One, 'midst the forest of the wesɩ, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sca, the blue lone sea, hath one-- One sleeps where southern vines are drest He wrapt his colors round his breast And one-o'er her the myrtle showers And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth Alas! for love, if thou wert all, 16* TASSO AND HIS SISTER. SHE sat, where on each wind that siglı'd, Her bower was one where daylight's close As thence the voice of childhood rose But still and thoughtful, at her knee, Their bursts of song and dancing glee With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed With brows through parted ringlets raised. They stood in silent grace. While she-yet something o'er her look Forth from a poet's magic book The glorious numbers read; His of the gifted pen and sword, The triumph-and the tears. She read of fair Erminia's flight Of him she read, who broke the charm of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, Young cheeks around that bright page glow d, And the meek tears of woman flow'd And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, The mother turn'd-a wayworn man, Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, "Am I so changed?-and yet we too Oft hand in hand have play'd ;This brow hath been all bathed in dew From wreaths which thon hast made We have knelt down and said one prayer, My soul is dim with clouds of care- "Life hath been heavy on my head, I come a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept Her brother's name !—and who was he, He was the bard of gift divine ENGLAND'S DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, The hurricane hath might And far by Ganges' banks at night, But let the sound roll on! Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, But let the floods rush on! Why should they reck whose task is done?- |