THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS

As 'midst the waving

Of wild rose and tree.

How should'st thou battle

With storm and with spray?

Bird of the greenwood!

Away, away!

Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind

Vine leaves are fann'd?
'Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

"Chide not my lingering

Where storms are dark;

A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark

A heart that hath cherish'd
Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!"

409

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more ?-whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which iny future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould."

Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.

BEAR them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds,
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!
Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is frec
And the many-whispering tree.
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.
Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back
Froin its lone and viewless track,

With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the color'd earth!

VOL. II.--35

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth-of spring-time eves-
Music-beauty-all she leaves!

Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.

Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove
Leaf and flower hath gushed her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!
Therefore, in the lily's leaf,

She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not-Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain,
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose.

THE IVY-SONG.*

OH! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?

Ivy! thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er

Where song and beaker once went round,

But now are known no more.

Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman on his battle-plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,

*This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely remoddled by Mrs. Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.

THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.

With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victor's tent:

Though shining there in deathless green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave

Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead,

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread-
Ivy! they know thee well!

And far above the festal vine,

Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine,
-The Rhine, still fresh and young!

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down-
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have passed, and left no trace.
But thou art there!-serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!

Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,

Palace, hearth, and shrine.

'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread
O'er classic plains through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,
-Days pass-thou Ivy never sere,*
And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine-
Temple, pillar, shrine!

THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.

411

The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost un rivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced, is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself; which though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognize it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old ;-a place

"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas.

to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.]

"All the choir

Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas."-Milton.

AGAIN! oh, send that anthem peal again
Through the arch'd-roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!

Such sounds the warrior awe struck might have heard,
While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown:

Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr❜a,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!
Those notes once more! they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay,
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.
All is of Heaven!-Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source?
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!
Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
-Oh! is it not that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON. [This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos end other characteristics analogous to those of the national music | DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son Silent and dark!

There is blood upon the threshold

Whence thy step went forth at morn,

Like a dancer's in its fleetness,

Oh, my bright first-born !

At the glad sound of that footstep,

My heart within me smiled;

-Thou wert brought me back all silent

On thy bier my child!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

I thought to see thy children
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow's voice is lonely
Where my life's flower lies

FAR AWAY

THE LYRE AND FLOWER

I shall go to sit beside thee,

Thy kindred's graves among;

I shall hear the tall grass whisper-
I shall hear it not long!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;

Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!

Silent and dark!

And I too shall find slumber

With my lost one, in the earth;

Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!

Let the roof go down!-let silence
On the home for ever fall,

Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother's call!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

FAR AWAY.

FAR away!-my home is far away.

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore; In the woods I hear my brothers play,

'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, Far away!

Far away! my dreams are far away,

When at midnight, stars and shadows reign; "Gentle child," my mother seems to say, "Follow me where home shall smile again! Far away!

Far away! my hope is far away,

Where love's voice young gladness may restore ;
-O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

A LYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd
Forth on the wild wind's track;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord.
But gave no music back.

-Oh, child of song!

Bear hence to heaven thy fire!

What hopest thou from the reckless throng;
Be not like that lost lyre!

413