In silence wert thou left:

Come to thy sisters!-joyously again

All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.

Over thine orphan head

The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy Father!—it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.

In thy divine abode,

Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory-death by love no place: Come, spirit, to thy God!

A FAREWELL TO WALES.

FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE ASH GROVE," ON LEAVING, THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.

THE Sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear — Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain-air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand!

From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee!-yet not for the beauty which dwells

In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells,

Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore;

IMPROMPTU LINES.

205

And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled, -Green land, poet land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes!

May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

IMPROMPTU LINES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.

YE tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the Summer's murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers:
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing spring-
A fount of kindness ever new,

In a friend's heart, the good and true.

VOL. VI.- - 18

A PARTING SONG.

"Oh! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelquefois mes vers; mon ame y es empreinte." Corinne

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?—

When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought—
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends!
When will ye think of me?-

When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime-

When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread

Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?—

When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody-

When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream—
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!

WE RETURN NO MORE.

Kindly and gently, but as of one

For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone-
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found-
So let it be.

207

WE RETURN NO MORE!'

"When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,

I turn'd from all she brought to all she could not bring."
Childe Harold.

"WE return!-we return!-we return no more!" So comes the song to the mountain-shore,

For those that are leaving their Highland home
For a world far over the blue sea's foam:

"We return no more!" and through cave and dell Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er:
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart,
Where lovely things with their light depart:
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.

1 Ha til!-ha til!-ha til mi tulidle!—"we return!-we return!-we return no more!"-the burden of the Highland song of emigration.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay
Hath died from the summer woods away ?
When the glory from sunset's robe hath pass'd,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?

No!-it is not the rose that returns no more;
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;
And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers,
With a stream of love through the starry hours;
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues,

Nor the frail flush'd leaves which the wild wind strews.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore?
Those wings that follow the southern breeze,
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas?
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.

"But we!-we return!-we return no more!"
The heart's young dreams, when their spring is o'er
The love it hath pour'd so freely forth-
The boundless trust in ideal worth;

The faith in affection-deep, fond, yet vain-
These are the lost that return not again!