1

Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven;
The deep is a strong and a fearful hold,
But thou its bar hast riven!

A wild and weary life is thine;

A wasting task and lone,
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine,
To all besides unknown!

A weary life! but a swift decay

Soon, soon shall set thee free;
Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read-
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled!
And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be;
A star to all the festive hall-

But who will think on thee?

None!-as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one 'midst throngs will say,

"A life hath been like a rain-drop shed,

For that pale quivering ray."

Wo for the wealth thus dearly bought!

-And are not those like thee,
Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below
From many a buried urn:
Wringing from lava-veins the fire,

That o'er bright words is poured;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.

But, oh! the price of bitter tears,

Paid for the lonely power

That throws at last, o'er desert years,
A darkly-glorious dower!

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strewed;
-The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!

And who will think, when the strain is sung,
Till a thousand hearts are stirred,
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gushed with every word?
None, none!-his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee;

And hast thou found where living waters burst?
Thou, that didst pine amidst us, in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!

Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore
The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee?-We call, as thou,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call

On the departed! Art thou blest and free?
-Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee
Were silent all!

O wrestler with the sea!

On morning's wings.

On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill? It hath no crown of victory to inherit

Be still, triumphant harmony! be still!

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling

Into rich floods of joy:-it is but pain

To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, To sink so fast, so heavily again!

THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.*

Thy path is not as mine-where thou art blest,
My spirit would but wither: mine own grief
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing,
Than all thy happiness.

HATH the summer's breath, on the south-wind borne,

Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn?
Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves,
To the river-shores, where the osier waves?
Or art thou come on the hills to dwell,
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell?
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread,
And the heath like a royal robe is spread?

There is joy where the song of the lark is heard,
Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird!
With the dancing of waters through copse and dell,
And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell.
Thou hast done well:-Oh! the seas are lone,

dying

On his own battle-field, at set of sun, With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guerdon

won.

Unto victorious death serenely on,

For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding,
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain!
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous
greeting,

Thou wak'st lone thirst-be hushed, exulting strain!

Be hushed, or breathe of grief!—of exile yearnings Under the willows of the stranger-shore; Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings, For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.

Breathe of deep love-a lonely vigil keeping Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to pine;

Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heaping,

In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine.

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing

From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undying

Of joy no more-bewildering harmony!

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast,
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest!
-Oh! who shall say, to a spirit free,
"There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?"

SECOND SIGHT.

Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspired, Though joy's illusions mock their votarist.-Maturin.

A MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!

A murmur of the soul which blends
With the flow of song and wine.
An eye that through the triumph's hour
Beholds the coming wo,

And dwells upon the faded flower

'Midst the rich summer's glow.

Ye smile to view fair races bloom
Where the father's board is spread;

I see the stillness and the gloom
Of a home whence all are fled.

• Published first in the Edinburgh Literary Journal.

I see the withered garlands lie Forsaken on the earth,

While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly Through the ringing hall of mirth.

I see the blood-red future stain

On the warrior's gorgeous crest; And the bier amidst the bridal train When they come with roses drest.

I hear the still small moan of Time,

Through the ivy branches made, Where the palace, in its glory's prime, With the sunshine stands arrayed.

The thunder of the seas I hear,

The shriek along the wave,

When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer Salute the parting brave.

With every breeze a spirit sends

To me some warning sign :

A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!

Oh! prophet heart! thy grief, thy power,

To all deep souls belong;

The shadow in the sunny hour,

The wail in the mirthful song.

Their sight is all too sadly clear-
For them a vail is riyen:

Their piercing thoughts repose not here,
Their home is but in Heaven.

THE SLEEPER.

For sleep is awful.-Byron.

OH! lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep,
On the worn spirit shed,
And eyes that wake to weep.

A holy thing from Heaven,
A gracious dewy cloud,
A covering mantle given

The weary to enshroud.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

Revere the pale still brow, The meekly-drooping head, The long hair's willowy flow.

Ye know not what ye do,

That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you Unto life's dim faded track.

Her soul is far away,

In her childhood's land, perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother's glance.

Some old sweet native sound
Her spirit haply weaves;
A harmony profound

Of woods with all their leaves;

A murmur of the sea,

A laughing tone of streams :-Long may her sojourn be

In the music-land of dreams! Each voice of love is there,

Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fairOh! lightly, lightly tread!

THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.

O, DIM, forsaken mirror!

How many a stately throng

Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours
Of the wine-cup and the song!

The song hath left no echo;

The bright wine hath been quaffed; And hushed is every silvery voice

That lightly here hath laughed.

Oh! mirror, lonely mirror,
Thou of the silent hall!

Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom-
Is this, too, vanished all?

It is, with the scattered garlands
Of triumphs long ago;
With the melodies of buried lyres;
With the faded rainbow's glow.

And for all the gorgeous pageants,
For the glance of gem and plume,
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath,
And vase of rich perfume.

Now, dim, forsaken mirror,
Thou givest but faintly back

The quiet stars, and the sailing moon,
On her solitary track.

And thus was man's proud spirit
Thou tellest me 't will be,

When the forms and hues of this world fade
From his memory, as from thee:

And his heart's long-troubled waters
At last in stillness lie,

Reflecting but the images

Of the solemn world on high.

HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRIS

TIAN.

CHURCH MUSIC.

"Thanks be to God for the mountains."

Howitt's Book of the Seasons.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon
Whose lights must never die;
We are guardians of an altar

Midst the silence of the sky;
The rocks yield founts of courage
Struck forth as by thy rod-
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
O God, our fathers' God!

For the dark, resounding heavens,

Where thy still small voice is heard,
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirred;
For the storms on whose free pinions

Thy spirit walks abroad

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master, Seeks there his wild delights;

But we for thy communion

Have sought the mountain sod

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

The banner of the chieftain

Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Can not reach our lofty caves;
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold

Of freedom's last abode;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee Our God, our fathers' God!

For the shadow of thy presence

Round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;
For the snows, and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial sod,

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

"All the train

Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas."

Milton.

AGAIN! oh, send those anthem notes again!
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs give echoes to the strain,
The banners tremble, as with victory!

Sing them once more!-they waft my soul away,
High where no shadow of the past is thrown;
No earthly passion through th' exulting lay,
Breathes mournfully one haunting under-tone.

All is of Heaven!-yet wherefore to mine eye,
Gush the quick tears unbidden from their source,
E'en while the waves of that strong harmony,
Sweep with my spirit on their sounding course?
Wherefore must rapture its full tide reveal,
Thus by the signs betokening sorrow's power?
-Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limits in its proudest hour!

TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.

Ave Maria! May our spirits dare
Look up to thine, and to thy son's above?

FAIR vision! thou 'rt from sunny skies,
Born where the rose hath richest dyes;
To thee a southern heart hath given
That glow of Love, that calm of Heaven,
And round thee cast th' ideal gleam,
The light that is but of a dream.

Far hence, where wandering music fills
The haunted air of Roman hills,
Or where Venetian waves of yore
Heard melodies they hear no more,
Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle
Hath known the sweetness of thy smile.
Or, haply, from a lone, dim shrine,
'Mid forests of the Apennine,
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell
Pass like a floating anthem-swell,
Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way
Shed blessings with their gentle ray.

Or gleaming through a chestnut wood,
Perchance thine island-chapel stood,
Where from the blue Sicilian sea,
The sailor's hymn hath come to thee,
And blessed thy power to guide, to save,
Madonna! watcher of the wave!

Byron.

Oh! might a voice, a whisper low,
Forth from those lips of beauty flow!
Couldst thou but speak of all the tears,
The conflicts and the pangs of years,
Which, at thy secret shrine revealed,
Have gushed from human hearts unsealed!

Surely to thee hath woman come,
As a tired wanderer back to home!
Unveiling many a timid guest,

And treasured sorrow of her breast,

A buried love-a wasting care

Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?

And did the poet's fervid soul

To thee lay bare its inmost scroll?

Murmuring up from the depth of the heart, When lovely things with their light depart, And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, And we feel that a joy is forever gone.

"We return-we return-we return no more!"
-Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er,
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the crimson from sun-set's robe hath passed,
Or the leaves are swept on the rushing blast?

No-it is not the rose that returns no more,
A soft spring's breath will its bloom restore,
And it is not the song that o'erflows the bowers

fire

And passion o'er th' Italian lyre,
Did they to still submission die,
Beneath thy calm, religious eye?

And hath the crested helmet bowed
Before thee, 'midst the incense-cloud?
Hath the crowned leader's bosom lone,
To thee its haughty griefs made known?
Did thy glance break their frozen sleep,
And win the unconquered one to weep?
Hushed is the anthem-closed the vow-
Thy votive garland withered now;
Yet holy still to me thou art,
Thou that hast soothed so many a heart!
And still must blessed influence flow
From the meek glory of thy brow.

Still speak to suffering woman's love,
Of rest for gentle hearts above;
Of Hope, that hath its treasure there,
Of Home, that knows no changeful air!
Bright form, lit up with thoughts divine,
Ave! such power be ever thine!

WE RETURN NO MORE.

"We return no more!"

Burden of the Highland Song of Emigration.

"WE return-we return-we return no more!" -So comes the song to the mountain shore, From those that are leaving their Highland Home, For a world far over the blue sea's foam; "We return no more!"-and through cave and dell,

Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.

"We return-we return-we return no more!" -So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er,

And it is not the glory of sunset's hues, Nor the frail flushed leaves that the wild wind strews.

"We return-we return-we return no more!' -Doth the bird sing thus from the brighter shore, Those wings that follow the Southern breeze, Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas? Yes from the lands of the vine and palm They come with the sunshine when waves grow calm.

"But We-We return-we return no more!"
The heart's young dreams when their bloom is o'er,
The love it hath poured so freely forth,
The boundless trust in ideal worth,
The faith in affection-deep, fond-yet vain,
These are the lost that return not again.

SONG.

WHAT Woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way

Along the Nile's green shore?
-Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning's fire-

But sunlight's touch-the kind-the warm-
This woke the mystic lyre!
This, this, awoke the lyre!

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour Their music forth on life,

Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er

The sounds of torrent strife? -Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,

Not e'en the triumph's hour;Love is the gifted and the strong To wake that music's power! His breath awakes that power!