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Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant

years will come-Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then,

my home?

“ Not as the dead !-no, not the dead !—We speak

of them we keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within

our bosoms deep! We hallow ev’n the lyre they touch'd, we love the

lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band

among! But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that

leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its

birth! I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may

swell When mine is a forgotten voice.--Woods, mountains,

home, farewell !

* And farewell, mother !—I have borne in lonely si

lence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and

strong! And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders

through the sky, And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.

Yes! I will speak!-within my breast whate'er hath

seem'd to be, There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have

gush'd for thee! Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou, my mother!

thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds what should have

been thine own!

“ Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness

to pine, Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow

than mine! Forgive me that thou couldst not love !-it may be,

that a tone Yet from my burning heart may pierce, through

thine, when I am gone! And thou perchance mayst weep for him on whom

thou ne'er hast smiled, And the grave give his birthright back to thy ne

glected child ! Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kin

dred dwell, And quench its thirst with love's free tears !- tis all

a dream-farewell !”

“ Farewell !"—the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast !
There had pass’d many changes o'er her brow,

And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted ; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried

Return, return, my son!”—the echo caught A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, Murmuring—“Return, my son!”.



It is related in a French Life of Ali Pacha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves

of the enemy.

SHE stood upon the loftiest peak,

Amidst the clear blue sky,
A bitter smile was on her cheek,

And a dark flash in her eye.

“Dost thou see them, boy ?-through the dusky pines

Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines ? Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's

crest ? My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with

joy? -That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!

For in the rocky strait beneath,

Lay Suliote sire and son ;
They had heap'd high the piles of death

Before the pass was won.

“ They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come!
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep."

And now the horn's loud blast was heard,

And now the cymbal's clang,
Till ev'n the upper air was stirr'd,

As cliff and hollow rang.

“ Hark! they bring music, my joyous child !

What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild !
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armed sire ?
-Still - be thou still !—there are brave men low-
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him


But nearer came the clash of steel,

And louder swell’d the horn,
And farther yet the tambour's peal
Through the dark pass was borne.

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