THE SUMMER'S CALL.

Then, then, rejoice, make music,
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!

VIII. THE SUMMER'S CALL.

COME away! the sunny hours
Woo thee far to founts and bowers.
O'er the very waters now,
In their play,

Flowers are shedding beauty's glow-
Come away!

Where the lily's tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing stream-
Come away!

All the air is filled with sound,
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray;

Faint winds whisper as they pass-
Come away;

Where the bee's deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells—
Come away!

In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue ;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day

Floats with leafy scents along—
Come away!

Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloom-
Come away!

In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night
Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright—
Come away!

Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!

Now each tree by summer crown'd,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Glancing there from sun to shade,
Bright wings play;

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There the deer its couch hath made-
Come away!

Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-time-

Come away-away!

IX.-OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

OH! Skylark, for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven's empyreal height!

With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreath me,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!
Free, free from earth-born fear,
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures,
As I wander'd on thy wing.

But oh! the silver chords,

That around the heart are spun,
From gentle tones and words,

And kind eyes that make our sun
To some low sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring,
There, there the dews of morning,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

"That voice re-measures

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of nature utter; birds or trees,

Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze."-Coleridge.

I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind,

A song of many tones-though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
-At times the passion-kindled melody

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave ;-at times the strain
Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre-yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant ;-" Leave me not!" was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled worle
Hath ever breathed to Love.

They crown me with the glistening crown
Borne from a deathless tree;

I hear the pealing music of renown-
O Love! forsake me not '

Mine were a lone dark lot

Bereft of thee!

They tell me that my soul can throw

A glory o'er the earth;

From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes

It gives to flower and skies,

A bright new birth !

Thence gleams the path of morning Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone!

Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning

With lustre not its own!

Thence every wood-recess

Is filled with lovelinss,

Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known

I see all beauty by the ray

That streameth from thy smile;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!

Can that sweet light beguile?

Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams ;
I clasp it with th' alloy

Of fear 'midst quivering joy,

Yet must I perish if the gift depart

Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

The music from my lyre

With thy swift step would flee

The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul-a temple fill'd with thee!

Seal'd would the fountains lie,

The waves of harmony,

Which thou alone canst free!

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled;

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Leave me not, Love! or if this earth

Yield not for thee a home,

If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers" Come!" Then, with the glory from the rose,

With the sparkle from the stream,

With the light thy rainbow-presence throws

Over the poet's dream;

With all th' Elysian hues

Thy pathway that suffuse,

With joy, with music, from the fading grove,

Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love.

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED

Music! why thy power employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal, or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair!"

WARTON from Euripides.

BRING music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!

Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!

Oh no! not such that lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,

When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,

And passed the gates of strife.

Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!

But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Fill'd with the soul of prayer!
Let a life's conflict fear and pain,
And trembling hope be there.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

Deeper, yet deeper! in my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:
A passion unto music given,
A sweet yet piercing cry :
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?

Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?

Away! and hush the feeble song,

And let the chord be still'd!

For in another land erelong

My dream shall be fulfill.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

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He

'I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin-a plain quiet ceno
taph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot
where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms.
fell here at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment,
the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the lea-
thern saddle-his foot in the iron stirrup-his fingers reined the
young war-horse to the last."-Notes and Reflections during a
Ramble in Germany.]

THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;

Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast
Thy long bright years had sped;

And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Many had fallen by thy side old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.

The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high
And thy voice the war-horse knew:

And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou the bold and true.

Now may'st thou slumber-thy work is done---
Thou of the well-worn sword!

From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.

The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd: