Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Miscellaneous Poems.

[blocks in formation]

And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the
rose,

To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers,
wild flowers!

Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!

rolled

Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
-Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
-Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless
gloom,

They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth!
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,

A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose
burst,

For this in the woods was the violet nursed.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale
flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in
prayer,

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! They are nature's offering, their place is there! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown

But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery
crown,

--Yet must thou hear a voice-restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
-Restore the dead, thon sea!

BRING FLOWERS.

BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
'lo wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured;
Bring flowers: they are springing in wood and
vale,

Their breath floats out on the southern gale,

They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright
flowers!

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

"Alas! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair,
She had not known her child."

Marmion

REST, pilgrim, rest!-thou 'rt from the Syrian land
Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous cast I know

By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part,
So full of hope, for that far country's bourne!
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return!

Thou weep'st-I tremble-thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain
Where hosts have met--speak! answer!-was he
there?

Oh! hath his smile departed?-Could the grave
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?

Thou 'rt faint-stay, rest thee from thy toils at -No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave-last,

Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the
breeze,

The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is passed,
The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou 'rt faint and worn-hear'st thou the foun-
tain welling

[ocr errors]

By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine?
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling?
-He that hath left me trained that loaded vine!

He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood's time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade-the convent's vesper-chime.
And sit thou there!-for he was gentle ever;
With his glad voice he would have welcomed
thee,

And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched lips'

fever

-There in his place thou 'rt resting-where is he?

If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again!-how oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remembered strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody!
-Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou

seen

In that far land, the chosen land of yore,
A youth-my Guido-with the fiery mien,
And the dark eye of this Italian shore?

That look gives hope-I knew it could not be!

Still weep'st thou, wanderer?-some fond mother's
glance

O'er thee too brooded in thine early years-
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!-what art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up!—oh ! is it—that wan cheek and brow!—
Is it--alas! yet joy !-my son, my son!

[blocks in formation]

ASK'ST thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know,

When from thine eye my floating shadow passed?

The dark, clear, lightning eye!-on Heaven and Was not my work fulfilled and closed below?

earth

Had I not lived and loved?—my lot was cast.

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That melting into song her soul away,

Gave the spring-breeze what witched thee in its
tone?

It smiled-as if man were not dust-it smiled!
The very air seemed kindling with his mirth,
And I-my heart grew young before my child!
My blessed child!-I had but him-yet he
Filled ali my home e'en with o'erflowing joy,
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free--But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!
-Where is he now ?—my pride, my flower, my boy!

His sunny childhood melted from my sight,
Like a spring dew-drop-then his forehead wore
A prouder look-his eye a keener light-
-I knew these woods might be his world no more!
He loved me-but he left me!-thus they go,
Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too much
adored!

He heard the trumpet of the red-cross blow,

And bounded from me with his father's sword!

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found?
-Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,
Where nought again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.

There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest,
If as our love thy love is pure and true!
There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursu

• Wallenstein.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

RING, joyous chords!-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!

They are here-the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
-But I met a dimly mournful glance,

In a sudden turn of the flying dance;

I heard the tone of heavy sigh,

In a pause of the thrilling melody!

And it is not well that wo should breathe

On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!
-Ye that to thought or to grief belong,

Leave, leave the hall of song!

Ring, joyous chords!--but who art thou

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies

In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?

I know thee!-it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst

shun,

For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou--there's a dark weight on thine-away:
-Back to thy home and pray!

Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!

And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On through the maze of the fleet dance, on!
-But where are the young and the lovely?-
gone!

Where are the brows with the red rose crowned,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet!
-They are gone-they are fled-they are parted
all-

-Alas! the forsaken hall!

THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. SLEEP 'midst thy banners furled! Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying,

-Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, well!

Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!-yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!

There is not a tone in our songs for thee-
-Home with thy sorrows flee!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!

Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the

world!

Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast-
-Oh! strong is night-for thou too art at rest!

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow,

And now might love keep timid vigils by thee.
Now night the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh
thee,

Alike unconscious and defenceless thou!
Tread lightly, watchers!-now the field is won,
Break not the rest of nature's weary son!

But what dost thou with the Revel's train? A silvery voice through the soft air floats, But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes; There are bright young faces that pass thee by, But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye! Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast, Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest? Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, And the love of thy spirit is with the dead! Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth-Dream on, thou Conqueror !-be a child again!

-Back to thy silent hearth!

Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again!

A swifter still, and a wilder strain !

[ocr errors]

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,

Perchance some lovely dream
Back from thy stormy fight thy soul is bearing,
To the green places of thy boyish daring,
And all the windings of thy native stream;
-Why, this were joy!-upon the tented plain,

But thou wilt wake at morn,

With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping,
And thy dark troubled thoughts, all earth o'er-
sweeping,

And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine,So wilt thou rise, oh! thou of woman born!
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, Look upon thee-the tired one, slumbering there!

Why, so the peasant sleeps

Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low,

Beneath his vine!-and man must kncel before And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now!

[blocks in formation]

OUR LADY'S WELL.*

FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more,
From Heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore!
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls,
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls;
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass,
As the boughs are swayed o'er thy silvery glass;
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown,
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone;
And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain-
Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!
Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore,
When he came from afar, his beads to tell,
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well.
There is heard no Ave through thy bowers,
Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers!
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave,
And there may the reaper his forehead lave,
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain-
-Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!

Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine!
A voice that speaks of the past is thine!
It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh,
With the notes that ring through the laughing
sky;

'Midst the mirthful song of the summer-bird,
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!
-Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee,
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free?
'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain-
He hath made thee nature's own again!

Fount of the chapel with ages gray!
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay!

A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asanh, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pil. grims,

1

Yet if at thine altar one holy thought
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought;
If peace to the mourner hath here been given,
Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven,
Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature's own again!

ELYSIUM.

"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions."

Chateaubriand, Genie du Christianisme.

FAIR Wert thou, in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers,
And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers!
Where, as they passed, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things'

Fair wert thou, with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,

A swell of deep Eolian sound went oy,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh!

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light
breath,

Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death!

[blocks in formation]

They of the sword, whose praise,

Not where thy soft winds played,

With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!-

round!

They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays

On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found

Their echoes 'midst the mountains!—and become
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied;
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths
had sought

The soul's far birth-place-but without a guide!
Sages and seers, who died,

And left the world their high mysterious dreams,
Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.

But they, of whose abode

'Midst her green valleys earth retained no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
A void and silent place

Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade'
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!

Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!

For the most loved are they,

Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice
In regal halls!-the shades o'erhang their way,
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps!—till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye
And the world knows not then,

Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men
Come back, when night her folding veil hath
spread,

The long-remembered dead!

But not with thee might aught save glory dwell—

In some sweet home;-thou hadst no wreaths for Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel! these,

Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant, at his door

Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind!-From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head,

Thou wert for nobler dead!

THE FUNERAL GENIUS;

AN ANCIENT STATUE.

"Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sin

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, la tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exAnd sighed to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears

Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
As in the ashes of an urn compressed;

-He might not be thy guest!

No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whispered "Liberty!"

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,

Unlike a gift of nature to decay,
'Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before its mother lay;

E'en so to pass away,

With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou, To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's first flowers just opening in her hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone

primer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal

THOυ shouldst be looked on when the starlight
falls

Through the blue stillness of the summer-air
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls;
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!

And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like
these:

Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom
Which of the grove seems breathing-not the

tomb.

They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!
Like the spring's wakening!-but that light was They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
past-
And laid thy head against the forest-tree,

-Where wen the dew-drop, swept before the As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lulled to deep repose.

blast?

« AnteriorContinuar »