And we will dream it is thy joy we hear, -No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours- TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti ! Risvegliate in vano 'l cor che non può liberarsi. WHEREFORE and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill? It hath no crown of victory to inherit— Be still, triumphant harmony! be still! Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling Into rich floods of joy:-it is but pain To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, No sounds for earth? Yes, to young chieftain On his own battle-field, at set of sun, won. THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.* Thy path is not as mine :--where thou art blest, HATH the summer's breath, on the south-wind Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn? There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, No sounds for earth ?—Yes, for the martyr leading Spoke him a child of the haughty main. Unto victorious death serenely on, For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating Thou wak'st lone thirst-be hushed, exulting Be hushed, or breathe of grief!-of exile yearnings Breathe of deep love-a lonely vigil keeping Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heaping, In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undying Of joy no more-bewildering harmony! He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, SECOND SIGHT. Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspired, A MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends! With the flow of song and wine. 'Midst the rich summer's glow. Ye smile to view fair races bloom I see the stillness and the gloom Of a home whence all are fled. • Published first in the Edinburgh Literary Journal. I see the withered garlands lie Forsaken on the earth, While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly Through the ringing hall of mirth. I see the blood-red future stain On the warrior's gorgeous crest; And the bier amidst the bridal train When they come with roses drest. I hear the still small moan of Time, Through the ivy branches made, Where the palace, in its glory's prime, With the sunshine stands arrayed. The thunder of the seas I hear, The shriek along the wave, When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer Salute the parting brave. With every breeze a spirit sends To me some warning sign: A mournful gift is mine, O friends! A mournful gift is mine! Oh! prophet heart! thy grief, thy power, To all deep souls belong; The shadow in the sunny hour, The wail in the mirthful song. Their sight is all too sadly clear- Their piercing thoughts repose not here, THE SLEEPER. For sleep is awful.-Byron. OH! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing from Heaven, Oh! lightly, lightly tread! Revere the pale still brow, The meekly-drooping head, The long hair's willowy flow. Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you Unto life's dim faded track. Her soul is far away, In her childhood's land, perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother's glance. Some old sweet native sound Of woods with all their leaves; A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams :Long may her sojourn be In the music-land of dreams! Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fair Oh! lightly, lightly tread!` THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. O, DIM, forsaken mirror! How many a stately throng Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours The song hath left no echo; The bright wine hath been quaffed; And hushed is every silvery voice That lightly here hath laughed. Oh! mirror, lonely mirror, Thou of the silent hall! Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloomIs this, too, vanished all? It is, with the scattered garlands With the melodies of buried lyres; And for all the gorgeous pageants, Now, dim, forsaken mirror, The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, And thus was man's proud spirit When the forms and hues of this world fade And his heart's long-troubled waters Reflecting but the images Of the solemn world on high. HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRIS TIAN. CHURCH MUSIC. "All the train "Thanks be to God for the mountains." Howitt's Book of the Seasons. FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! Thou hast made thy children mighty, By the touch of the mountain sod. Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, We are watchers of a beacon We are guardians of an altar Struck forth as by thy rod For the strength of the hills we bless thee, O God, our fathers' God! For the dark, resounding heavens, Where thy still small voice is heard, Thy spirit walks abroad— For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master, Seeks there his wild delights; But we for thy communion Have sought the mountain sod For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves; The war-horse of the spearman Can not reach our lofty caves; Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom's last abode; For the strength of the hills we bless thee Our God, our fathers' God! For the shadow of thy presence Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead; For the snows, and for the torrents, For the free heart's burial sod, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas." Milton. AGAIN! oh, send those anthem notes again! Sing them once more!-they waft my soul away, All is of Heaven!-yet wherefore to mine eye, TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA. Ave Maria! May our spirits dare FAIR vision! thou 'rt from sunny skies, Far hence, where wandering music fills Or, haply, from a lone, dim shrine, Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, Byron. Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Surely to thee hath woman come, And treasured sorrow of her breast, A buried love-a wasting care Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer? And did the poet's fervid soul To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? Murmuring up from the depth of the heart, When lovely things with their light depart, And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, And we feel that a joy is forever gone. "We return-we return-we return no more!" -Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er, When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay Hath died from the summer woods away? When the crimson from sun-set's robe hath passed, Or the leaves are swept on the rushing blast? No-it is not the rose that returns no more, Those thoughts, which poured their quenchless With a stream of love through the starry hours, fire And passion o'er th' Italian lyre, Did they to still submission die, And hath the crested helmet bowed Still speak to suffering woman's love, And it is not the glory of sunset's hues, Nor the frail flushed leaves that the wild wind strews. "We return-we return-we return no more!" --Doth the bird sing thus from the brighter shore, Those wings that follow the Southern breeze, Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas? Yes from the lands of the vine and palm They come with the sunshine when waves grow calm. "But We-We return-we return no more!" SONG. WHAT Woke the buried sound that lay Along the Nile's green shore? But sunlight's touch-the kind-the warm- What wins the heart's deep chords to pour Their music forth on life, Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er The sounds of torrent strife? -Oh! not the conflict midst the throng, Not e'en the triumph's hour;Love is the gifted and the strong To wake that music's power! His breath awakes that power! THE PARTING OF SUMMER. THOU 'rt bearing hence thy roses, But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, And brightly in the forests," To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers, Is the happy murmuring bee: But how to human bosoms, With all their hopes and fears, And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, Sweet Summer! to the captive Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, And the blue rejoicing streams;— To the wasted and the weary On the bed of sickness bound, To the sailor on the billows, In longings, wild and vain, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And the homes of earth again! And unto me, glad Summer! Thou hast flown in wayward visions, In brief and sudden strivings, To fling a weight aside'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, And all thy roses died. But, oh! thou gentle Summer! If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again the buoyancy Wherewith my soul should soar! Give me to hail thy sunshine, With song and spirit free; Or in a purer air than this May that next meeting be! THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. COME, while in freshness and dew it lies, To the world that is under the free, blue skies Leave ye man's home, and forget his careThere breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air. Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells The stock-dove is there in the beechen-tree, There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth, Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth; There is peace where the alders are whispering low: Yes!-we will come-we will leave behind It is well through the rich, wild woods to go, And to watch the colours that flit and pass, Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, But if, by the forest-brook, we meet If the cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed, Doubt not but there will our steps be stayed, www.m |