Rapid though as bird-nutes gushing,
Transient as a wan check's flushing,
Each in young Teresa's breast
Left its fiery words impress'd;
Treasured there lay every line
As a rich book on a hidden shrine;
Fair was that lone girl, and meek,
With a pale transparent cheek,
And a deep fringed violet eye,
Seeking in sweet shade to lie;
Or, if raised to glance above,
Dim with its own dews of love;
And a pure Madonna brow,
And a silver voice, and low,
Like the echo of a flute
Even the last, ere all be mute.
But a loftier soul was seen
In the orphan sister's mien,
From that hour when chains defiled
Him, the high Alps' noble child;
Tones in her quivering voice awoke,
As if a harp of battle spoke;
Light, that seem'd born of an eagle's nest,
Flash'd from her soft eyes unrepress'd;
And her form, like a spreading water-flower,
When its frail cup swells with a sudden
shower,
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride,
And grief for that brother, her young heart's guide.
Well might they love!—those two had grown
Orphans together and alone;
The silence of the Alpine sky
Had hush'd their hearts to piety;
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid,
Had been their altar when they pray'd;
There, more in tenderness than woe,
The stars had seen their young tears flow;
The clouds, in spirit-like descent,
Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent,
And the wild storms link'd them to each
How dear can peril make a brother!
Mv is their hearth a forsaken spot,
The vine waves unpruned o'er their mountain cot,
Away, in that holy affection's might,
The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night;
She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face,
Filling with soul every secret place,
Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway,
To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way,
Like the sudden flinging forth on high,
Of a banner that starteth silently!
She hath wander'd through a hamlet-vale,
Telling its children her brother's tale;
And the strains, by his spirit pour'd away,
Freely as fountains might shower their spray,
Froin her fervent lip a new life have caught,
And a power to kindle yet bolder thought;
While sometimes a melody all her own,
Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone,
May be heard 'midst the lonely rocks to flow,
Clear through the water-chimes-clear, yet low:
"Thou 'rt not where wild flowers wave,
O'er crag and sparry cave;
Thou 'rt not where pines are sounding,
Or joyous torrents bounding-
Alas, my brother!
"Thou 'rt not where green, on high, The brighter pastures lie;
Ev'n those, thine own wild places,
Bear of our chain dark traces:
Alas, my brother!
"Far hath the sunbeam spread, Nor found thy lonely bed;
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, Nor one sweet whisper brought theeAlas, my brother!
"Thou, that for joy wert born,
Free as the wings of morn,
Will aught thy young life cherish,
Where the Alpine rose would perish?
Alas, my brother!
"Canst thou be singing still,
As once on every hill?
Is not thy soul forsaken,
And the bright gift from thee taken?
Alas, alas, my brother!"
And was the bright gift from the captive fled?
Like the fire on his hearth was his spirit dead?
Not so!-but as rooted in stillness deep,
The pure stream-lily its place will keep,
Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver,
While the red waves rush down the foaming
river,
So freedom's faith in his bosom lay,
Trembling, yet not to be borne away!
He thought of the Alps and their breezy air,
And felt that his country no chains might bear;
He thought of the hunter's haughty life,
And knew there must yet be noble strife;
But, oh! when thought of that orphan maid
His high heart melted-he wept and pray'd!
For he saw her not as she moved e'en then,
A wakener of heroes in every glen,
With a glance inspired which no grief could tame,
Bearing on hope like a torch's flame,
While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs;
But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone,
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan;
And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye,
Which look'd on it-oh! how beseechingly!
And there floated past him a fragile form,
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm;
Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove
In vain with its burden of helpless love!
-Thus woke the dreamer one weary night-
There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strung
He sprang up-he climb'd to the grating-bars, -It was not the rising of moon or stars,
But a signal flame from a peak of snow,
Rock'd through the dark skies to and fro!
There shot forth another-another still-
A hundred answers of hill to hill!
Tossing like pines in the tempest's way,
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play,
And each is hail'd with a pealing shout,
For the high Alps waving their banners out!
Erni! young Erni! the land has risen!
-Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison!
Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there!
-Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair?
-Hark! there's a tumult that shakes his cell!
At the gates of the mountain citadel!
Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing,
-Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing?
"There may not long be fetters
Where the cloud is in earth's array,
And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, Like a hunter on the prey!
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THOU art welcome, O thou warning voice,
My soul hath pined for thee;
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from chore,
To wanderer on the sea.
I hear thee in the rustling woods,
In the sighing vernal airs;
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth,
With a deeper tone than theirs.
The lonely earth! since kindred steps
From its green paths are fled,
A dimness and a hush have fall'n
O'er all its beauty spread.
The silence of the unanswering soul
Is on me and around;
My heart hath echoes but for thee,
Thon still small warning sound!
Voice after voice hath died away,
Once in my dwelling heard,
Sweet household name by name hath changed To grief's forbidden word!
From dreams of night on each I call,
Each of the far removed;
And waken to my own wild cry
Where are ye, my beloved?
Ye left me! and earth's flowers grew fill'd
With records of the past,
And stars pour'd down another light
Than o'er my youth they cast:
The skylark sings not as he sang
When ye were by my side,
And mournful tones are in the wind
Unheard before ye died!
Thou art welcome, O thou summoner!
Why should the last remain ?
What eye can reach my heart of hearts,
Bearing in light again?
Even could this be-too much of fear
O'er love would now be thrown-
Away, away! from time, from change,
To dwell amidst mine own!
O SUNSHINE and fair earth!
Sweet is your kindly mirth,
Angel of death! yet, yet awhile delay;
Too sad it is to part,
Thus in my spring of heart,
With all the light and laughter of the day.
For me the falling leaf
Touches no chord of grief,
No dark worm in the rose's bosom lies:
Not one triumphal tone,
One hue of hope is gone
From song or bloom beneath the summer skies
Call me not hence away,
Death, death! cre yet decay
Over the golden hours one shade has thrown, The poesy that dwells
Deep in green woods and dells,
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.
Yet not for this, O death!
Not for the vernal breath
Of winds, that shake forth music from the trees Not for the splendour given
To night's dark regal heaven,
Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.
But for the happy love
Whose light, where'er I rove,
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile,
Shedding on branch and flower
A rainbow-tinted shower
Of richer life-spare, spare me yet awhile!
Too soon, too fast thou 'rt come
Too beautiful is home,
A home of gentle voices and kind eyes!
And I the loved of all,
On whom fond blessings fall
From every lip-oh! wilt thou rend such ties ?
Sweet sisters! weave a chain
My spirit to detain;
Hold me to earth with strong affection back!
Bind me with mighty love
Unto the stream, the grove,
O daily paths, our life's familiar track!
Stay with me-gird me round!
Your voices hear a sound
Of hope-a light comes with you and departs:
Hush my soul's boding knell,
That murmurs of farewell!
How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts!
Death! grave! and are there those
That woo your dark repose
'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth?
Surely about them lies
No world of loving eyes
Leave me, oh leave me unto home and hearth!
I 100K'D on the field where the battle was spread,
When thousands stood forth in their glancing
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd
the fray.
I saw the dark forest of lances appear,
As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood;
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of
Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red
fold,
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of
despair.
I look'd on the field of contention again,
When the sabre was sheathed and the tempest had
past;
I ne wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing
Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose,
And bright shone the stars through the sky's
deepen'd blue;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose,
Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearl.
drops of dew.
Where now were the thunders of victory's
boast,-
The slayer's dread wrath and the strength of the
steed!
Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their
pride ;-
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone,
Where thousands lay down in their anguish and
died!
Oh! Glory!-behold thy famed guerdon's extent,
For this toil thy slaves through their earth-wast-
ing lot:
A name like the mist, when night's beacons are
spent-
A grave, with it tenants unwept and forgot!
SHE dwelt in proud Venetian halls,
'Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls;
But a glow of beauty like her own,
There had no dream of the painter thrown.
Lit from within was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through.
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy.
Even thus it was!-from her childhood's
years,-
A being of sudden smiles and tears,-
Passionate visions, quick light and shade,-
Such was that high-born Italian maid!
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell,
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell,—
Or as the sounds in Æolian strings,
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrined,
And waiting the call of the faintest wind.
In the city's hour of moonlight glee,
Oft would that gift of the southern sky,
O'erflow from her lips in melody;
Oft amidst festal halls it came,
Like the springing forth of a sudden flame,—
Till the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone
Of her inspiration was heard alone.
And Fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd
And Music floated her steps around;
And every lay of her soul was borne
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
And was the daughter of Venice blest,
With a power so deep in her youthful breast?
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye
So many changes and dreams went by?
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought,
As if but born from the rush of thought?
in-Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile
She moved, as a bark in the sunbeam's smile;
But where swept the ranks of that dark-frowning host,
As the ocean in might-as the storm-cloud speed!
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord,
All, all on a happy love was pour'd!
How loves a heart, whence the stream of song
Flows like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong?
How loves a heart which hath ever proved
One breath of the world?-Even so she loved!
Blest, though the lord of her soul afar,
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war,-
Bearing the flag of St. Mark's on high,
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky.
Proud music breathed in her song, when Fame
Gave a tone more thrilling to his high name;
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith-
Perfect, but fearing no change but death.
But the fields are won from the Ottoman host,
In the land that quell'd the Persian's boast;
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn,
For the day of triumph and return!
-The day is come! the flashing deep
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep;
And the sceptred city of the wave,
With her festal splendour greets the brave;
Cymbal and clarion, and voice around,
Make the air one stream of exulting sound,
While the beautiful with their sunny smiles
Look from each hall of the hundred isles.
But happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warrior's festival,
Moving a queen, 'midst the radiant throng,
Was she, th' inspired one, the maid of song!
The lute he loved on her arm she bore,
As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore;
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow
By the sunset given unto mountain-snow,
And her eye all fill'd with the spirit's play,
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day,
And her long hair waving in ringlets bright-
So came that being of hope and light!
-One moment, Erminia! one moment more,
And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er!
The bark of her lover hath touch'd the strand-
Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand?
-A young, fair form, whose nymph-like grace
Accorded well with the Grecian face,
And the eye, in its clear soft darkness meek,
And the lashes that droop'd o'er a pale rose cheek;
And he look'd on that beauty with tender pride-
The warrior hath brought back an eastern bride!
But how stood she, the forsaken, there,
Struck by the lightning of swift despair?
Still, as amazed with grief, she stood,
And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood, And there came from her quivering lip no wordOnly the fall of her lute was heard,
As it dropt from her hand at her rival's feet, Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet.
What more remaineth? her day was done; Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one! The light, the vision, the gift of power, Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour, Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string, Whence the gush of sweetness no more might
As an eagle struck in his upward flight,
So was her hope from its radiant height,
And her song went with it for evermore,
A gladness taken from sea and shore!
She had moved to the echoing sound of fame-
Silently, silently, died her name!
Silently melted her life away,
As ye have seen a young flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire,
Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire
Leaving its channel all dry and mute-
Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!
"Alas! the kind, the playful, and the gay,
They who have gladden'd their domestic board,
And cheer'd the winter hearth, do they return?''
Joanna Baillie.
COME home!-there is a sorrowing breath
In music since we went;
And the early flower-scents wander by,
With mournful memories blent :
The sounds of every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep,
And the sweet word-brother-wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.
O ye beloved, come home!-the hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song,
Returns-and ye are gone!
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness,,
That deepens 'midst the gloom.
Where finds it you, our wandering ones,
With all your boyhood's glee
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm,
Or on the lone mid sea?
'Mid stormy hills of battles old,
Or where dark rivers foam?
Oh! life is dim where ye are not,
Back, ye beloved! come home!
Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds o'er the main!
Our love is grown too sorrowful,
Bring us its youth again!
Bring the glad tones to music back-
Still, still your home is fair;
The spirit of your sunny life
Alone is wanting there!
THE festal eve o'er earth and sky,
In her sunset robe looks bright
And the purple hills of Sicily,
With their vineyards, laugh in light
I look round on the darkening vale,
That saw my childhood's plays:
The low wind in its rising wail
Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. But I must rule my swelling breath:
Bright o'er yon gray rock's eagle nest
Shines forth a warning star-it bids me fly.
My father's sword is in my hand,
His deep voice haunts mine ear,
He tells me of the noble band,
Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.
He bids their offspring guard from stain
Their pure and lofty faith;
And yield up all things to maintain
The cause, for which they girt themselver death.
And I obey.-I leave their towers
Unto the stranger's tread;
Unto the creeping grass and flowers;
Unto the fading pictures of the dead.
I leave their shields to slow decay,
Their banners to the dust;
I go, and only bear away
Their old, majestic name,-a solemn trust!
I go up to the ancient hills,
Where chains may never be,
Where leap in joy the torrent rills,
Where man may worship God, alone and fres
There shall an altar and a camp
Impregnably arise;
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp,
To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.
And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard,
And fearless prayer ascend;
While, thrilling to God's holy word,
The mountain pines in adoration bend.
And there the burning heart no more
Its deep thought shall suppress,
But the long-buried truth shall pour
Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness
Then fare thee well, my mother's bower,
Farewell, my father's hearth!
Perish, my home! where lawless power
Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.
Perish! let deathlike silence fall
Upon the lone abode :
Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall:
-
I go up to the mountains, with my God.
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