Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;
Speak for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth.

THE ANGEL'S GREETING.

"Hark! they whisper-Angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.”—Pope.
COME to the land of peace.

Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away-
The sounds of weeping cease.

Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.

Come to the bright and blest,

And crown'd for ever! 'midst that shining band,
Gather'd to Heaven's own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!

Thou hast been long alone:

Come to thy mother!-on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.

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!

IMPROMTU LINES.-A PARTING SONG.

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;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fed,
-Green land, poet land of my home and my dead!
bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;
For the cottage hearths burning the stranger to greet,

299

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 Sumer'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.

A PARTING SONG.

"Oh! mes Amis, rappellez vous quelquefois mes vers; mon ame y est 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 filled 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 ve 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!

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.

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.
From 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;
Murinuring 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.

"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;

* Ha til!-ha til!-ha til mi tuli!!! we return we return!we return no more!"-the burden of the Highland song of emigration

WANDERING FEMALE SINGER-THE PALMER. 301

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 a 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 retuin!--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!

TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.

THOU hast loved and thou hast suffer'd!
Unto feeling decp and strong,

Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string-
I know it by thy song!

Thou hast loved-it may be vainly

But well-oh! but too well

Thou hast suffer'd all that woman's breast

May bear-but must not tell.

Thou hast wept and thou hast parted,

Thou hast been forsaken long,

Thou hast watch'd for steps that came not back

I know it by thy song!

By the low clear silvery gushing

Of its music from thy breast,

By the quivering of its flute-like swell

A sound of the heart's unrest.

By its fond and plaintive lingering,

On each word of grief so long,

Oh! thou hast loved and suffer'd much

I know it by thy song!

THE PALMER.

"The faded palm branch in his hand,

Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land."-Scott.

ART thou come from the far-off land at last?
Thou that hast wander'd long!

VOL. II.-26

Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass'd
With the merry voice of song.

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart
Thou wilt seek-but all are gone ;

They are parted e'en as waters part,

To meet in the deep alone!

And thou-from thy lip is fled the glow,

From thine eye the light of morn;

And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brow,
And thy cheek with life is worn.

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore
For thy wasted youth to pay?

Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more?
Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way?

"I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand,
Yet I call not my bright youth lost!

I have won but high thought in the Holy Land,
Yet I count not too dear the cost!

"I look on the leaves of the deathless tree-
These records of my track;

And better than youth in its flush of glee,

Are the memories they give me back!

They speak of toil, and of high emprise,

As in words of solemn cheer,

They speak of lonely victories

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear.

They speak of scenes which have now become

Bright pictures in my breast;

Where my spirit finds a glorious home,

And the love of my heart can rest.

The colors pass not from these away,
Like tints of shower or sun;

Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay,
Is the wealth my soul hath won!

"A rich light thence o'er my life's decline,
An inborn light is cast;

Fot the sake of the palm from the holy shrine,
I bewail not my bright days past!

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.

"Он! call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;

The Summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?