The following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each is intended to be commemorative of some national recollection, popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Herder's "Stimmen der Völker in Liedern;" the execution is however different, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations. Most of those forming the present one have appeared, as well as the miscellaneous pieces attached to them, in the New Monthly Magazine. MOORISH BRIDAL SONG. It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and the bridal song is sung over her remains before they are borne from her home. See the Narrative of a Ten Years' Residence in Tripoli, by the sister-in-law of Mr. Tully. THE citron groves their fruit and flowers were strewing Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches wooing, Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls. Α song of joy, a bridal song came swelling, To blend with fragrance in those southern shades, And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids; And thus it flow'd ;-yet something in the lay Belong'd to sadness, as it died away. "The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling To leave the chamber of her infant years; Kind voices from a distant home are calling; She comes like day-spring-she hath done with tears; Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours! -Pour the rich odours round! "We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing; Though in her glance the light no more is mirth! Her sisters weep—but she hath done with tears! -Now may the timbrel sound!" Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal numbers? -One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more! One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers, Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore! Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread.-Weep for the young, the beautiful,—the dead! THE BIRD'S RELEASE. The Indians of Bengal and of the Coast of Malabar bring cages filled with birds Go forth, for she is gone! With the golden light of her wavy hair, She is gone to the fields of the viewless air; Her voice hath pass'd away! It hath pass'd away like a summer breeze, Where we may not trace its way. Go forth, and like her be free! With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye, And what is our grief to thee? |