But helms were glancing on the stream, And the mountain cchocs of the land They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, And the laurel-groves, as on they pass'd, They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire Their souls with an impulse high, But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre, And still sweet flutes, their path around, To marshal them for death! So moved they calmly to their field, Save bringing back the Spartan shield, Moonlight on that lone Indian main And hands were link'd, and answering eyes A little while such joy was cast Till the loud singing winds at last And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore; Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, All the wealth of glowing life outspread, Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, By that strain the youth in joy is led: Come away! Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling O'er the sweetness of the voice within; Come away!-the heart, at last forsaken, In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, MUSIC FROM SHORE. A SOUND comes on the rising breeze, A sweet and lovely sound! Piercing the tumult of the seas That wildly dash around. From land, from sunny land it comes, From hills with murmuring trees, From paths by still and happy homes, That sweet sound on the breeze. Why should its faint and passing sigh Yet blessing, blessing on the spot, And blessing, from the bark that roams To those that far in happy homes FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. "Fair Helen of Kirconnel,' as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, ann died in the arms of the former. HOLD me upon thy faithful heart, Keep back my flitting breath; ris carly, early to depart, Beloved!-vet this is death! Look on me still-let that kind eye For thee, my own! thy stately head Oh! the free streams look'd bright, where'e And the blue skies were very fair- Farewell!-I bless thee-live thou on, When this young heart is low! Surely my blood thy life hath wonClasp me once more-I go! I Go, sweet friends! yet think of me In those bright hours, the violet's hours. I go-but when you pause to hear, Forget me not around your hearth, To melt in strains of parting woe, The songs marked thus are in the possession of Mr Willis, to be published by him with music. I THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER. Oh cast thou not Affection from thee! in this bitter world Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast. Watch-guard it-suffer not a breath to dim The bright gem's purity! Ir thou hast crush'd a flower, The root may not be blighted; If thou hast quench'd a lamp, Once more it may be lighted; The string which thou hast broken, If thou hast loosed a bird, Whose voice of song could cheer thec, Still, still he may be won From the skies to warble near thee: But if upon a troubled sea Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed. If thou hast bruised a vine, The summer's breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow, Through the leaves their bloom revealing: But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown With a bright draught fill'd-oh! never Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth, To cool thy parch'd lip's fever! The heart is like that cup, If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone, Which the deep will not restore thee; And like that strain of harp or lute Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd :Gently, oh! gently touch the chords, So soon for ever shatter'd! BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. BRIGHTLY, brightly hast thou fled; Brightly didst thou part! With thy young thoughts pure from spot, With thy fond love wasted not, With thy bounding heart. Ne'er by sorrow to be wet, Calmly smiles thy pale check yet, Lilies ne'er by tempest blown, White-rose which no stain hath known, Be about thee shed! So we give thee to the earth, Thou that like a dew-drop, borne Brightly thus haust fled! ISING TO ME, GONDOLIER! SING to me, Gondolier! Sing words from Tasso's lay; Oh, ask me not to wake Closed the bright pageants here; And the glad song is departed From the mournful Gondolier! O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS. O'ER the far blue mountains, O'er the white sea foam, Come, thou long parted one! Back to thine home! When the bright fire shineth, Music is sorrowful, Hark! the home voices call O'er the far blue mountains, O'er the white sea foam, Come, thou long parted one! Back to thine home! O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING. O THOU breeze of spring! Set to music by the Author's sister. † Set to music by John Lodge, Esq. |