NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most
holy,

and glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied;

O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.

-So doth love's dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shot from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

THE

WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

CALL back your odours, lovely flowers,
From the night-winds call them back,
And fold your leaves to the laughing hours:
Come forth in the sunbeam's track.

The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest, And the honey-bec is gone,

And all bright things are away to rest, Why watch ye here alone?

Is not your world a mournful one,

When your sisters close their eyes,

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone Of song in the starry skies?

Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth,
When it kindles the sparks of dew?

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth
Shall they gladden all but you ?

Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out On the sunny turf to play,

And the woodland child with a fairy shout Goes dancing on its way!

'MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out, through shadowy grass and thick wild
flowers

Dim Alabaster gleams-a lonely Swan
Warbled his death-chaunt; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pincs
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet,
Ev'n painfully-as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the Poet's thought
This was their language.

Only to wake the sighs

Of echo-voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say-"O sunshine and blue skies!
O life and love, farewell!"

Thus flow'd the death-chaunt on; while mourn fully

Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy,
Woke to respond: and all the air was fill'd
With that one sighing sound-"Farewell, Fare-
well!"

-Fill'd with that sound! high in the calm blue heaven

Ev'n then a Sky-lark hung; soft summer clouds Were floating round him, all transpierced with light,

And, 'midst that pearly radiance, his dark wings
Quiver'd with song:-such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not,-as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below-and thus that strain
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly.

"The summer is come; she hath said, 'Rejoice!'
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice;
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high:
-Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky!

"There is joy in the mountains; the bright waves leap

Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along

Let the heavens ring with song!

"There is joy in the forests; the bird of night Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; But mine is the glory to sunshine given

Sing, sing thro' the echoing heav'n!

"Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, Mine are the fresh gales with day-spring born: Only young rapture can mount so high

-Sing, sing through the echoing sky!"

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening Poet cried,
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful.

Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heart
-Ay, and within one hour of that strange
world-

Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones
To startle and to pierce!—the dying Swan's
And the glad Sky-Lark's-Triumph and Des-
pair!"

SONGS OF SPAIN.*

No. I.

ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.

FLING forth the proud banner of Leon again!
Let the high word " Castile" go resounding thro'
Spain !

And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children re-
pose,

Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes. The voices are mighty that swell from the past, With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain-blast; The ancient Sierras give strength to our tread, Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed.

-Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, And shout ye "Castile! to the rescue for Spain !"

II.

THE ZEGRI MAID. X

The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.

THE Summer leaves were sighing, Around the Zegri maid,

To her low sad song replying,

As it fill'd the olive shade.

"Alas! for her that loveth

Her land's, her kindred's foe! Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, Should a Zegri's spirit go?

“From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress'd,

And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast."

-Where summer leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.

Written for a set of airs, entitled "Peninsular Melodics," selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs. Goulding and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume

"And for all this heart's wealth wasted,

This woe in secret borne, This flower in young life blasted, Should I win back aught but scorn? By aught but daily dying

Would my lone truth be repaid ?" -Where the olive leaves were sighing, Thus sang the Zegri maid.

III.

THE RIO VERDE SONG.

The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks, between Moor and Christian. The ballad re ferring to this stream, in Percy's Reliques,

"Gentle river, gentle river,

Lo! thy streams are stain'd with gore," will be remembered by many readers.

FLOW, Rio Verde!

In melody flow; With her that weepeth

To slumber from woe; Bid thy wave's music

Roll through her dreams, Grief ever loveth

The kind voice of streams

Bear her lone spirit

Afar on the sound, Back to her childhood,

Her life's fairy ground; Pass like the whisper

Of love that is gone-
Flow, Rio Verde!
Softly flow on!

Dark glassy water,

So crimson'd of yore! Love, death, and sorrow Know thy green shore. Thou shouldst have echoes For grief's deepest tone-Flow, Rio Verde, Softly flow on.

IV.

SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO

SEEK by the silvery Darro,

Where jasmine flowers have blown; · There hath she left no footsteps?

-Weep, weep, the maid is gone

Seek where our Lady's image
Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep,
Hear ye not there her vespers?

-Weep for the parted, weep'

BIRD, that art singing on Ebro's side,
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,
Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee?
Doth song avail thy full heart to free?
-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Bird is it blighted affection's pain,

Whence the sad sweetness flows thro' thy strain?
And is the wound of that arrow still'd,
When thy lone music the leaves have fill'd?
-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.

VII.

MOORISH GATHERING SONG. ZORICO.*

CHAINS on the cities! gloom in the air!
-Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there.
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers!
-Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.
Come from the Darro!-changed is its tone;
Come where the streams no bondage have known;
Wildly and proudly foaming, they leap,
Singing of freedom from steep to steep.

*The Zorico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorwh melody

IX.

MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

MOTHER! oh, sing me to rest

As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress'd.

Lay this tired head on thy breast

Flowers from the night-dew are closing, Pilgrims and mourners reposing-Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest!

Weary is young life when blighted, Heavy this love unrequited;Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

X.

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore; There are murmurs-but not of the torrent, Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roa:

"Tis a day of the spear and the banner,
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards!
Or start from your old battle-dells.

There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias,
That have roll'd with your fathers' free blood;
Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty,

Proud marks where their children have stood!

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

HARK! from the dim church tower,

The deep slow curfew's chime!
-A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!

Sadly 't was heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word,

And the red wine's foaming flow!
Until that sullen boding knell

Flung out from every fane,
On harp and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then,

In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill'd,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!

And yet a deeper woe

For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!

For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!

Darkness in peasant's cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow'd like rain,

Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-fagots high,

Till the red light fills the room!

It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,

Cnto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days!