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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
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier's burial-rite.

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
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep rolling sound,
Which call'd strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial-rite.

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
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep rolling sound,
And the dark pines mourn'd round,
O'er the soldier's burial-rite.

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
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out thro'shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers
Dim alabaster gleams-a lonely swan
Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet,
Even painfully-as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the poet's thought
This was their language.

"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,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep-
Sweet waters! I must die.

"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 :
Waves, joyous waves! flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.

"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?

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So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,—
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heart—
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world-
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones,
To startle and to pierce !-the dying swan's,
And the glad skylark's—triumph and despair!"

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,
Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful
And the red wine's foaming flow! [word,
Until that sullen, boding knell,

Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then

In the wild-deer's forest far!
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.

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!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.

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,

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I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones-though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
-At times the passion-kindled melody
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;-at times the strain
Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre. Yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant-" Leave me not!" was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world, amidst th' o'erpeopled world,
'Hath ever breathed to Love.

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Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th' alloy

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
Yield not for thee a home,

If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers 'Come!'
Then, with the glory from the rose,

With the sparkle from the stream,

With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;

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
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair!"
WARTON from EURIPIDES.

BRING music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!

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
Blend with the song its tone!

Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!

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
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:

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
Be in those notes enshrined?

Can all which crowds on earth's last hour
No fuller language find?

Away! and hush the feeble song,

And let the chord be still'd!

Far in another land ere long
My dream shall be fulfill'd.

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,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head.

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.

The soldier's heart at thy step leapt high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.

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,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:

O lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode !

A quiet home from the noonday's glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair
To win thee but this at last?

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

O JOY of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time !
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen'd our gray forefathers
From the noontide's glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch'd with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets

Wrapt in fairy dreams.

O tree of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?

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