Echo! in my heart Thus deep thoughts are lying, Silent and apart, Buried, yet undying; Till some gentle tone Wakening haply one, Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! -Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.1 THE MUFFLED DRUM. 2 THE muffled drum was heard But it told them not how dear, In a home beyond the main, Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour By a mountain-stream of Spain. The oaks of England waved O'er the slumbers of his race, But a pine of the Ronceval made moan Above his last, lone place; When the muffled drum was heard Brief was the sorrowing there, By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head: But a mother-soon to die, And a sister-long to weep, Even then were breathing prayers for him In that home beyond the deep; While the muffled drum was heard 1 This song is in the possession of Mr Power. Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq. THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. "Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep KEATS. In the next valley-glades." "Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." SHELLEY. MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream "Summer! I depart O light and laughing summer! fare thee well: No song the less through thy rich woods will swell, For one, one broken heart. "And fare ye well, young flowers! Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still, And wave in glory, colouring every rill, Known to my youth's fresh hours. "And ye, bright founts! that lie Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, "Will ye not send one tone Of sorrow through the pines ?-one murmur low? Shall not the green leaves from your voices know That I, your child, am gone? "No! ever glad and free Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell : "But thou, sweet boon! too late Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and [strong, In the dark hour of fate? So those two voices met; so Joy and Death THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. HARK! from the dim church-tower, The deep, slow Curfew's chime ! -A heavy sound unto hall and bower In England's olden time! Sadly 'twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth-flame In his children's eyes make light. Sternly and sadly heard, As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Flung out from every fane, Woe for the pilgrim then In the wild-deer's forest far! And woe for him whose wakeful soul, With lone aspirings fill'd, Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still'd! And yet a deeper woe For the watcher by the bed, Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread! For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep By the dying babe, her place, And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Yet not behold its face! Darkness in chieftain's hall! Darkness in peasant's cot! Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize! Heap the yule-faggots high Till the red light fills the room! It is home's own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth, And by its gladdening blaze, I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Of fear midst quivering joy. Yet must I perish if the gift depart— Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart! "The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul-a temple fill'd with thee! Seal'd would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free! "Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken, Whence the oracle hath fled; Like a harp which none might waken But a mighty master dead; Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd, Such would my spirit beSo mute, so void, so shatter'd, Bereft of thee! "Leave me not, Love! or if this earth If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth With the sparkle from the stream, With the light thy rainbow-presence throws With all th' Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!" MUSIC AT A DEATHBED. "Music! why thy power employ Only for the sons of joy? Only for the smiling guests BRING music! stir the brooding air A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, Such as the southern breeze Might waft, at golden fall of day, O'er blue, transparent seas! Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell Would lure me back to life, When my wean'd heart hath said farewell, And pass'd the gates of strife. Let not a sigh of human love Let no disturbing echo move But pour a solemn-breathing strain Fill'd with the soul of prayer! Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain, And trembling hope be there. Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought A passion unto music given, A sweet, yet piercing cry; A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven, A bright faith's victory! Deeper! Oh! may no richer power Can all which crowds on earth's last hour Away! and hush the feeble song, And let the chord be still'd! Far in another land ere long MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. ["I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin-a plain, quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here, at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle-his foot in the iron stirrup-his fingers reined the young warhorse to the last."-Notes and Reflections during a Ramble into Germany.] THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, And a banner in thy hand; Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, By a proudly mournful band. In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! The soldier's heart at thy step leapt high, Now may'st thou slumber-thy work is doneThou of the well-worn sword! From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone, But not to the festal board. The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, O lover of battle and trumpet-sound! A quiet home from the noonday's glare, THE FALLEN LIME-TREE. O JOY of the peasant! O stately lime! Wrapt in fairy dreams. O tree of our fathers! O hallow'd tree! Where shall now the weary |