONG OF THE ROSE

"Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace

All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno

D'una stagion volubile e fugace;

E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo,

Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace,

Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno."-METASTASIO.

ROSE! what dost thou here,

Bridal, royal rose?

How, midst grief and fear,

Canst thou thus disclose

That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows?

Rose! too much arrayed

For triumphal hours,

Look'st thou through the shade

Of these mortal bowers,

Not to disturb my soul, thou crowned one of all flowers?

As an eagle soaring

Through a sunny sky,

As a clarion pouring

Notes of victory,

So dost thou kindle thoughts for earthly life too high:

A SONG OF THE ROSE

207

Thoughts of rapture, flushing

Youthful poet's cheek;
Thoughts of glory, rushing

Forth in song to break,

But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak.

Yet, O festal rose !

I have seen thee lying

In thy bright repose

Pillowed with the dying,

Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood was flying.

Summer, hope, and love

O'er that bed of pain

Met in thee, yet wove

Too, too frail a chain

In its embracing links the lovely to detain.

Smilest thou, gorgeous flower?
Oh! within the spells

Of thy beauty's power,

Something dimly dwells,

At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.

All the soul forth flowing

In that rich perfume,
All the proud life glowing

In that radiant bloom

Have they no place but here, beneath the o'ershadowing tomb?

Crown'st thou but the daughters

Of our tearful race?

Heaven's own purest waters

Well might wear the trace

Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee
With immortal air?

Shall we not behold thee

Bright and deathless there,

In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair?

Yes! my fancy sees thee

In that light disclose,

And its dream thus frees thee

From the mist of woes,

Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal royal rose !

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.

"Music! why thy power employ

Only for the sons of joy?

Only for the smiling guests

At natal for at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour

On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whispered air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair!"

WARTON from EURIPIDES.

BRING music! stir the brooding air

With an ethereal breath!

Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED

Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,

When my weaned heart hath said farewell,
And passed the gates of strife.

Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!

But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Filled with the soul of prayer!
Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain,
And trembling hope be there.

Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound.

A passion unto music given,

A sweet, yet piercing cry;
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?

Can all which crowds on earth's last hour
No fuller language find?

Away! and hush the feeble song,

And let the chord be stilled!

Far in another land ere long
My dream shall be fulfilled.

A

209

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE

["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 career in arms. 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 stirrup his 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 nigh,
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.