THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

WE heard thy name, O Mina!

Far through our hills it rang; A sound more strong than tempests, More keen than armour's clang.

The peasant left his vintage,

The shepherd grasp'd the spearWe heard thy name, O Mina ! -The mountain-bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring,
As torrents to the sea,
From every dark sierra

So rush'd our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner,

Thine eye our beacon-sign, Thy name our trumpet, Mina!

-The mountain-bands are thine.

MOTHER! OH, SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

MOTHER! oh, sing me to rest

As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress'd.

Lay this tired head on thy breast! Flowers from the night-dew are closing, Pilgrims and mourners reposing: Mother! oh, sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest !

Weary is young life when blighted, Heavy this love unrequited; -Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore; There are murmurs-but not of the torrent, Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar.

'Tis a day of the spear and the banner,

Of armings and hurried farewells; Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards! Or start from your old battle-dells.

There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias

That have roll'd with your father's free blood: Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty Proud marks where their children have stood!

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription—“ Et in Arcadia ego.”]

THEY have wander'd in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;

They have climb'd o'er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain-moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:

Chaplets are on every brow

What hath staid the wanderers now?

Lo! a gray and rustic tomb,

Bower'd amidst the rich wood-gloom;

Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,

-"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

There is many a summer sound

That pale sepulchre around;

Through the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;

Glimpses of blue festal skies

Pouring in when soft winds rise;

Violets o'er the turf below

Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own

O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness gray
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something dimly from those old words felt,
-"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus? that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand---
Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?
-No! from that bright band of morn
Not one link hath yet been torn :
"Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer-bloom-

O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
'Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, -"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

THE WANDERING WIND.

THE Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves-
Whence is the thrilling magic

Of its tones among the leaves?

Oh! is it from the waters,

Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices

Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The Wind, the wandering Wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers,

Nor the fir-trees whispering low;

They are not of the waters,

Nor of the cavern'd hill: 'Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill. They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind!

and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.

'Have you not seen the nightingale,

A pilgrim cooped into a cage,

How doth she chant her wonted tale

In that her lonely hermitage?

Even there her charming melody doth prove,

That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.""
ROGER L'ESTRANGE.

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable; and that, when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and

irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem; and we may consider The King's Quair, composed by James of Scotland during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house."

1 In my literary pursuits," wrote Mrs Hemans at this time to a friend, "I fear I shall be obliged to look out for an amanuensis. I sometimes retain a piece of poetry several weeks in my memory, from actual dread of writing it down.... I was so glad you liked my little summer breathing strain, (The Summer's Call.') I assure you it quite consoled me for the want of natural objects of beauty around, to heap up their remembered images in one wild strain."