BRING FLOWERS. BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path— Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride! Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst, Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, 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! THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. "Alas! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair, MARMION. REST, pilgrim, rest!—thou 'rt from the Syrian land, 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, If I could hear that laughing voice again, -Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen 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, Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free- 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 me-but 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? |