Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play: Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest.— Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave! Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown— But all is not thine own. To thee the love of woman hath gone down, BRING FLOWERS. BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, : And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path! Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell! Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear! Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride! Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer— THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. "Alas! the mother that him bare, In his wan cheeks and sunburut hair Marmion. REST, pilgrim, rest! Thou'rt from the Syrian land, So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return ! Thou'rt faint-stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze, The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past, The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. Thou'rt faint and worn-hear'st thou the fountain welling By the grey pillars of yon ruin'd shrine ? Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling? -He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine! He was a child when thus the bower he wove, (Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood's time?) That I might sit and hear the sound I love, Beneath its shade-the convent's vesper-chime. And sit thou there!-for he was gentle ever, With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' fever. There in his place thou'rt resting-where is he? If I could hear that laughing voice again, A youth-my Guido-with the fiery mien The dark, clear, lightning eye! On heaven and earth It smiled as if man were not dust it smiled! The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth, Fill'd all my home even with o'erflowing joy, Where is he now?—my pride, my flower, my boy! His sunny childhood melted from my sight, Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore A prouder look—his eye a keener light : I knew these woods might be his world no more! He loved me-but he left me! Thus they go Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too much adored! He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, And bounded from me with his father's sword! Thou weep'st-I tremble !—Thou hast seen the slain Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee? No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave! That look gives hope-I knew it could not be ! Still weep'st thou, wanderer? Some fond mother's glance O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early yearsThink'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears? Speak, for thy tears disturb me !—what art thou? Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? Look up! Oh! is it that wan cheek and brow!— Is it-alas! yet joy !—my son, my son! |