AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.
(AIR.—STEVENSON.)
Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1]
The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb—
The glory of the Lord is on thee!
Arise—the Gentiles to thy ray,
From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]
Lift up thine eyes around, and see
O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]
And camels rich, from Midians' tents,
Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]
See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5]
Are gathering from all earth's dominions,
Like doves, long absent, when allowed
Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.
Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6]
The ships of Tarshish round will hover,
To bring thy sons across the sea,
And waft their gold and silver over.
And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]—
The fir, the pine, the palm victorious
Shall beautify our Holy Place,
And make the ground I tread on glorious.
No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8]
Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;
But thou shalt call thy portal Praise,
And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.
The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9]
Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;
But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,
And flash eternal glory thro' thee.
Thy sun shall never more go down;
A ray from heaven itself descended
Shall light thy everlasting crown—
Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]
My own, elect, and righteous Land!
The Branch, for ever green and vernal,
Which I have planted with this hand—
Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]
[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee."—Isaiah, xl.
[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising."—Isaiah, xl.
[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side."—Isaiah, lx.
[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense."—Ib.
[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their windows?"—Ib.
[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them."—Ib.
[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."—Ib.
[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.—Isaiah, lx.
[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."—Ib.
[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down…for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."—Ib.
[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."—Ib.
THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.
(AIR.—CRESCENTINI.)
There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary—
What may that Desert be?
'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come
Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.
There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies—
Who may that Pilgrim be?
'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.
There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing—
What may that Fountain be?
'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.
There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell—
Who may that Spirit be?
'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er
Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!
SINCE FIRST THY WORD.
(AIR.—NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)
Since first Thy Word awaked my heart,
Like new life dawning o'er me,
Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,
All light and love before me.
Naught else I feel, or hear or see—
All bonds of earth I sever—
Thee, O God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
Like him whose fetters dropt away
When light shone o'er his prison,[1]
My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray,
Hath from her chains arisen.
And shall a soul Thou bidst be free,
Return to bondage?—never!
Thee, O God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison…and his chains fell off from his hands."—Acts, xii. 7.
HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.
(AIR.—ROUSSEAU.)
Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling;
Earth's weary children to repose;
While, round the couch of Nature falling,
Gently the night's soft curtains close.
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,
Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining
From out the veils that hid the Ark.
Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,
Thou who in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,
Our souls awhile from life withdrawn
May in their darkness stilly, purely,
Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.
WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?
(AIR.—HASSE.)
Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?
Thro' what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits,
Or hope to dwell with you there?
Sages! who even in exploring
Nature thro' all her bright ways,
Went like the Seraphs adoring,
And veiled your eyes in the blaze—
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
Truths you had sown in your blood—
Sinners! whom, long years of weeping
Chastened from evil to good—
Maidens! who like the young Crescent,
Turning away your pale brows
From earth and the light of the Present,
Looked to your Heavenly Spouse—
Say, thro' what region enchanted
Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air?
Say, to what spirits 'tis granted,
Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?
HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.
(AIR—ANONYMOUS.)
How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
Whose theme is in the skies—
Like morning larks that sweeter sing
The nearer Heaven they rise,
Tho' love his magic lyre may tune,
Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes,
Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,
Whose madness in their ode breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute,
Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
And palm that never dies.
Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be.,
Most welcome to the hero's ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.
How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn like Saints above,
No victor but the Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!
GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,
(AIR.—STEVENSON.)
Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1]
And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come!
From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,
Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth,
In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale—
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!
Bring myrtle and palm—bring the boughs of each tree
That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4]
From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone
With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide,
Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]—
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! etc.—Neh. viii. 15.
[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."— Ib. 17.
[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."—Josh. x. 12.
[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."
—Neh. viii. 15.
[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."—Josh. iii. 17.
IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.
(AIR.—HAYDN.)
Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the Spirit leaves this sphere.
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her
To those she long hath mourned for here?
Hearts from which 'twas death to sever.
Eyes this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.
When wearily we wander, asking
Of earth and heaven, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,
Blest and thinking bliss would stay?
Hope still lifts her radiant finger
Pointing to the eternal Home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come.
Alas, alas—doth Hope deceive us?
Shall friendship—love—shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,
Be found again where nothing dies?
Oh, if no other boon were given,
To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a Heaven
Where all we love shall live again?
WAR AGAINST BABYLON.
(AIR.—NOVELLO.)
"War against Babylon!" shout we around,
Be our banners through earth unfurled;
Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound—
"War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world!
Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1]
Thy day of pride is ended now;
And the dark curse of Israel's daughters
Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow!
War, war, war against Babylon!
Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2]
Set the standard of God on high;
Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields.
"Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry!
Woe! woe!—the time of thy visitation[3]
Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast—
And the black surge of desolation
Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last!
War, war, war against Babylon!
[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters…thine end is come."—Jer. li. 13.
[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields…set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon"—Jer. li. 11, 12.
[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!"—Jer. l. 27.
A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.
ADVERTISEMENT.
These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.
With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, monopoly." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.
T.M.
MELOLOGUE
A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.
There breathes a language known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.
From those meridian plains,
Where oft, of old, on some high tower
The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains,
And called his distant love with such sweet power,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1]
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
Gayly as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow;
Oh Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea
To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee!
[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"—"Garcilasso de la Véga," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.
GREEK AIR
List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from Ilissus' silvery springs,
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;
And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return;
When Athens nurst her olive bough
With hands by tyrant power unchained;
And braided for the muse's brow
A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.
When heroes trod each classic field
Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!
FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.
Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wakening ears!—
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valor's fever at the sound.
See, from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:
A conqueror oft—a hero never—
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
And gushed forever!
Yes, Music, here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.—
There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks
Of his own loved land, at evening hour,
Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,
Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind
With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees
The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye
With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wandered from his hut for scenes like these.
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;
Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears;
And the stern eyes that looked for blood before
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.
SWISS AIR.—"RANZ DES VACHES."
But wake, the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,
And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man awaking
From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.
SPANISH CHORUS.
Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air;
And seems in every note to swear
By Saragossa's ruined streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.
SPANISH AIR.—"YA DESPERTO."
But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,
If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right—
What song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remembered well
Of ardor quenched, and honor faded?
What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin, Thine!
SET OF GLEES,
MUSIC BY MOORE.
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
When o'er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we've cheerless gone,
Oh they who've felt it know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet.
Sparkling at once is every eye,
"Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry;
While answering back the sounds we hear,
"Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what…cheer?
Then sails are backed, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.
HIP, HIP, HURRA!
Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,
He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;
Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,
Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine
Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;
Here's "the friends of our youth—tho' of some we're bereft,
May the links that are lost but endear what are left!"
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Once more fill a bumper—ne'er talk of the hour;
On hearts thus united old Time has no power.
May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night,
They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run
Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one;
Here's the poet who sings—here's the warrior who fights—
Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Come, once more, a bumper!—then drink as you please,
Tho', who could fill half-way to toast such as these?
Here's our next joyous meeting—and oh when we meet,
May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
HUSH, HUSH!
"Hush, hush!"—how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
Whisper, "Hush, hush!"
"Hark, hark, 'tis he!"
The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by;
But if his silvery feet
One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
Whispering, "Hush, hush!"
THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.
HE.
On to the field, our doom is sealed,
To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
Or set upon our graves.
SHE.
Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
To bring thee back to me.
HE.
On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.
THE WATCHMAN.
A TRIO.
WATCHMAN.
Past twelve o'clock—past twelve.
Good night, good night, my dearest—
How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.
WATCHMAN.
Past one o'clock—past one.
Yet stay a moment longer—
Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more 'tis time to go?
WATCHMAN.
Past two o'clock—past two.
Now wrap thy cloak about thee—
The hours must sure go wrong,
For when they're past without thee,
They're, oh, ten times as long.
WATCHMAN.
Past three o'clock—past three.
Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, 'tis morning—
So now, indeed, good night.
WATCHMAN.
Past three o'clock—past three.
Goodnight, good night.
SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Thro' bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?
Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from every shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread,
Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that's raised by who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound
Like dreams we go gliding around,
Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?
THE EVENING GUN.
Remember'st thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!—the sounds appeared to sweep
Far o'er the verge of day,
Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!—and while, o'er billows curled.
The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
Like them to die away.
LEGENDARY BALLADS.
TO
THE MISS FEILDINGS,
THIS VOLUME
IS INSCRIBED
BY
THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,
THOMAS MOORE.
LEGENDARY BALLADS
THE VOICE.
It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.
"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat!
"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.
"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"
She sunk on her pillow—but no, 'twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement—but, husht as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.
"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said,
"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!"
And sleep came around her—but, starting, she woke,
For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!
"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may,
"On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;"
Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast
And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.
Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone;
And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on;
But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore,
None ever could tell, for she came back no more.
No, ne'er came she back,—but the watchman who stood,
That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood,
Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray,
A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.
CUPID AND PSYCHE.
They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened
Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;—
Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened,
And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.
"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth,
"Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies;
"And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth,
"Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"
Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing,
When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light;
And saw—such a vision!—no image, appearing
To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.
A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning,
While round him still lingered its innocent ray;
Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning
Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.
His brow had a grace more than mortal around it,
While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine,
His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it
Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.
Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing,
What late was but love is idolatry now;
But, ah—in her tremor the fatal lamp raising—
A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.
All's lost—with a start from his rosy sleep waking;
The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire;
Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking,
Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:
"Farewell—what a dream thy suspicion hath broken!
"Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost;
"Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken,
"And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"
HERO AND LEANDER.
"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh,
"There gleameth no moon in the misty sky
"No star over Helle's sea;
"Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light,
"One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night,
"To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"
Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream,
Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam
No eye but a lover's could see;
And still, as the surge swept over his head,
"To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead,
"Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"
But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed;
Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need,
Where, where could thy Spirit be?
He struggles—he sinks—while the hurricane's breath
Bears rudely away his last farewell in death—
"Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"
THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.
"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
"So may the stars obey thee
"So may each airy
"Moon-elf and fairy
"Nightly their homage pay thee!
"Say, by what spell, above, below,
"In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
"I may discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me, or no,
"Whether my love loves me."
"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
"Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
"Its stem enchanted.
"By moon-elves planted,
"Will all thou seek'st supply thee.
"Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,
"Bring thence their fairest leaf below;
"And thou'lt discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether thy love loves thee or no,
"Whether thy love loves thee."
"See, up the dark tree going,
"With blossoms round me blowing,
"From thence, oh Father,
"This leaf I gather,
"Fairest that there is growing.
"Say, by what sign I now shall know
"If in this leaf lie bliss or woe
"And thus discover
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me or no,
"Whether my love loves me."
"Fly to yon fount that's welling
"Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling,
"Dip in its water
"That leaf, oh Daughter,
"And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1]
"Watch thou if pale or bright it glow,
"List thou, the while, that fountain's flow,
"And thou'lt discover
"Whether thy lover,
"Loved as he is, loves thee or no,
"Loved as he is, loves thee."
Forth flew the nymph, delighted,
To seek that fount benighted;
But, scarce a minute
The leaf lay in it,
When, lo, its bloom was blighted!
And as she asked, with voice of woe—
Listening, the while, that fountain's flow—
"Shall I recover
"My truant lover?"
The fountain seemed to answer, "No;"
The fountain answered, "No."
[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.
CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.
A hunter once in that grove reclined,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh,
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?"
While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"
But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?
"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,
"I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,
While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"
Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie;—
"I die, I die," was all she said,
While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"
YOUTH AND AGE.
"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crest his way.—
"It is a sunny hour of play,
"For which repentance dear doth pay;
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love, as wise men say."
"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.—
"Soft as a passing summer's wind,
"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love—when love is o'er."
"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.
"Sweet as a May tree's scented air—
"Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,
"Repentance! Repentance!
"This, this is Love—sweet Youth, beware."
Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance's ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
"Repentance! Repentance!"
Youth laughing went with Love away.
THE DYING WARRIOR.
A wounded Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,
"Oh! bear, thou foaming tide.
"This gift to my lady-bride."
'Twas then, in life's last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,
Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!
With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stood,
To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.
But, field, alas, ill-fated!
The lady saw, instead
Of the bark whose speed she waited,
Her hero's scarf, all red
With the drops his heart had shed.
One shriek—and all was over—
Her life-pulse ceased to beat;
The gloomy waves now cover
That bridal-flower so sweet.
And the scarf is her winding sheet!
THE MAGIC MIRROR.
"Come, if thy magic Glass have power
"To call up forms we sigh to see;
"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
"Where last she pledged her truth to me."
The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,
"She's thinking of one, who is far away."
But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,
"Who used to guide me to my dear."
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she
"Each morning sent me from that bower!"
She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"
"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,
"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."
But the page returns, and—oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!—
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!
"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.
MORAL.
Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.
THE PILGRIM.
Still thus, when twilight gleamed,
Far off his Castle seemed,
Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him.
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye;
And thought his home was nigh.
"Hall of my Sires!" he said,
"How long, with weary tread,
"Must I toil on?
"Each eve, as thus I wander,
"Thy towers seem rising yonder,
"But, scarce hath daylight shone,
"When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"
So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
Day after day;
That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning's ray,
Melting, like mist, away!
Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
Closed his career;
That dream, of fancy's weaving,
No more his steps deceiving,
Alike past hope and fear,
The Pilgrim's home is here.