Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more-but once-and die!

Yet, no! 'midst breezy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,

Would win me from the bed of death-
O joyous Alpine horn!

But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!

Haunt me no more! for slavery's air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair
Be hush'd thou Alpine horn!

III-O YE VOICES.

O YE voices round my own hearth singing!
As the winds of May to memory sweet,
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?

Never, never, Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again?

Or if still around my heart ye linger,

Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come; Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer,

Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home,

Ne'er again!

IV.-I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I DREAM of all things free!

Of a gallant, gallant bark.

That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills

Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills---
Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain king!

In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing,

FAR O'ER THE SEA

1 follow some wild river,

On whose breast no sail may be ; Dark woods around it shiver

-I dream of all things free?

Of a happy forest child,

With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian 'midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way:
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer's greenwood tree :-
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free?

V.-FAR O'ER THE SEA.

WHERE are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee!

Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?

Under a kind blue sky,

Where doth my birthplace lie?
-Far o'er the sea.

Where floats the myrtle-scent
O'er vale and lea,

When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee?

Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
-Far o'er the sea?

Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me?

Where o'er the cabin roof

Waves the green tree?

Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?

-Far o'er the sea!

Dance on ye vintage bands,
Fearless and free!

Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father's tree!

Still smile, ye kind blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o'er the sea!

VI. THE INVOCATION.

OH! art thou still on earth, my love?
My only love!

407

Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?

Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love?
Thy light step gone?

And art thou not in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?

I see thee with thy gleaming hair,
In midnight dreams!

But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love!
Dwelt on thy brow;

But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!

And silent ever is thy lip,

And pale thy cheek ;

Oh! art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's,
Speak to me, speak!

VII. THE SONG OF HOPE.

DROOP not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain

We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night's chain; A flag is unfurl'd a bright star of the sea,

A ransom approaches-we yet shall be free!

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps:

Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,

Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam.

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea-
Droop not, my Brothers we yet shall be free!

THE BIRD AT SEA.

BIRD of the greenwood!
Oh! why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters

Far hence are at play-
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

Where the mast quivers,
Thy place will not be,

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS

As 'midst the waving

Of wild rose and tree.

How should'st thou battle

With storm and with spray?

Bird of the greenwood!

Away, away!

Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind
Vine leaves are fann'd'
'Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

"Chide not my lingering

Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark;

A heart that hath cherish'd
Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!

יין

409

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more ?-whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould."

Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.

BEAR them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds.
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!
Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is free
And the many-whispering tree.
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.
Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back
From its lone and viewless track,

With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the color'd earth!

Vol. II.--35

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,

Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth-of spring-time eves
Music-beauty-all she leaves!

Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.

Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove
Leaf and flower hath gushed her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!
Therefore, in the lily's leaf,
She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not-Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.
Therefore once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain,
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose.

THE IVY-SONG.*

On! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?

Ivy! thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er

Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more.

Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,

*This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely remoddled by Mrs. Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its fo-insertion here.