First woke, in Osbert's kindling breast.
The flame that will not be represt,
The pulse that throbs for praise!
Those lays had banish'd from his eye,
The bright, soft tears of infancy,
Had soothed the boy to calm repose,
Had hush'd his bosom's earliest woes;
And when the light of thought awoke,
When first young reason's day-spring broke,
More powerful still, they bade arise
His spirit's burning energies!

Then the bright dream of glory warm'd,
Then the loud pealing war-song charm'd,
The legends of each martial line,
The battle-tales of Palestine ;

And oft, since then, his deeds had proved,
Themes of the lofty lays he loved!"
Now, at triumphant love's command,
Since Osbert leaves his native land,
Forsaking glory's high career,
For her, than glory far more dear;
Since hope's gay dream, and meteor ray,
To distant regions points his way,
That there Affection's hands may dress,
A fairy bower for happiness;

That fond, devoted bard, though now
Time's wint'ry garland wreathes his brow.
Though quench'd the sunbeam of his eye,
And fled his spirit's buoyancy;

And strength and enterprise are past,
Still follows constant to the last!

Though his sole wish was but to die
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by;
And all that hallows and endears
The memory of departed years-
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined
To those loved scenes, his pensive mind;
Ah! what can tear the links apart,
That bind his chieftain to his heart!
What smile but his with joy can light
The eye obscured by age's night?
Last of a loved and honor'd line,
Last tie to earth in life's decline,

Till death its lingering spark shall dim,
That faithful eye must gaze on him!
Silent and swift, with footstep light,
Haste on those fugitives of night,
They reach the boat-the rapid oar
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore
The bark is gain'd-a gallant few,
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;

The pennant, in the moonlight beam,

With soft suffusion glows;

From the white sail a silvery gleam,
Falls on the wave's repose;
Long shadows undulating play,
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay;
But still so hush'd the summer-air,

They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair,
Lest morn's first beam behold them there
-Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night,
From river-wave, or mountain-height,
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers,
By haunted spring, in forest bowers;
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell,

In amber grot, where mermaids dwell,
And cavern'd gems their lustre throw,
O'er the red sea-flowers' vivid glow?
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze,
In solitary splendor blaze;

And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear,
Swell through the deep's unfathom'd sphere?
What grove of that mysterious world,
Holds thy light wing in slumber furl'd?
Awake! o'er glittering seas to rove,
Awake! to guide the bark of love!
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon
Shall fade the bright propitious moon;
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,
E'en now-but lo! the rustling sail
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale!
The bark glides on-their fears are o'er,
Recedes the bold romantic shore,
Its features mingling fast;

Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye
May still each lovely scene descry

Of years forever past!

There wave the woods, beneath whose shade,

With bounding step, thy childhood play'd;
'Midst ferny glades, and mossy lawns,
Free as their native birds and fawns;
Listening the sylvan sounds that float
On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote ;
The ringdove's deep, melodious moan,
The rustling deer in thickets lone;
The wild-bee's hum, the aspen's sigh,
The wood-stream's plaintive harmony.
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,
There thy own mountains darkly tower!
'Midst their grey rocks no glen so rude.
But thou hast loved its solitude!

No path so wild but thou hast known,
And traced its rugged course alone!

The earliest wreath that bound thy hair,
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there.
There, in the day-spring of thy years,
Undimm'd by passions or by tears,
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye
Wandered o'er ocean, earth, or sky,
While the wild breeze that round thee blew,
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue;
Pure as the skies that o'er thy head
Their clear and cloudless azure spread;
Pure as that gale, whose light wing drew
Its freshness from the mountain dew;
Glow'd thy young heart with feelings high,
A heaven of hallow'd ecstacy!

Such days were thine! ere love had drawn
A cloud o'er that celestial dawn!
As the clear dews in morning's beam,
With soft reflected coloring stream,
Catch every tint of eastern gem,
To form the rose's diadem;

But vanish when the noon-tide hour
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower;
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,

Like morn's first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion's blighting fire,
Or linger'd only to expire!

Spring, on thy native hills again,

Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,

And call forth, in each grassy glen,

Her brightest emerald dyes!

There shall the lonely mountain-rose,

Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;

'Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream,
Shall sparkle in the summer beam;
The birch, o'er precipice and cave,
Its feathery foliage still shall wave;
The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil
Its coral clusters to the gale,
And autumn shed a warmer bloom,
O'er the rich heath and glowing broom.
But thy light footstep there no more,
Each path, each dingle shall explore;
In vain may smile each green recess,
-Who now shall pierce its loneliness?

The stream through shadowy glens may stray,
-Who now shall trace its glistening way?

In solitude, in silence deep,

Shrined 'midst her rocks, shall echo sleep,
No lute's wild swell again shall rise,

To wake her mystic melodies.

.

All soft may blow the mountain air,
-It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain-rose may bloom and die,
-It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish'd days,
Shall others ne'er delight;

Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O'er the dim woodlands' fading hue,
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;
Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view
That home of infancy!

Heed not the night-dew's chilling power,
Heed not the sea-wind's coldest hour,
But pause, and linger on the deck,
Till of those towers no trace, no speck,
Is gleaming o'er the main;

For when the mist of morn shall rise,
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,
That home, once vanish'd from thine eyes,
Shall bless them ne'er again!

There the dark tales and songs of yore,

First with strange transport thrill'd thy soul,

E'en while their fearful, mystic lore,

From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole ;
There, while thy father's raptured ear,
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear,
And in his eye the trembling tear,
Reveal'd his spirit's trance;

How oft, those echoing halls along,
Thy thrilling voice hath swell'd the song,
Tradition wild of other days,

Or troubadour's heroic lays,

Or legend of romance!

Oh! many an hour hath there been thine,
That memory's pencil oft shall dress
In softer shades, and tints that shine
In mellow'd loveliness!

While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,
Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,
The sunshine of thine early years,

Scarce deem'd so radiant-till it set!
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,
The bliss, till vanish'd, hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill,
The fading moonbeams linger still;
Still, Bertha, gaze on yon grey tower,
At evening's last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flush'd the clear seas with rainbow-dyes,

Whose warm suffusions glow'd and pass'd,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last;
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seem'd a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,

More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest,
Would steal in silence o'er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh,
That softly breathes the spirit's harmony!
-Ah! ne'er again shall hours to thee be given,
Of joy on earth-so near allied to Heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?
-Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,

That scarce a pang, a care has known,
The hour when first from scenes we part,
Where life's bright spring has flown!
Forsaking, o'er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace-our home!
E'en if delighted fancy throw

O'er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers;
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life's ungenial air ;)
E'en if such dreams of hope arise,
As Heaven alone can realize;

Cold were the breast that would not heave
One sigh, the home of youth to leave;
Stern were the heart that would not swell
To breathe life's saddest word-farewell!
Though earth has many a deeper woe,
Though tears, more bitter far, must flow,
That hour, whate'er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot!

Such was the pang of Bertha's heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start
And Osbert by her side

Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell
Nature's fond struggle told too well;
And days of future bliss portray'd,
And love's own eloquence essay'd,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.