It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye
play'd,

And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.

Ye were but two-and when that spirit pass'd,
Woe to the one, the last!

Woe, yet not long!-She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face

But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er,
It answer'd her's no more.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step had fled; What then was left for her, the faithful hearted? Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead' Softly she perish'd:-be the flower deplored

Here with the lyre and sword!

Have ye not met ere now?-so let those trust That meet for moments but to part for years, That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,

That love, where love is but a fount of tears. Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwellLyre, sword, and flower, farewell!*

By the shiver of the ivy-leaves-
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight call'd unto household mirth;
By the fairy tale or the legend old
In that ring of happy faces told;
By the quiet hour when hearts unite
In the parting prayer and the kind “Good
night;"

By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas,
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze,
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stro
From the pure first loves of its youth away,
When the sullying breath of the world would

1

Оn, joy of the peasant! O stately lime
Thou art fallen in thy golden honey-time.
Thou whose wavy shadows,

Long and long ago,
Screen'd our gray forefathers
From the noontide's glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch'd with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets

Wrapt in fairy dreams.

gen,

Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft,

Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn.

Aus dem Lande zue dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling Hingezogen gefühlt, wird ihm ein glanzender Lohn.

Where shall now the weary Rest through summer eves? Or the bee find honey,

As on thy sweet leaves? Where shall now the ring-dov Build again her nest? She so long the inmate Of thy fragrant breast?

Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.

Far more than the ring-dve, far more than too

bee!

Theodor Korner's Fater.

These may yet find coverts,
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odour and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gather'd

Round another tree?

O pride of our fathers; O, hallow'd tree! The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

THE FREED BIRD.

Swifter than the summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,

Thou art come and gone!
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left here, alone!

RETURN, return, my Bird!

Shelley.

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers,

"Tis lovely as a violet bank

In the heart of forest bowers.

"I am free, I am free, I return no more! 'The weary time of the cage is o'er ! Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, The sky is around me, the bright blue sky!

"The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer

I see the waves flash on the sunny shore-
I am free, I am free-I return no more!"

Alas, alas, my Bird!

Why seek'st thou to be free?
Wert thou not blest in thy little bower,

When thy song breathed naught but glee? "Did my song of summer breathe naught but glee?

Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee? -Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well! I had tales of a burning heart to tell!

From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best, Sigh'd, for wild flowers and a leafy nest."

Was it with thee thus, my Bird?

Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright!
I have seen the glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.

'It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place!
With the spirit that panted through heaven to

soar

Woo me not back-I return no more!

My home is high amidst rocking trees, My tindred things are the star and breeze,

THE Voices of two forest boys,

In years when hearts entwine,

Had fill'd with childhood's merry noise
A valley of the Rhine.

To rock and stream that sound was known,
Gladsome as hunter's bugle-tone.

The sunny laughter of their eyes

There had each vineyard seen;
Up every cliff whence eagles rise,
Their bounding step had been;
Ay! their bright youth a glory threw
O'er the wild place wherein they grew.
But this, as day-spring's flush, was brief
As early bloom or dew ;-
Alas! 't is but the wither'd leaf

That wears the enduring hue!
Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore,
Might girdle in their world no more.
For now on manhood's verge they stood,
And heard life's thrilling call,
As if a silver clarion woo'd

To some high festival;
And parted as young brothers part,
With love in each unsullied heart.

They parted-soon the paths divide
Wherein our steps were one,
Like river-branches, far and wide
Dissevering as they run,

And making strangers in their course

Of waves that had the same bright source.

Met they no more ?-once more they met,
Those kindred hearts and true!

"T was on a field of death, where yet
The battle-thunders flew,

For the tale on which this little poem s founded, 'I.'Hermite en Italie."

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,

Yet through a cloud of years I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine,

A haughty heart and kingly glance-
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council board;

In festive halls a chair of state,

When the blood-red wine was pour'd; A name that drew a prouder tone

From herald, harp, and bard;
-Surely these things were all thine own,
So hadst thou thy reward!

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm'd knight is laid,
With meek hands folded der thy breast
In matron robes array'd;

What was thy tale ?-Oh, gentle mate
Of him the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,

What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo'd a bright and burning star;
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His oft-receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours,
Through many a lonely day,

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirit far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains;

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim,-
These fill no minstrel-strains.

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year,
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither;
Hopes from their source all holy, though of car th,
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth.

Of mingled prayer they told; of sabbath hours;
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting

Of us they told the seers
And monarch-bards of elder years,
Who walk'd on earth as powers;
And in their burning strains,
A spell of night and mystery reigns,
To guard our mountain towers.
-In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay.
Before his gifted sight
The march of ages pass'd away

With hero footsteps bright!
But proudest, in that long array,
Was Glyndwyr's path of light!

SWISS HOME-SICKNESS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE LAST OF THE MELODIES SUNG BY THE TYROLESE FAMILY.

'Herz mein Herz, warum so traurig," &c.

WHEREFORE So sad and faint, my heart?
The stranger's land is fair;
Yet weary, weary still thou art-
What find'st thou wanting there?

What wanting?-all, oh! all I love!
Am I not lonely here?
Through a fair land in sooth I rove,

Yet what like home is dear?

My home! oh! thither would I fly,
Where the free air is sweet,
My father's voice, my mother's eye,
My own wild hills to greet.

My hills with all their soaring steeps,
With all their glaciers bright,
Where in his joy the chamois leaps,
Mocking the hunter's might.

Oh! but to hear the herd-bell sound,
When shepherds lead the way
Up the high Alps, and children bound
And not a lamb will stay!

Oh! but to climb the uplands free,
And, where the pure streams foam
By the blue shining lake, to sce
Once more my hamlet-home!
Here no familiar look I trace;
I touch no friendly hand;
No child laughs kindly in my face-
As in my own bright land!

THE VOICE OF GOD.

"I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid AMIDST the thrilling leaves, thy voice,

At evening's fall, drew near; Father! and did not man rejoice That blessed sound to hear?

Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch'd by the solemn tone?
Not so! for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.

Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower,
His spirit shook with dread,
And call'd the cedars in that hour,
To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow
Each whisper of the shade,
Grant me, my God, thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.

NOBLY thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast,
And cherubim, to waft his flying seat.
Amidst the hills, that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet voice thy spirit call'd aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud,
But far more gloriously to earth made known
By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone,
Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll;
Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.
Dublin, April, 1835.

THE WANDERER.

From the German of Schmidt Von Lubeck.*

I COME down from the hills alone,
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan;
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing—Where?

The sunshine round seems dim and cold,
And flowers are pale, and life is old,
And words fall soulless on my ear,
Oh! I am still a stranger here.

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own?
Still sought for, longed for, never known!
The land, the land of hope, of light,
Where glow my roses, freshly bright;—

And where my friends the green paths tread,
And where in beauty rise my dead;
The land that speaks my native speech,
The blessed land I may not reach!

I wander on in thoughtful care,

For ever asking, sighing-Where?
And spirit-sounds come answering this,
"There, where thou art not, there is bliss."

See the original in the Dublin University Magazine for February, 1834. 39

SINGING of the free blue sky,
And the wild flower glens that lie
Far amidst the ancient hills,
Which the fountain-music fills;
Singing of the snow-peaks bright
And the royal eagle's flight,
And the courage and the grace
Foster'd by the chamois-chase:
In his fetters day by day,
So the shepherd-poet lay.

Wherefore, from a dungeon cell
Did those notes of freedom swell,
Breathing sadness not their own,
Forth with every Alpine tone?
Wherefore?-Can a tyrant's car
Brook the mountain-winds to hear
When each blast goes pealing by
With a song of liberty?

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand
O'er the shepherd-poet's land,
Sounding there the waters gush'd,
While the lip of man was hush'd;
There the falcon pierced the cloud,
While the fiery heart was bow'd;
But this might not long endure
Where the mountain-homes were pure;
And a valiant voice arose,

Thrilling all the silent snows;
His-now singing far and lone,

Where the young breeze ne'er was known!
Singing of the glad blue sky,
Wildly and how mournfully!

Are none but the wind and the lammer-geyer
To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire
Is the soul of song from the steep glens past,
Now that their poet is chain'd at last ?-
Think of the mountains, and deem not so!
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow.
Yes! though forbidden be every word,
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd,
Yet ev'n as a buried stream through earth
Rolls on to another and brighter birth,
So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die,
Burst forth with the anthem of Liberty!

And another power is moving
In a bosom fondly loving:
Oh! a sister's heart is deep,

And her spirit's strong to keep
Each light link of early hours,

All sweet scents of childhood's flowers

Thus each lay by Erni sung
Rocks and crystal caves among,
Or beneath the linden-leaves,

Or the cabin's vinc-hung caves,