I know how softly bright, Steeped in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now; Go to the pure stream's edge,
And from its whispering sedge
Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow.
Then, as in hope's young days,
Track thou the antique maze Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound; There is a lone white rose, Shedding, in sudden snows,
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.
Well know'st thou that fair tree! -A murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honied lime above; Bring me one pearly flower, Of all its clustering shower-
For on that spot we first revealed our love!
Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, When by the hamlet last
Through dim wood-lanes we passed,
Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.
Haste! to my pillow bear
Those fragrant things, and fair
My hand no more may bind them up at eve; Yet shall their odour soft
One bright dream round me waft,
Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!
And oh! if thou wouldst ask,
Wherefore thy steps I task
He lay upon a greensward bed, Beneath a darkening sky- A lone tree waving o'er his head, A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen, as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire from spear? Was there a banner for his pall,
A buckler for his bier?
Not so nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends, with words of cheer, And princely vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear Before the fading 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 staunch their tide- Unknown, on that meek humble breast, Imperial Albert died!
LEAVES have their time to fall,
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace; And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath
-T is that some thought of me,
When I am gone, may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place.
I bid mine image dwell,
(Oh! break thou not the spell!)
In the deep wood, and by the fountain side- Thou must not, my beloved! Rove where we two have roved, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died.
The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.
A MONARCH on his death-bed lay- Did censers waft perfume, And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, Through his proud chamber's gloom?
We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? They have one season-all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth--and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.
THE RELEASE OF TASSO.
THERE came a bard to Rome; he brought a lyre Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant sky, To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre,
Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high; For on each chord had fallen the gift of fire, The living breath of Power and Victory— Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest, Sighed but to flee away, and be at rest.
He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth, Wild fairy-bowers, and groves of deathless green, And fields, where mail-clad bosoms prove their worth,
When flashing swords light up the stormy scene- He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame,— The Child of Visions from a dungeon came.
On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls, On the blue waters of the Adrian deep,
His numbers had been sung-and in the halls, Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep, It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured walls,—
Had princes listened to those lofty strains, While the high soul they burst from, pined in chains, And in the summer-gardens, where the spray Of founts, far-glancing from their marble bed,
Rains on the flowering myrtles in its play, And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that spread Round the deep golden citrons-o'er his lay Dark eyes, dark, soft, Italian eyes had shed Warm tears, fast-glittering in that sun, whose light Was a forbidden glory to his sight.
Oh! if it be that wizard sign and spell, And talisman had power of old to bind, In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell, Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind, Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find Joy in the rush of storms-even such a doom Was that high minstrel's in his dungeon-gloom. But he was free at last!—the glorious land Of the white Alps and pine-crowned Apennines, Along whose shore the sapphire seas expand, And the wastes teem with myrtle, and the shrines Of long-forgotten gods from Nature's hand Receive bright offerings still; with all its vines, The seal was taken from the founts of day. And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay—
The winds came o'er his cheek; the soft winds, blending
All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh; The orange-groves waved round; the hills were sending
Their bright streams down; the free birds darting by,
And the blue festal heavens above him bending, As if to fold a world where none could die! And who was he that looked upon these things? -If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were wings
To bear him o'er creation! and whose mind Was as an air-harp, wakening to the sway Of sunny Nature's breathings unconfined, With all the mystic harmonies that lay Far in the slumber of its chords enshrined, Till the light breeze went thrilling on its way. -There was no sound that wandered through the sky,
But told him secrets in its melody.
Was the deep forest lonely unto him With all its whispering leaves? Each dell and glade
Teemed with such forms as on the moss-clad brin Of fountains, in their sparry grottoes, played, Seen by the Greek of yore through twilight dim Or misty noontide in the laurel-shade. -There is no solitude on earth so deep As that where man decrees that man should weep But oh! the life in Nature's green domains, The breathing sense of joy! where flowers are springing
By starry thousands, on the slopes and plains, And the gray rocks-and all the arched woods ringing,
And the young branches trembling to the strains Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine winging
Their fearless flight-and sylvan echoes round, Mingling all tones to one Eolian sound;
And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams, And the low cadence of the silvery sea, And reed-notes from the mountains, and the
Of the warm sun-all these are for the free!
With all its clouds in burning glory piled, Had been shut out by long captivity; Such, freedom was to Tasso.-As a child Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye In its too radiant glance, from day to day, Reads that which calls the brightest first away.
And he became a wanderer-in whose breast Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth sleep,
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest, Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest
O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep
And they were his once more, the bard, whose In cavern-tomb, and sought, through shades and
Their spirit still had haunted.-Could it be
That he had borne the chain?-oh! who shall
By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth. But wo for those who trample o'er a mind! A deathless thing.-They know not what they do,
To say how much man's heart uncrushed may Or what they deal with!-Man perchance may
So deep a root hath hope!-but wo for this, Our frail mortality, that aught so bright, So almost burthened with excess of bliss, As the rich hour which back to summer's light Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight Of the green earth, must so be bought with years Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears;
And feeding a slow fire on all its powers, Until the boon for which we gasp in vain, If hardly won at length, too late made ours When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers Which withered in the noontide, ne'er again To lift their heads in glory.-So doth Earth Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth.
The sailor dies in sight of that green shore,
The flower his step hath bruised; or light anew The torch he quenches; or to music wind Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew- But for the soul!--oh! tremble, and beware To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there! For blindness wraps that world-our touch may
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung, Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should burn
To point the way a thousand rocks among- Though binding down the terrible, the strong, Or break some subtle chain, which none discern, Th' o'ersweeping passions-which to loose on life Is to set free the elements for strife! Who then to power and glory shall restore That which our evil rashness hath undone? Who unto mystic harmony once more
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seemed to lie Attune those viewless chords ?-There is but One!
On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar Called up to sunlight by his fantasy- And, when the shining desert-mists that wore The lake's bright semblance, have been all passed. by,
The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain-wave, Which flashes from its rock, too late to save.
Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought, And made too precious by long hopes and fears, Remains our own-love, darkened and o'er-
By memory of privation, love, which wears And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought, Becomes the shadow of our closing years, Making it almost misery to possess Aught, watched with such unquiet tenderness. Sucn unto him, the bard, the worn and wild, And sick with hope deferred, from whom the sky,
He that through dust the stream of life can pour, The Mighty and the Merciful alone!
-Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade- He leaves to man the ruin man hath made!—
"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démouroit la sœur de Tasse quand il vint en pélèrin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie." Corinne.
SHE sat, where on cach wind that sighed The citron's breath went by; While the deep gold of eventide Burned in the Italian sky.
fler bower was one where daylight's close
Full oft sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.
But still and thoughtful, at her knee,
Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,
Hushed as by words of power.
With bright, fixed, wondering eyes that gazod Up to their mother's face;
With brows through parting ringlets raised, They stood in silent grace.
While she-yet something o'er her look Of mournfulness was spread- Forth from a poet's magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which poured Its light on evil years;
His of the gifted Pen and Sword,❤ The triumph and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia's flight,
Which Venice once might hear Sung on her glittering seas at night, By many a gondolier;
Of him she read, who broke the charm That wrapt the myrtle grove; Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, That slew his Paynim love.
Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, Young holy hearts were stirred; And the meek tears of woman flowed
Fast o'er each burning word.
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, Came sweet each pause between; When a strange voice of sudden grief Burst on the gentle scene.
The mother turned-a way-worn man, In pilgrim garb stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, Of proud, yet restless cye.
But drops that would not stay for pride, From that dark eye gushed free, As pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! e'en by thee! "Am I so changed?-and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have played- This brow hath been all bathed in dew, From wreaths which thou hast made. We have knelt down and said one prayer, And sung one vesper strain- My thoughts are dim with clouds of care- Tell me those words again!
It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all
"Life hath been heavy on my head;
I come, a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here."
-She gazed-till thoughts that long had slept, Shook all her thrilling frame-
She fell upon his neck, and wept,
And breathed her brother's name.
Her brother's name!-and who was he, The weary one, th' unknown, That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own? -He was the bard of gifts divine, To sway the hearts of men; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the Sword and Pen!
TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills, The old and full of voices-by the source Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound-for in its course Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hushed the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, linked with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip migh
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around, From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.
True bard and holy!-thou art e'en as one Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun, Sees where the springs of living waters lie-. Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touched by thee, Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to cach glad wanderer free!
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