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Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath !
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers !
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride !
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead !
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gist—bring ye flowers, pale flowers !
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there !
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers !
“Alas! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair,
She had not known her child."
Rest, pilgrim, rest!—thou 'rt from the Syrian land,
Thou’rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know
By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part,
So full of hope, for that far country's bourne !
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return!
Thou 'rt faint-stay, rest thee from thy toils at last, Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the breeze,
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is pass'd,
The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou 'rt faint and worn-hear'st thou the fountain welling
By the grey pillars of yon ruin'd shrine ?
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling ?
-He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine !
He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood's time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade—the convent's vesper-chime.
And sit thou there!—for he was gentle ever ;
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' fever-
- There in his place thou’rt resting—where is he?
If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again !-how oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remember'd strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody !
– Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou seen
In that far land, the chosen land of yore,
A youth—my Guido-with the fiery mien,
And the dark eye of this Italian shore?
The dark, clear, lightning eye on heaven and earth
It smiled—as if man were not dust-it smiled!
The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth,
And I-my heart grew young before my child !
My blessed child !—I had but him—yet he
Fill'd all my home ev'n with o’erflowing joy,
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free-
-Where is he now ?-my pride, my flower, my boy!
His sunny childhood melted from my sight,
Like a spring dew-drop—then his forehead wore
A prouder look-his eye a keener light-
-I knew these woods might be his world no more!
He loved mebut he left me !-thus they go,
Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too much adored!
He heard the trumpet of the red-cross blow,
And bounded from me, with his father's sword !
Thou weep'st-I tremble—thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain
Where hosts have met-speak ! answer !—was he there?