"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath;

I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done-
For the honor of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son!

"Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen
Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all

How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?

"I will not bear that still cold look-
Rise up, thou fierce and free!

Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee !
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindred eyes!

Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!

"Didst thou not know I loved thee well?

Thou didst not! and art gone,

In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.

Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn

The secrets of the folded heart
That seem'd to thee so stern.

"Thou wert the first, the first, fair child,
That in mine arms I press'd:
Thou wert the bright one, that hast siniled
Like summer on my breast!

I rear'd thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee-dead!

'Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs in my first-born's grave!
And leave me !-I have conquer'd,
I have slain—my work is done!
Whom have I slain ?-ye answer not-
Thou art too mute, my son!

And thus his wild lament was pour'd
Through the dark resounding nigh.,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sigh'd;

From the searching stars of heaven he shrankHumbly the conqueror died.

THE DYING IMPROVISATOIRE.

THE spirit of my land,

It visits me once more!-though I must die
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd
My own bright Italy!

It is, it is thy breath,

Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame
Is shaken by the wind;-in life and death
Still trembling, yet the same!

Oh! that love's quenchless power

Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, And through thy groves its dying music shower Italy! Italy!

The nightingale is there,

The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume,
The south wind's whisper in the scented air-
It will not pierce the tomb!

Never, oh! never more,

On my Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shoreMy Italy! farewell!

Alas!-thy hills among,

Had I but left a memory of my name,

Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, Unto immortal fame !

But like a lute's brief tone,

Like a rose-odor on the breezes cast,
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone,
So hath my spirit pass'd-

Pouring itself away

As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns,
Into a fleeting lay;

That swells, and floats, and dies,
Leaving no echo to the summer woods
Of the rich breathings and impassion'd sighs
Which thrill'd their solitudes.

Yet, yet remember me!

Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.

Under the dark rich blue

Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, And when woods kindle into Spring's first hue, Sweet friends! remember me!

And in the marble halls,

Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear,
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls,
Let me be with you there!

Fain would I bind, for you,

My memory with all glorious things to dwell; Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew— Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest work to leave-
Pray ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea!
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!