And through the forest glooms Flashed helmets to the day, And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, In Hasli's* wilds there was gleaming steel, Up 'midst the Righit snows With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, But a band, the noblest band of all, Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazoned streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards, in princely state. They came with heavy chains For the race despised so long-But amidst his Alp-domains, The herdsman's arm is strong! The sun was reddening the clouds of morn When storms at distance brood. There was stillness, as of deep dead night, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might On wound those columns bright But they looked not to the misty height Where the mountain-people stood. The pass was filled with their serried power, And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower There were prince and crested knight, And the mighty rocks came bounding down, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown- flasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. ↑ Schreckhorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the canion of Berne. ↑ Right, a mountain in the canton of Schwytz. Lo! half the field already from the sight And the strife deepens, and the life-blood flows! -Oh! who are these?-What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose? What patriot hearts have nobly vowed to save Their native soil, and make its dust their grave? Öne race, alas! these foes, one kindred race, Were born and reared the same bright scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers-and each face That brotherhood reveals;-one common tongue Dwells on their lips;-the earth on which ye trace Their heart's blood, is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth-this chosen land, Girdled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian hand. Oh, grief and horror!-Who the first could dare Against a brother's breast the sword to wield? What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare! Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? -Think'st thou they know ?—they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unrevealed! With him they strive, they fall—and ask not why. But are there none who love them?-Have they none, No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, And win with tears the husband and the son, Back to their homes from this polluted scene? And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb; why can not they assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age? Ask not!-the peasant at his cabin-door In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze, Wo to the victors and the vanquished! Wo! ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight-an hark! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit !-still nearer and more near, The day is won;-they fall-disarmed they yield, Why pour ye thus from your deserted homes, -Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold- I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry! But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below. Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Th' invader comes; your banners raise anew, Oh! thou devoted land! that canst not rear Are these infatuate too? Oh! who hath known Well hath it marked him—and ordained the hour Are we not creatures of one hand divine? THE MEETING OF THE BARDS. WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS. Held in London, May 22d, 1822. Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly), in the centre The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gor sedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.—See Owen's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llyware Hen. WHERE met our bards of old?-the glorious They of the mountain and the battle-song? They met where woods made moan o'er war- And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, In the sun's face, beneath the cyc of light, Well might their lays be lofty!-soaring thought Which startled eagles from their lone domains, Whence came the echoes to those numbers high? breast; And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The piaces set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen followers from small artificial mounts of turf.—See Pennant 1 • Curnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn. ↑ Cromlech, a Druidical monument, or altar. The word means a stone of covenant. On all her hills awakening to rejoice, Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean wave, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong, Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! To the green memory of thy loveliness, Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every height, In the sun's face, beneath the cye of light! THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land 3-Marmion. The stately Homes of England, The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides past them with the sound The merry Homes of England! Around their hearths by night, There woman's voice flows forth in song, The blessed Homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath-hours! Llyn, a lake or pool. ↑ Eryri, Snowdon. Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The Cottage Homes of England! As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England! THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. -I have dreamt thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness; afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air.-L. E. L. THE champions had come from their fields of war, Over the crests of the billows far, They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores, Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars. They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's board, By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured, The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme, But the swell was gone from the quivering string, Lonely she stood:-in her mournful eyes 'Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, Stately she stood-though her fragile frame Seemed struck with the blight of some inward flame, And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, Under the waves of her dark hair worn. And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze, She had been torn from her home away, They bade her sing of her distant land- Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow, "They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee! "And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day, Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away! They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas, They mingle with the orange-scents that load the sleepy breeze; Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;—it were a bliss to die, Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn-As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Si ful-sounding sea? Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?--in silence let me die, In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy pure deep sapphire sky; How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth? Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north? "Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit shall awake, And through the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake! That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light, And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight! Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by, 'Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my Sicily! cily! "I may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no! Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so! My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main, And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again. Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest-in thy sweet chain-I come air, my home!" And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre For her head sank wack on the rugged wall, There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence! A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall; but oh! their glorious blue! Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue! She had poured out her soul with her song's last tone; The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone! |