MOORISH GATHERING SONG.-ETC.-ETC.

VII.-MOORISH GATHERING SONG,

ZORZICO.

*

CHAINS on the cities! gloom in the air!
Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there.
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers!
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.

Come from the Darro!-changed is its tone;
Come where the streams no bondage have known;
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap,
Singing of freedom from steep to steep.

Come from Alhambra! garden and grove
Now may not shelter beauty or love.

Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers!

-Only the spear and the rock are ours.

VIII. THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

WE heard thy name, O Mina!

Far through our hills it rang;

A sound more strong than tempests,
More keen than armor's clang.

The peasant left his vintage,

The shepherd grasp'd the spear-
-We heard thy name, O Mina !
The mountain bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring,
As torrents to the sea,

From every dark sierra

So rush'd our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner,

Thine eye our beacon-sign,

Thy name our trumpet, Mina!

The mountain bands are thine.

IX.-MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

MOTHER! oh, sing me to rest

As in my bright days departed:
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted,

Songs for a spirit oppress'd.

Lay this tired head on thy breast!

Flowers from the night-dow are closing

39,

*The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorish melody

Pilgrims and mourners reposing-
-Mother, oh, sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest!
Weary is young life when blighted,
Heavy this love unrequited ;-
-Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

X.-THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES

THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles,
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore;
There are murmurs-but not of the torrent,
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar.
"Tis a day of the spear and the banner,
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards;
Or start from your old battle-dells.
There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias,
That have roll'd with your father's free blood;

Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty,
Proud marks where their children have stood!

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
HARK! from the dim church tower,
The deep slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came

From the fields of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearth-flame

In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word

And the red wine's foaming flow!

Uutil that sullen boding knell

Flung out from every fane,

On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then,

In the wild deer's forest far!

No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.

And woe for him whose wakeful soul,

With lone aspirings fill'd,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,

While the sounds of earth were still'd!

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

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And yet a deeper woe

For the watcher by the bed,

Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!

For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,

And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!

Darkness in peasant's cot!

While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fire-side's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow'd like rain,

Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries

Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high,

Till the red light fills the room!

It is home's own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne'er might be repeated.”—Byron.

THE Vesper-bell, from church and tower,
Had sent its dying sound

And the household, in the hush of eve,
Were met, their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet's

power

[thering hour"We rise on all our hills! come forth! 'tis thy country's gaThere's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each old battle

dell

[well! Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and proud fare

Then the father gave his son the sword,

Which a hundred fights had seen

'Away! and bear it back, my boy!

All that it still hath been!

"Haste! haste! the hunters of the foe are up, ana who shall

stand

The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?

Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion's blast,

With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages past.”

Then the mother kiss'd her son with tears

That o'er his dark locks fell:

"I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er,

Yet I stay thee not-Farewell!"

"One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!

It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's neart is stirr❜d.
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the fight,
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might."

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
"In the vigil in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!"

"Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter's chain is burst!

So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursedThe night is past, the silence o'er-on all our hills we riseWe wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of bat tle cries.",

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home,

When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

I.—AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription—“ Et in Arcadia ego."]

THEY have wander'd in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;

They have climb'd o'er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks.

THE WANDERING WIND.

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Unto them have yielded up

Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow-

What hath.staid the wand'rers now?
Lo! a grey and rustic tomb,

Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;

Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

There is many a summer sound

That pale sepulchre around;

Through the shade young birds are glancing,
Ensect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;

Glimpses of blue festal skies

Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o'er the turf below

Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own

O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something, dimly from those old words felt,
"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?
-No! from that bright band of morn,
Not cne link hath yet been torn ;
'Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer-bloom,
O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
'Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,
"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

II. THE WANDERING WIND.

THE Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves-