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First-love, and only one! Is this the end
Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted? Yet thy brow
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek
Smiles-how unchanged !-while I, the worn, and weak,
And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!-a wither'd leaf,
Sear'd-though for thy sake-by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go,
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call'd thee! With the morning light
How have I watch'd for thee !-wept, wander'd, pray'd,
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd,
In search of thee!-bound my worn life to one-
One torturing hope ! Now let me die! 'Tis gone.
Take thy betroth'd !"_and on his breast she fell,
-Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love the true, the strong,
Joining in death whom life had parted long!
- They had one gravemone lonely bridal bed,
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed !
His name had ceased-her heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face, and die !



SING, sing in memory of the brave departed,

Let song and wine be pourd!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted,

Our brethren of the sword!
Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices

Have mingled with our own;
Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices,

Forget not who are gone!
They that stood with us, 'midst the dead and dying,

On Albuera's plain;
They that beside us cheerly track'd the flying,

Far o'er the hills of Spain;
They that amidst us, when the shells were showering

From old Rodrigo's wall,
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering,

First, first at Victory's call !"
They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,

In Roncesvalles' dell;
With England's blood the southern vineyards laving,
Forget not how they fell !

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,

Let song and wine be pour'd!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted,

Our brethren of the sword !


And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever-it

may be a sound,
A tone of music, Summer eve, or Spring,
A flower-the wind--the ocean-which shall wound,
Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound."-Byron.
Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear thou not-for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.
Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays,
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ?
Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers,
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours !
Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells,
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book ?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such
dreams as the young

heart weaves ?
Shadows-yet unto which life seem'd bound;
And is it not-is it not haunted ground?
Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here—with its flow of thought,
Love-with its passionate visions fraught;
Death-breathing stillness and sadness round-
And is it not—is it not haunted ground ?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb ?..
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!
But I may not linger amidst them here !
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.
Away, away that my soul may soar.
As a free bird of blue skies once more!

Here from its wing it may never cast
The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.
Doubt it not-smile not-but go thou, too,
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew-
Where thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;
Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colors of glory fade;
Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.


(WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER, Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,

Where the red Indian lays his father's dust,
And by the rushing of the torrent floods

To the Great Spirit, bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?
They are gone forth, the desert's warrior-race,

By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,

With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair,
And where art thou ?-thine arrows are not there.
They rest beside their streams—the spoil is won-

They hang their spears upon the cypress bough ;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done

They hear the tales of old—but where art thou ?
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine,
And there a place is fill'd that once was thine.
For thou art mingling with the city's throng,

And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests ! thou art borne along

E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. But will this be ? and canst thou here find rest? Thou hadst thy nature on the desert's breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear,

From the savannah-land, the land of streams? Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may heur?

Is not the forests shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again. Hear them not! hear them not !-thou canst not find

In the far wilderness what once was thine! Thou hast quaft'd knowledge from the founts of mind,

And gather'd loftier aims and hopes divine. Thou know'st the soaring thought, the immortal strain Seek not the deserts and the woods again!


In the full tide of melody and mirth

While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye,
Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth,

Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.
Forget him not, for many a festal hour,

Charm'd by those strains, for us has lightly flown,
And memory s visions, mingling with their power,

Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone.
Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays

Revive life's morning dreams when youth is fled,
And, fraught with images of other days,

Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.
His the dear art whose spells awhile renew

Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom
Oh! what were life, without such moments threw

Bright gleams,“ like angel-visits,” o'er its gloom?

Yes, thou hast met the sun's last smile

From the haunted hills of Rome;
By many a bright Ægean isle

Thou hast seen the billows foam.
From the silence of the Pyramid,

Thou hast watch'd the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid

The ancient realm below.



Thy heart hath burn'd, as shepherds sung

Some wild and warlike strain,
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung

Through the pealing hills of Spain.
And o'er the lonely Grecian streams

Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams

Of the glory that is gone.
But go thou to the pastoral vales,

Of the Alpine mountains old,
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales

By the wind's deep whispers told !
Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread

Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,

An offering unto Heaven.
For o'er the snows, and round the pines,

Hath swept a noble flood;
The nurture of the peasant's vines

Hath been the martyr's blood !
A spirit, stronger than the sword,

And loftier than despair,
Through all the heroic region pour'd,

Breathes in the generous air.
A memory clings to every steep

Of long-enduring faith,
And the sounding streams glad record keep

Of courage unto death.
Ask of the peasant where his sires

For truth and freedom bled ?
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires,

Where lay the holy dead ?-
And he will tell thee, all around,

On fount, and turf, and stone,
Far as the chamois' foot can bound,

Their ashes have been sown!
Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard, *

Up through the wilds to float,
When the dark old woods and caves are stirra

To gladness by the note.

* See Gilly's Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day ainong the upper regions of the


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