And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heardThe whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,

The scythe upon the mead:

Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,

There steals a step which mortals fear.

"Tis not the stag, that comes to lave, At noon, his panting breast;

'Tis not the bittern, by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is fill'd with summer's breath,

The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn'd to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page ;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour,
By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;

And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

"Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!

I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou!

"Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief-
Bid her a long farewell!

Like the morning's dew shall pass that griefThou comest with me to dwell!

"Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep Thy steed o'er the breezy hill;

But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and chill!"

SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.

"Was the voice I heard, thy voice, oh Death!
And is thy day so near?

Then on the field shall my life's last breath
Mingle with victory's cheer!

"Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note,
Above me as I die!

And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave,
Under the Syrian sky.

"High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall,-
Death, death! I fear thee not!"

"Warrior! thou bear'st a haughty heart,
But I can bend its pride!

How should'st thou know that thy soul will part
In the hour of victory's tide?

"It may be far from thy steel-clad bands,
That I shall make thee mine;

It may be lone on the desert sands,
Where men for fountains pine!

"It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some deep Paynim hold ;-

I have slow dull steps and lingering pains,
Wherewith to tame the bold!"

"Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest,
If this indeed must be:

But the Cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee!

"Sound, clarion, sound!-for my vows are given
To the cause of the holy shrine;

I bow my soul to the will of Heaven,
Oh Death!-and not to thine!"

281

SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.

OH! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back my own to me;

For if in thine I have no part,

Why should mine dwell with thee?*

Yet no! this mournful love of mine,

I will not from me cast;

Let me but dream 'twill win me thine,

By its deep truth at last!

The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the Ger

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
-Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!

TO THE

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY,

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE, AND LA MENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE.

"Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

When grief's full heart is fed by fame."-Byron.

THOU should'st have slept beneath the stately pines,
And with the ancestral trophies of thy race;
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place!
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread,
Thou bright young stranger 'midst the mighty dead!
Yet to thy name a noble rite was given,

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave,
Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven,
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave:

And thy dust blends with mould heroic there,
With all that sanctifies the inspiring air.

Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep,
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone

Thy childhood dwells-whose thoughts a record keep,
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone;

Of all thine early grace and gentle worth-
A vernal promise, faded now from earth!
But a bright memory claims a proud regret-
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs
Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet,
Whose soul can number with love's holy things,
A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot,
A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

I AM free!-I have burst through my galling chain,
The life of young eagles is mine again;

I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea,
I may rove where the wind roves-my path is free!
The streams dash in joy down the summer hill,
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will,

THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.

The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,
And is not my spirit as one of these?

Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers,
And the voices that ring through its forest bowers,
And the laughing glance of the founts that shine,
Lighting the valleys-all, all are mine!

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed,
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed;
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee-
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!

Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain?
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main?
Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar,
But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?
The bird when he pineth, may hush his song,
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong;
But thou-canst thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep, 'midst thy brethren ?-no, not for pride.
May the fiery word from thy lip find way,

When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day!
May the care that sits in thy weary breast
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest?

No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,

Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn;
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free!
No! thou art chain'd till thy race is run,
By the power of all in the soul of one;
On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be-
Dreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?

THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.

"La voila telle que la mort nous l'a faite."-Bossuet.

283

[Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that ex quisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment.-Curiosities of Lite rature.]

"TWAS a dream of olden days,

That Art, by some strange power,
The visionary form could raise
From the ashes of a flower,

That a shadow of the rose,

By its own meek beauty bow'd,

Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose,
Like pictures in a cloud.

Or the hyacinth, to grace,
As a second rainbow, Spring:
Of Summer's path a dreary trace,
A fair, yet mournful thing!
For the glory of the bloom

That a flush around it shed,
And the soul within, the rich perfume,
Where were they?-fled, all fled!
Nought but the dim faint line

To speak of vanish'd hours
Memory! what are joys of thine?
-Shadows of buried flowers!

LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.
CREATURE of air and light!
Emblem of that which will not fade or die!
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,

To chase the south wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay

With silence and decay,

Fix'd on the wreck of cold mortality?

The thoughts once chamber'd there,

Have gather'd up their treasure and are gone;
Will the dust tell thee where

That which hath burst the prison-house is flown?
Rise, nursling of the day!

If thou would'st trace its way

Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanish'd bird

Near the deserted nest and broken shell?
Far thence, by us unheard,

He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell:

Thou of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn!

Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruin'd cell.

THE BELL AT SEA.

[The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast of Fife, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, which was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the waves, when the tide rose above the rock. A lighthouse has since been erected there.]

WHEN the tide's billowy swell

Had reach'd its height,
Then toll'd the rock's lone bell,
Sternly by night.