But a mother-soon to die,

And a sister-long to weep,

Even then were breathing prayers for him,
In that home beyond the deep;

While the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
And the dark pines mourn'd round,
O'er the soldier's burial rite.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK

“Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades,"-Keats.

"Higher still and higher

from the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."-Shelley

MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,

And where the sculpture of a broken shrine

Sent out through shadowy grass and thick wild flowers
Dim alabaster gleams-a lonely swan

Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet
Even painfully-as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the poet's thought
This was their language.

"Summer, I depart!

O light and laughing summer, fare thee well!
No song the less through thy rich woods swell,
For one, one broken heart.

"And fare ye well, young flowers!
Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odor still,
And wave in glory, coloring every rill,
Know to my youth's fresh hours.

"And ye, bright founts, that lie
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep-
Sweet waters! I must die.

"Will ye not send one tone

Of sorrow through the pines?-one murmur low?

སས- -—---་

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

Shall not the green leaves from your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?

"No, ever glad and free!

Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell,
Waves joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.

"But thou, sweet boon, too late

Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song!
Why comest thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong,
In the dark hour of fate?

"Only to wake the sighs

Of echo-voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say-O sunshine and blue skies!
O'life and love, farewell!"

Thus flow'd the death-chant on; while mournfully
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy,

Woke to respond and all the air was fill'd

With that one sighing sound-" Farewell, Farewell!"
-Fill'd with that sound? high in the calm blue heaven
Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds

Where floating round him all transpierced with light,
And 'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings
Quiver'd with song:-such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not, as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below-and thus that strain
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly.

"The summer is come; she hath said, 'Rejoice"
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice;

Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high ;
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!

"There is joy in the mountains; the bright waves leap,
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along-

Let the heavens ring with song!

"There is joy in the forests; the bird of night
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But mine is the glory to sunshine given-

Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!

"Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high-

-Sing, sing through the echoing sky!"

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush

387

Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heart-
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world-
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones
To startle and to pierce !-the dying swan's,
And the glad skylark's triumph and despair!"

SONGS OF SPAIN.*

I. ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.

FLING forth the proud banner of Leon again!

Let the high word "Castile !" go resounding through Spain!
And thou, free Asturias, encamped on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!

Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!

The voices are mighty that swell from the past,
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,

Their pines murmur song where bright blood had been shed.
Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again,
And shout ye "Castile! to the rescue for Spain !"

II. THE ZEGRI MAID.

{The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.]

THE summer leaves were sighing
Around the Zegri maid,

To her low sad song replying

As it fill'd the olive shade.

"Alas! for her that loveth

Her land's, her kindred's foe!

Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri's spirit go?

"From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress'd,

*Written for a set of airs, entitled Peninsular Melodies, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs. Goulding and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume

THE RIO VERDE SONG.

And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast."

Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,

While the crimson day was dying

In the whispery olive shade.

"And for all this heart's wealth wasted,
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,

Should I win back aught but scorn?

By aught but daily dying

Would my lone truth be repaid?"
-Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.

389

III. THE RIO VERDE SONG.

[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring to this stream in Percy's Reliques,

"Gentle river, gentle river,

Lo! thy streams are stain'd with gore."

will be rembered by many readers.]

FLow, Rio Verde !

In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth

To slumber from woe;

Bid thy wave's music

Roll through her dreams,

Grief ever loveth

The kind voice of streams.

Bear her lone spirit

Afar on the sound

Back to her childhood,

Her life's fairy ground;

Pass like the whisper

Of love that is gone

Flow, Rio Verde!
Softly flow on!

Dark glassy water

So crimson'd of yore!
Love, death, and sorrow
Know thy green shore.
Thou should'st have echoes
For grief's deepest tone-
Flow, Rio Verde,
Softly flow on!

33*

IV.-SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

SEEK by the silvery Darro,

Where jasmine flowers have blown;
There hath she left no footsteps?

-Weep, weep, the maid is gone!

Seek where our lady's image
Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep;
Hear ye not there her vespers ?
-Weep for the parted, weep!

Seek in the porch where vine-leaves
O'ershade her father's head?
-Are his grey hairs left lonely?
-Weep! her bright soul is fled.

V.-SPANISH EVENING HYMN.
AVE! now let prayer and music
Meet in love on earth and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
Turn from this cold world to thee!

From the wide and restless waters
Hear the sailor's hymn arise;

From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains,

Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices,
If o'erburden'd souls there be,

Dark and silent in their anguish,
Aid those captives set them free!
Touch them, every fount unsealing,
Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,

Aid, oh! aid to pray and weep!

VI.—BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE.

BIRD, that art singing on Ebro's side!

Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,

Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee?

Doth song avail thy full heart to free?

-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!

Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Bird! is it blighted affection's pain,

Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?

And is the wound of that arrow still'd,

When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd?

-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!

Teach me the spell of thy melody.