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But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain cchocs of the land
Swell'd through the deep blue sky,
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.

They march'd not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out,

And the laurel-groves, as on they pass'd,
Rung with no battle-shout!

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire

Their souls with an impulse high,

But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre,
For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes, their path around,
Sent forth Eolian breath:
They needed not a sterner sound

To marshal them for death!

So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,

Save bringing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!

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Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;-
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.

And hands were link'd, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
-Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown!

A little while such joy was cast
Over the deep's repose,

Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet music rose.

And proudly, freely on their way

The parting vessels bore;
-In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet-On! never more!

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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;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win:
Come away!

Come away!-the heart, at last forsaken,
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue,
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
Though to other shores far hence they woo:
Come away!

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing,
In the low sweet sounds of early spring,
Still their music wanders-till the dying
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing:
Come away!

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
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
No part in earth's glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot,
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine there beat and glow.

And blessing, from the bark that roams
O'er solitary seas,

To those that far in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!

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
Be the last light I see!
Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!

For thee, my own! thy stately head
Was never thus to bow!-
Give tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know'st it now!

Oh! the free streams look'd bright, where'e
We in our gladness roved;

And the blue skies were very fair-
O friend! because we loved.

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!

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I Go, sweet friends! yet think of me
When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers;
For we have wander'd far and free,

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go-but when you pause to hear,
From distant hills, the Sabbath bell
On summer winds float silvery clear,
Think on me then-I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends! in other days.
And oh! when music's voice is heard

To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd-
-Think of me then! I go, I go!

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;
But on thy harp or on thy lute,

The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!

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;
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,

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,
Ere with dust o'erspread:

Lilies ne'er by tempest blown,

White-rose which no stain hath known,

Be about thee shed!

So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth
O'er thy gentle head;

Thou that like a dew-drop, borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,

Brightly thus haust fled!

ISING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

SING to me, Gondolier!

Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day:
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling;
Sing to me, Gondolier!

Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave:
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,

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,
Sad looks thy place,
While the true heart pineth,
Missing thy face.

Music is sorrowful,
Since thou art gone,
Sisters are mourning thee,
Come to thine own!

Hark! the home voices call
Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!

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!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying
Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!

Set to music by the Author's sister.

† Set to music by John Lodge, Esq.

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