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, Never, oh! never more, On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore— My Italy! farewell! Alas!-thy hills among Had I but left a memory of my name, But like a lute's brief tone, 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 Yet, yet remember me! Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 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, Fain would I bind for you, My memory with all glorious things to dwell! MUSIC OF YESTERDAY. "O! mein Geist, ich fühle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem, das keinem Menschen gegönnt ist."-TIECK. THE chord, the harp's full chord is hush'd, Whence music, like sweet waters, gush'd Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell, The sounds that sigh'd "Farewell, farewell!” The love, whose fervent spirit pass'd The grief, to which it sank at last— They are with the scents by summer's breath Borne from a rose now shed: With the words from lips long seal'd in death— For ever fled. The sea-shell of its native deep But earth and air no record keep And all the memories, all the dreams, The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams- They died! As on the water's breast When the breeze that stirr'd it sinks to rest- Mysterious in their sudden birth, And mournful in their close, Passing, and finding not on earth Aim or repose. Whence were they?—like the breath of flowers A long, long journey must be ours THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. "Was mir fehlt?-Mir fehlt ja alles, Tyrolese Melody. THE Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is quench'd and gone That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing shone; The place where mirth and music met is hush'd through day and night. Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light! But scatter'd are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore, Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more. Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy or mirth, Unbound is that sweet wreath of home-alas! the lonely hearth! The voices that have mingled here now speak an other tongue, Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung. Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone: The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quench'd and gone! But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee? Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea? Oh! some are hush'd, and some are changed, and never shall one strain Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again. And of the hearts that here were link'd by longremember'd years, Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister's tears! One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone : For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quench'd and gone! Not so -'tis not a broken chain: thy memory binds them still, Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now and chill. |