A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!
"The inviolate Island of the sage and free."-BYRON.
Rocks of my country! let the cloud
Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud
Above the surge and spray!
My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam:
Oh! thus for ever guard the land,
The sever'd land of home!
I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,
And sunshine on the vines.
The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.
The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,
The purple heavens of Rome—
Yes, all are glorious,-yet again
I bless thee, land of home!
For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead-the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper'd round thy fanes.
Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea:
Oh, be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!
THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS.
THE kings of old have shrine and tomb
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green, along the ocean side,
The mounds arise where heroes died;
But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!
The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake,
Resign'd the bitter cup to take;
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death.
Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no fountain unto Fame;
No-not a tree the record bears
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.
Yet haply all around lie strew'd
The ashes of that multitude:
It may be that each day we tread
Where thus devoted hearts have bled;
And the young flowers our children sow,
Take root in holy dust below.
Oh, that the many-rustling leaves,
Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!
Would not our inmost hearts be still'd,
With knowledge of their presence fill'd,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
-But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.
Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be! Like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret,-but their sod,
Unknown to man, is mark'd of God!
Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?"
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 barvest-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!
THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.
"Von Bäumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern,
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind!"
OH! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?
The summer birds are calling
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling
With sweet laughter in their sound.
And a thousand bright-vein'd flowers,
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours-
But when wilt thou return?
Oh! thou hast wander'd long
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song
In thine alter'd heart hath died.
|