Chapter I: Preface (1)

Many of the following poems have appeared, within the last two years, in different periodical publications, and are now, by permission, inserted in this collection.

The tragedy at the end of the volume, is founded upon an incident well known in the history of Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction. Niccolini has written a classic play upon the subject, of which the author of this piece has availed herself in part of the first scene of the first act, and in a few occasional passages of scene first of the fifth act. The conduct of the plot, and the leading incidents, differ materially from those of Niccolini.

The author takes this opportunity to render her grateful acknowledgments to the distinguished lady, Miss Phillips, who sustained the part of the heroine; and to whose talents and exertions the play was indebted for its success in representation.

INDEX.

The Sepulchres, PAGE 13

Lake Ontario, 22

The Prince and the Palm Tree, 24

Hacon, 26

The Forest Temple, 29

Oh! her glance is the brightest that ever has shone, 31

To a Waterfall, 32

The Sea Kings, 34

The waves that on the sparkling sand, 36

Is this a Day of Death? 37

Paraphrase of the one hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm, 38

The cloud where sunbeams soft repose, 40

Like southern birds, 41

The Loss of the Anio, 42

The Guardian Genius, 47

Stanzas, 49

Song--the closing year, 51

Scene from Alfieri’s Tragedy of Saul, 53

The Vanity of the Vulgar Great, 59

Sonnet--Rome in ruins, 61

Fables, 62

O’er the far mountain peak on high, 65

Incantation of Hervor, 66

Death, 69

Enthusiasm, 71

The Dying Poet, 74

I would I were the light winged bird, 80

Midnight Thoughts, 82

Song of the Jewish Exiles, 84

The Druids’ Hymn, 86

The Blind Harper, 88

The Mermaid’s Song, 90

Susquehanna, 91

Romance, 94

The Death of St. Louis, 96

Complaint of Harald, 100

Echo, 102

Epigram, _ib._

The Pictured Rocks, 103

Sunset, 107

To the Lance-fly, 108

The Division of the Earth, 109

In yonder lake of silver sheen, 111

The Swallows, 112

Nature, 114

Lines, 116

Fragment from “Ildegonda,” 117

A Life spent in Pursuit of Glory, 119

The Wish, 120

The Northern Hunter’s Song, 121

From Ippolito Pindemonte--The Poet’s Last Dwelling, 123

From mountains at the dawn of day, 125

The Witches’ Revel, 126

Song, 128

Sodus Bay, 130

Notes, 133

Teresa Contarini--a tragedy, 137

POEMS.

THE SEPULCHRES.[1]

FROM THE ITALIAN OF UGO FOSCOLO.

Beneath the cypress shade, or sculptured urn
By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death
Less heavy?--When for me the sun no more
Shall shine on earth, to bless with genial beams
This beauteous race of beings animate--
When bright with flattering hues the coming hours
No longer dance before me--and I hear
No more, regarded friend, thy dulcet verse,
Nor the sad gentle harmony it breathes--
When mute within my breast the inspiring voice
Of youthful poesy, and love, sole light
To this my wandering life--what guerdon then
For vanished years will be the marble reared
To mark my dust amid the countless throng
Wherewith the Spoiler strews the land and sea?

Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man’s last friend,
Hope, flies the tomb; and dim forgetfulness
Wraps in his rayless night all mortal things:
Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes
Its tribute--and o’er man, his sepulchres,
His being’s lingering traces, and the relics
Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads.

Yet why hath man, from immemorial years,
Yearned for the illusive power that may retain
The parted spirit on life’s threshold still?
Doth not the buried live, e’en though to him
The day’s enchanted melody is mute,
If yet life’s music with fond memories
He wake in friendly breasts? Oh! ’tis from heaven,
This sweet communion of abiding love!
A boon celestial! By its charm we hold
Full oft a solemn converse with the dead;
If yet the pious earth, that nourished once
Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast
Yielding a last asylum, shall protect
Their sacred relics from insulting storms,
Or step profane--if some secluded stone
Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave
Its fragrant shade above their honored dust.

But he who leaves no heritage of love,
Is heedless of an urn; and if he look
Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost
Among the wailings of infernal shores;
Or hides itself beneath the sheltering wings
Of God’s forgiving mercy; while his bones
Moulder unrecked of on the desert sand,
Where never loving woman pours her prayer,
Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh
Which mourning nature sends us from the tomb.

New laws now banish from our yearning gaze
The hallowed sepulchres, and envious strip
Their honors from the dead. Without a tomb
Thy votary sleeps, Thalia! he who sung
To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared
His bays to weave a coronal for thee.
And thou didst wreathe with gracious smiles his lay
That stung the Sardanapalus of our land,[2]
Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the lowing
Of cattle pasturing in Ticino’s fields,
His source of boasted wealth. Oh, muse inspired!
Where art thou? No ambrosial air I breathe
Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers
Where now I sigh for home. Here wert thou wont
To smile on him beneath yon linden tree,
That now with scattered foliage seems to weep
Because it droops not o’er the old man’s urn
Who once sought peace beneath its cooling shade.
Perchance thou, goddess, wandering among graves
Unhonor’d, vainly seek’st the spot where rests
Parini’s sacred head! The city now
To him no space affords within her walls,
Nor monument, nor votive line. His bones
Perchance lie sullied with some felon’s blood,
Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved.
See’st thou the lone wild dog among the tombs
Howling with famine, roam--raking the dust
From mouldering bones--while from the skull through which
The moonlight streams, the noisome hoopoe flies,
And flaps his hateful wings above the field
Spread with funereal crosses--screaming shrill,
As if to curse the light the pious stars
Shed on neglected burial-grounds?--In vain
Dost thou invoke upon thy poet’s dust
The sweet distilling dews of silent night:
There spring no flowers on graves by human praise
Or tears of love unhallowed!
From the days
When first the nuptial feast, and judgment seat,
And altar, softened our untutor’d race,
And taught to man his own and others’ weal,
The living treasured from the bleaching storm
And savage brute, those sad and poor remains
By nature destined to a lofty fate.
Then tombs became the witnesses of pride,
And altars for the young: thence gods invoked,
Uttered their solemn answers; and the oath
Sworn on the father’s dust was thrice revered.
Hence the devotion, which with various rites,
The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love,
Transmits us through the countless lapse of years.

Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave
The temple floors--nor fumes of shrouded corpses,
Mixed with the altar’s incense, smite with fear
The suppliant worshipper--nor cities frown
Ghastly with sculptured skeletons--while leaped
Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright,
Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm,
And listening for the groans of wandering ghosts,
Imploring vainly from their impious heirs
Their gold bought masses.--But in living green
Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade
O’er unforgotten graves, scattering in air
Their grateful odors; vases rich received
The mourners’ votive tears. There pious friends
Enticed the day’s pure beam to gild the gloom
Of monuments--for man his dying eye
Turns ever to the sun; and every breast
Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light!
There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray,
Watering sweet amaranths and violets
Upon the funeral sod; and he who came
To commune with the dead, breathed fragrance round,
Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields.
Sublime and fond illusion! This endears
The rural burial place to British maids,
Who wander there to mourn a mother lost,
Or supplicate the hero’s safe return,
Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled,
To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.[3]

Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds,
And wealth and fear are ministers to life,
Unhallowed images of things unseen,
And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves
And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar great,
Italia’s pride and ornament, may boast
Enduring tombs in costly palaces,
With their sole praise--ancestral names--inscribed.
For us, my friend, be quiet couch prepared,
Where fate, for once, may weary of his storms,
And friendship gather from our urn, no treasure
Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm,
And models of free song!
Yes--Pindemonte!
The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds
By great men’s monuments--and they make fair
And holy to the pilgrim’s eye, the earth
That has received their trust. When I beheld
The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble genius[4]
Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth’s kings,
Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed the nations
What tears and blood defiled them--when I saw
His mausoleum,[5] who upreared in Rome
A new Olympus to the Deity--
And his,[6] who ’neath heaven’s azure canopy
Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved
Irradiate countless systems--treading first
For Albion’s son, who soared on wings sublime,
The shining pathways of the firmament--
Oh! blest art thou, Etruria’s queen! I cried--
For thy pure airs, so redolent of life,
And the fresh streams thy mountain summits pour
In homage at thy feet. In thy blue sky
The glad moon walks--and robes with silver light
Thy vintage-smiling hills; and valleys fair,
Studded with domes and olive groves, send up
To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers.
Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine
That cheered the Ghibelline’s indignant flight;[7]
And thou the parents and sweet tongue didst give
To him, the chosen of Calliope,[8]
Who Love with purest veil adorning--Love
That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome--
Restored him to a heavenly Venus’ lap.
Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose
Italia’s buried glories! all, perchance,
She e’er may boast! since o’er the barrier frail
Of Alpine rocks the o’erwhelming tide of fate
Hath swept in mighty wreck her arms--her wealth--
Altars--and country--and save memory--all!

Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds,
In daring minds, for Italy enslaved
Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs
In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft.
Indignant at his country, here he strayed
O’er Arno’s desert plain, and looked abroad
With silent longing on the field and sky:
And when no living aspect soothed his grief,
Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow
There sat the paleness, with the hope, of death.
With them he dwells for ever! Here his bones
Murmur a patriot’s love.
Oh, truly speaks
A god from this abode of pious rest!
The same that fired of old in Grecian bosoms
Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon,
Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone.
The mariner since, whose white sails woo the winds
Before Eubœa’s isle, through midnight deep
Hath seen the lightning flash of gleaming casques,
And swift encountering brands; seen blazing pyres
Roll forth their volumed vapors--phantom warriors
Begirt with steel, and striding to the fight:
While in night’s silence, o’er the distant shores,
From those tumultuous phalanxes was borne
The clang of arms--and trumpet’s hoarse response--
The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs
Above the helmed dead--and mingling wild,
Wails of the dying--hymns of victory--
And high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant.[9]

Happy, my friend, who in thine early years
Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds!
If e’er the pilot steered thy wandering bark
Beyond the Egean isles, thou heardst the shores
Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds;
And the proud surge exult, that bore of old
Achilles’ armor to Rhetœum’s shore
Where Ajax sleeps.[10] To souls of generous mould
Death righteously awards the meed of fame:
Nor subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave
The perilous spoils to Ithaca--when waves
Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods,
Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark.

For me, whom years and love of high renown
Impel through far and various lands to roam,
The muses, ever waking in my breast
Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead.
They sit and guard the sepulchres:--and when
Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to ruin,
The gladdened desert echoes with their song,
And its loud harmony subdues the silence
Of noteless ages.
Yet on Ilium’s plain,
Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes
Devout, gleams starlike an eternal shrine.
Eternal for the nymph espoused by Jove,
Who bore her royal lord the son whence sprung
Troy’s ancient city and Assaracus,
The fifty sons of Priam’s regal line,
And the wide empire of the Latin race.
She, listening to the Fates’ resistless call
That summoned her from vital airs of earth
To choirs Elysian, of Heaven’s sire besought
One boon in dying.--“Oh! if e’er to thee,”
She cried--“this fading form, these locks were dear,
And the soft cares of love--since destiny
Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least
That thine Electra’s fame in death survive!”
She prayed and died. Then shook the Thunderer’s throne,
And bending in assent, the immortal head
Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks
To sanctify her tomb.--Ericthon there
Reposes; there the dust of Ilus lies.
There Trojan matrons with dishevelled hair
Sought vainly to avert impending fate
From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassandra stood,
O’erfraught with Deity, and told the ruin
That hung o’er Troy--and poured her wailing song
To solemn shades--and led the children forth--
And taught to youthful lips the fond lament.
Sighing she said--“If e’er the gods permit
Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled slaves,
Your hands shall feed your haughty conquerors’ steeds,
Your country ye will seek in vain! Yon walls
By mighty Phœbus reared, shall cumber earth
In smouldering ruins. Yet the gods of Troy
Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs;--Heaven grants
One proud last gift--in grief a deathless name.
Ye cypresses and palms! by princely hands
Of Priam’s daughters planted! ye shall grow,
Watered full soon, alas! by widows’ tears!
Guard ye my fathers! He who shall withhold
The impious axe from your devoted trunks,
Shall feel less bitterly his stroke of grief,
And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand.
Guard ye my fathers! One day shall ye mark
A sightless wanderer ’mid your ancient shades:
Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace
The hallowed urns, and question of their trust.
Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply
In hollow murmur, and give up the tale
Of Troy twice razed to earth, and twice rebuilt;
Shining in grandeur on the desert plain,
To make more lofty the last monument
Raised for the sons of Peleus. There the bard,
Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song,
A glorious immortality shall give
Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned
Which ancient ocean wraps in his embrace.
And thou too, Hector! shalt the meed receive
Of pitying tears, where’er the patriot’s blood
Is prized or mourned--so long as yonder sun
Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woes!”

LAKE ONTARIO.

Deep thoughts o’ershade my spirit while I gaze
Upon the blue depths of thy mighty breast:
Thy glassy face is bright with sunset rays,
And thy far-stretching waters are at rest,
Save the small wave that on thy margin plays,
Lifting to summer airs its flashing crest;
While the fleet hues across thy surface driven,
Mingle afar in the embrace of heaven.

Thy smile is glorious when the morning’s spring
Gives half its glowing beauty to the deep;
When the dusk swallow dips his drooping wing,
And the gay winds that o’er thy bosom sweep,
Tribute from dewy woods and violets bring,
Thy restless billows in their gifts to steep.
Thou’rt beautiful when evening moonbeams shine,
And the soft hour of night and stars is thine.

Thou hast thy tempests too--the lightning’s home
Is near thee though unseen; thy peaceful shore,
When storms have lashed these waters into foam,
Echoes full oft the pealing thunder’s roar.
Thou hast dark trophies--the unhonored tomb
Of those now sought and wept on earth no more--
Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave,
Lies whelmed and still beneath thy sullen wave.

The world was young with thee;--this swelling flood
As proudly swelled, as purely met the sky,
When sound of life roused not the ancient wood,
Save the wild eagle’s scream, or panther’s cry.
Here on this verdant bank the savage stood,
And shook his dart and battle-axe on high,
While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue,
As deeper and more close the conflict grew.

Here too at early morn the hunter’s song
Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade;
And here at eve, these clustered bowers among,
The low sweet carol of the Indian maid,
Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long,
That kept her lingering lover from the shade:
While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o’er,
Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore.

Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years
Has breathed on all around--save thee alone.
More faintly the receding woodland hears
Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own.
Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears
To tell their tale--forgotten or unknown.
Yet here unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie,
Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky.

THE PRINCE AND THE PALM TREE.

Abderahman, the first king of Moorish Spain, is said to have been
the first who transplanted the palm from the East into Spain. He is
represented as frequently addressing it with great feeling, connecting
it with recollections of his native land, whence he had been driven by
the usurper of his rightful throne.

Beautiful palm! though strange and rude
The gales that breathe around thee here,
Though in ungenial solitude
There bloom no kindred foliage near--
Yet lovely tree, no foreign hand
Shall rear thee in the stranger’s land.

My fellow exile!--dost thou sigh
For thy lost native soil again--
For the warm rays of Syria’s sky,
Her bowers of fragrance, or the plain
Where thy broad leaves once joyed to lave
Their verdure in the southern wave?

Across the sunlight hours of glee
Do memories of sadness come,
That speak of groves beyond the sea,
That whisper of a glorious home?
Dost thou partake my grief, when here
I bathe thy stem with many a tear?

Ah no! thou drink’st the beams of day
As if thy country’s air they blest;
As proudly do thy branches play,
Fanned by the breezes of the west.
The glad earth yields a soil as light--
The heaven above thee shines as bright.

But I, a pilgrim desolate,
Must mourn unheeded and alone;
Thou sharest with me the exile’s fate--
The exile’s sorrow is mine own!
Still glorious in thy reckless pride
Wave thou--while I weep by thy side!

HACON.

The clash of arms in battle’s rout
Was heard on Storda’s shore;
The war-steed’s tramp--the victor’s shout--
Blent with the billows’ roar.
There standard, helm, and burnish’d shield
Were mingled on the plain--
And blood, like rivers, from that field
Crimsoned the shuddering main.

Amid the plumed and martial host,
With lofty step and bold,
A warrior strode! a monarch’s boast
His kingly bearing told.
And well that boast his arm of might
In glorious deeds redeemed--
A meteor in the gathering night
The sword of HACON gleamed.

* * * * *

The storm was o’er; from lurid skies
Looked forth each silent star:
And forms that never more should rise
Cumbered the ground afar.
And o’er them stalks the conqueror now,
With step and glance of pride;
The hue of slaughter on his brow--
His falchion at his side.

His red blade rested on the dead,
He laid his helmet by;
When hark! a sudden courser’s tread--
Is it a foeman nigh?
His ready arm has grasped the spear--
Why falls it from his hand?
Why mutely and with glance of fear
Greets he that midnight band?

Lo! shield, and crest, and lance were there,
And casque of glittering gold;
And long bright waves of shining hair
Beneath each helmet rolled.
Each on a dark steed mounted high,
He saw the shadowy train--
He knew the Maids of Destiny--
The CHOOSERS OF THE SLAIN!

Like music on the breath of night
Their softened chorus came--
As bending in the wan moon’s light,
They called on HACON’S name.
“Hero! there’s mirth in Odin’s hall,
The royal feast is spread--
Thou son of Yngvon! thee we call
To banquet with the dead!

High in Valhalla’s starry dome
The gods expecting stand--
They wait thy presence--conqueror--come!
There’s joy in that green land!
Haste, sisters, haste! Ere midnight fall,
His welcome we prepare--
And tell the guests in Odin’s hall
HACON will meet them there!”

The forms are gone. The quivering gale
Their echoed voices bore--
The warrior king, all cold and pale,
Lay on that lonely shore.--
They buried his corse beside the wave,
His good sword by his side;--
The only requiem o’er his grave,
The moanings of the tide!

THE FOREST TEMPLE.

Lonely, and wild, and vast! Oh, is not here
A temple meet for worship? These tall trees
Stand like encircling columns, each begirt
With the light drapery of the curling vine;
While bending from above their woven leaves
Like shadowy curtains hang; the trembling light
Steals sparkling through, tinged with an added beauty
Of bright and changeful green. Sweeping their tops,
The low deep wind comes with a solemn tone,
Like some high organ’s music, and the stream
With rushing wave makes hallowed symphony.
Is not religion here? Doth not her voice
Speak in those deep-toned murmurs? Aye! not less
’Tis sweetly uttered in the wild bird’s note,
That upward with its hymn of joy and love
Soars to the clear blue sky. The heaving ground
Robed in its verdant mantle--the cool spring
That gushes forth its joy, and sends abroad
A radiant blessing to the thirsty earth--
The glowing flowers that throng its mossy brink,
Shedding their perfumes to the breezes round--
Are redolent of her. Who then would seek
To pour his heart’s devotion in a shrine
Less mighty--less majestic? Who would quit
A temple canopied by arching heaven,
Fraught with the melody of heaven’s free winds,
Nature his fellow worshipper, to bow
In man’s frail sanctuaries? Who feels not
In the lone forest depths at this still hour,
A thrill of holy joy, that lifts the soul
Above the thoughts of earth, and gives it power
Nearer to commune with its kindred heaven?

OH! HER GLANCE IS THE BRIGHTEST THAT EVER HAS SHONE.

Oh! her glance is the brightest that ever has shone,
And the lustre of love’s on her cheek:
But all the bewildering enchantment is gone
The moment you hear her speak!

In the heart-winning smile that illumines her face,
Fair Wisdom’s fit shrine you may see;
But grieve, while you gaze on that temple of grace,
That Folly the priestess should be.

TO A WATERFALL.[11]

Wild is your airy sweep,
Billows that foam from yonder mountain side--
Dashing with whitened crests and thundering tide
To seek the distant deep!

Now to the verge ye climb,
Now rush to plunge with emulous haste below;
Sounding your stormy chorus as ye go--
A never ending chime!

Leaping from rock to rock,
Unwearied your eternal course ye hold;
The rainbow tints your eddying waves unfold,
The hues of sunset mock!

Why choose this pathway rude,
These cliffs by gray and ancient woods o’ergrown?
Why pour your music to the echoes lone
Of this wild solitude?

The mead in green array,
With silent beauty woos your loved embrace;
Would lead you through soft banks, with devious grace,
Along a gentler way.

There, as ye onward roam,
Fresh leaves would bend to greet your waters bright:--
Why scorn the charms that vainly court your sight,
Amid these wilds to foam?

Alas! our fate is one--
Both ruled by wayward fancy!--All in vain
I question both! My thoughts still spurn the chain--
Ye--heedless--thunder on!

THE SEA KINGS.

“They are rightly named Sea Kings,” says the author of the Inglingasaga,
“who never seek shelter under a roof, and never drain their drinking
horn at a cottage-fire.”

Our realm is mighty ocean,
The broad and sea-green wave
That ever hails our greeting gaze--
Our dwelling place and grave!
For us the paths of glory lie
Far on the swelling deep;
And brothers to the tempest,
We shrink not at his sweep!

Our music is the storm blast
In fierceness revelling nigh,
When on our graven bucklers gleam
His lightnings glancing by.
Yet most the flash of war-steel keen
Is welcome in our sight,
When flies the startled foeman
Before our falchions’ light.

We ask no peasant’s shelter,
We seek no noble’s bowers;
Yet they must yield us tribute meet,
For all they boast is ours.
No castled prince his wide domain
Dares from our yoke to free;
And, like mysterious Odin,
We rule the land and sea.

Rear high the blood-red banner!
Its folds in triumph wave--
And long unsullied may it stream
The standard of the brave!
Our swords outspeed the meteor’s glance--
The world their might shall know,
So long as heaven shines o’er us,
Or ocean rolls below.

THE WAVES THAT ON THE SPARKLING SAND.

The waves that on the sparkling sand
Their foaming crests upheave,
Lightly receding from the land,
Seem not a trace to leave.
Those billows in their ceaseless play,
Have worn the solid rocks away.

The summer winds, which wandering sigh
Amid the forest bower,
So gently as they murmur by,
Scarce lift the drooping flower.
Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom,
Spring’s withered beauties to the tomb.

Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne,
Their impress leave behind;
And spirits, which their bonds would spurn,
The blighting traces find.
’Till altered thoughts and hearts grown cold,
The change of passing years unfold.

IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH?

Is this a day of death?
The heavens look blithely on the laughing earth,
And from her thousand vales a voice of mirth
And melody is springing; with the breath
Of smiling flowers that lift their joyous heads,
Bright with the radiant tears which evening sheds.

Hath sorrow’s voice been heard
With her low plaint, and broken wail of wo?--
Hark to the play of waves!--and glancing now
Forth from his leafy nest the exulting bird
Pours his wild carol on the fragrant gale,
Bidding the sunbright woods and waters hail!

Hath happiness departed
From this glad scene? Is there a home--a hearth
Made desolate? Alas! the tones of earth
Sound not in concert with the broken-hearted!
Yon sea--the gorgeous sun--the azure sky--
Were never meant to mourn with things that die!

PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM.

We sate us mourning by the shore
Where Babel’s waters glide;
The tears our aching eyelids bore
Ran mingling with the tide:
And there, where desert breezes swept,
The way-worn exiles leaned and wept--
The desert breeze replied:
While on the drooping boughs, unstrung,
Our tuneless, broken harps we hung.

Exulting foes stood taunting by,
To curse the captive throng;
Bade us, in bitter mockery,
Awake the glorious song
That erst, ere Zion’s honors fell,
High from her towers was wont to swell,
In triumph loud and long.
“Are Judah’s minstrels mute!” they cry--
“Quenched is the soul of melody?”

And shall we touch the lyre again,
At heathen foe’s command?
No--hushed let every chord remain!--
Chained in a foreign land,
For ever mute--if thou depart,
My native Zion! from my heart--
Be Israel’s powerless hand!
GOD! do thy vengeful thunders sleep?
Unheeded must thy people weep?

Remember, Lord, when spoilers stood
By Salem’s wasted side,
And saw her ruins drink the flood
Her children’s gore supplied.
Yet--yet--the day of wrath shall come!
Babel! like ours, a ruined home
Shall greet thy step of pride!
Blest shall he be who makes thee drain
The bitter cup of Israel’s pain!

THE CLOUD WHERE SUNBEAMS SOFT REPOSE.

The cloud where sunbeams soft repose,
Gilt by the changeful ray,
With tints still warm and golden, glows,
When they have passed away.

The stream that in its billowy sweep
Bursts from the mountain side,
Bears far into the calm blue deep,
Its swift and freshening tide.

Thus youthful joys our hearts can thrill,
Though life has lost its bloom;
And sorrow’s hours of darkness still
With lingering charms illume.

LIKE SOUTHERN BIRDS.

Like southern birds, whose wings of light
Are cold and hueless while at rest--
But spread to soar in upward flight,
Appear in glorious plumage drest;

The poet’s soul--while darkly close
Its pinions, bids no passion glow;
But roused at length from dull repose,
Lights, while it spurns, the world below.

THE LOSS OF THE ANIO.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

I dreamed of yore, lulled in its foamy shades,
Pressing the turf which once a Horace trod,
In shadowy, old arcades,
Where, ’neath his crumbled temple, sleeps a God!
I saw its waters plunge to yawning caves,
Where danced the floating Iris on their waves,
As with some desert courser’s silvery mane
Wantons the wind, what time he scours the plain;
Then farther off on the green moss divide
In streamlets foaming still, the sheeted tide;
Shrouding the flowery sod with net-work frail,
Spread and contract by turns its waving veil.
And filling all the glade with voice and spray,
Sweep in its tides of quivering light away!
There with fixed gaze upon the waters lone
I watched them, following--losing them anon;
So the mind, wandering from thought to thought,
Loses--then lights upon the trace it sought!
I saw them mount, and roll, and downward glide,
And loved to dream bewildered by their side!
Methought I traced those rays of glorious fame
Wherewith the Eternal City crowned her name,
Back to their source, across an age of night,
Wreathing Tiburnine heights with ancient light.
While drank mine ear the deep complaining sound
Of billows warring in their caves profound,
In the waves’ voice, the wailing of the tide,
By thousand rolling echoes multiplied,
I seemed in distance, brought by silence near,
The voice of stirring multitudes to hear,
Which, like these waves, more vanishing than they,
Made vocal once these shores, now mute for aye!
River! to whom the ages brought--I cried,
Empire of old--and swept it from thy side!
Whose name, once sung by poet lips sublime,
Thanks to the bard, defies the lapse of time--
Who the world’s tyrants on thy shores didst see
Wander entranced, and crave their rest from thee;--
Tibullus breathing sighs of soft complaining--
Scipio the vulgar pomp of power disdaining--
In thy deep shades a Julius fled from fame,
Mæcenas claiming from his bards a name--
A Cato pondering virtue--Brutus crime--
What say’st thou, river, with thy ceaseless chime?
Bring’st thou the tones of Horace’ burning lyre?
Or Cæsar’s voice of soothing or of ire?
The forum of a race of heroes brave,
Where striving tribunes lashed the stormy wave
Which, like thy mounting surge in fury hurled,
Too mighty for its bed, o’erswept a world?

Alas! those sounds for ever now are mute,
The battle--the debate--the amorous lute:
’Tis but a stream that weeps upon the shore--
’Tis but thy voice, still murmuring as of yore!
Still? ah! no more on sounding rocks to moan,
From their drained bed thy waters too are gone!
These beetling crags, these caverns void and wide,
These trees that boast no more their dewy pride,
The wandering hind, the bird with wearied wing
That seeks upon the rock its wonted spring,
Wait vainly that the vanished wave restore
To the mute vale its voice and life once more;
And seem in desert solitude to say,
“Thus pass terrestrial pride and pomp away!”

Ah! marvel we no more that empires fall,
That man’s frail works speed to destruction all,
Since nature’s fabric, built to outlast the skies,
Sinks by degrees, and like a mortal dies!
Since this proud stream, which centuries have seen
Foaming and rushing, quits its ancient reign.
A river disappears! these thrones of day,
Gigantic hills, shall sink in turn away;
In yonder heaven thick sown with gems so bright,
Extinguished stars shall leave the desert night;
Yea, perish space itself, with all that live,
And of whate’er has been, shall nought survive.

Nought shall survive! But THOU, of worlds the source,
Who light’st heaven’s fires, and giv’st the waves their course,
Who, on the wheel of time bid’st years go round,
Thou shalt be, Lord!--For ever changeless found!
These planets quenched, these river murmurs checked,
These crumbled mountains, worlds in ruin wrecked,
These ages whelmed in Time’s immensity,
Even time and space, annihilate in Thee,
Nature, who mocks at works her hand did raise,
All--all are fleeting tributes to Thy praise;
And each existence here to death betrayed
Thy Being hymns, which knows nor change nor shade.

Oh, Italy! thy hills of beauty weep,
Where the world’s histories, writ in ruins, sleep!
Where empire, passing on from clime to clime,
Hath left impressed so deep his steps sublime!
Where glory, emblemed once in thy fair name,
Hides with a shining veil thy present shame!
Lo! the most speaking of the wrecks of years--
Weep! pity’s voice shall answer to thy tears!
By empire, by misfortune sacred made,
Queen, source of nations, mother of the dead!
Not only of those noble sons the pride
Whom thy green age hath nourished at thy side--
By thy foes cherished, envied while betrayed,
The home of greatness is thy mighty shade!
The mind that from antiquity would claim
The vanished forms of liberty and fame--
The spirit meek that greets a purer day,
Scorning the world’s vain gods of vulgar sway,
That seeks an only altar, loftier still,
For one true God, supreme, invisible--
Both, both, with bitter tenderness and trust
Hail thee their mother--worship thee in dust!
The winds that snatch the relics from thy tomb
To jealous eyes profane the holy gloom;
From every turf the peasant’s plough divides,
Some glorious shade the rude invasion chides;
In thy vast temple, where the God of love
Reigns o’er the fallen shrines of pagan Jove,
Each mortal, while he breathes its sacred air,
Feels it belongs to all who worship there!

Each tree that withers on thy mountains stern,
Each mouldered rock, each desecrated urn,
Each floweret bruised on monumental stone,
Each fragment smote from ruins moss-o’ergrown,
Strikes to the nations’ heart a painful sound,
As from the scythe of time a deeper wound!
All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
Degrades our glory in degrading thee!
Thee misery only renders doubly dear;
Each heart bounds at thy name--each eye a tear
Pours for thy fortunes! From a brilliant heaven
Thy sun to thee his glowing light hath given;
The very sail that rides thy swelling seas,
When thy far borders greet the welcoming breeze,
Conscious and fluttering at some high command,
Adoring bends to touch thy sacred sand!

Widow of nations! long, ah! long be thine
The homage deep which makes thee thus divine!
The trophies of past grandeur, great though vain,
Which at thy feet in Rome’s proud dust remain!
Be all of thine, even ruin, consecrate!
Nor envy those who boast a brighter fate:
But as imperial Cæsar, sped to death,
In royal mantle wrapt, resigned his breath,
Whate’er a future destiny decree,
Be thy proud robe immortal memory!
What reck’st thou who the laurelled crown may wear?
No future e’er can with thy past compare!

THE GUARDIAN GENIUS.[12]

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

“Poesy is the guardian angel of humanity in all ages.”

In childhood, sitting in the garden shade
By flowering citron, or pink almond tree,
When the spring’s breath, that round the arbor played,
My neck caressing, tossed my tresses free--
A voice I heard, so sweet, so wild, and deep,
Joy thrilled my frame that owned its magic spell;
’Twas not the wind--the bell--the reed’s soft sweep--
Nor infant’s voice, nor man’s, in murmuring swell--

My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
’Twas thou, whose spirit communed then with mine!

When later, from a lover doomed to part,
Past those dear hours when by the shade we met,
When his last kiss resounded to the heart
That ’neath his hand’s fond pressure, trembled yet--
The self-same voice, deep in my bosom pleading,
Rang in mine ear with still entrancing power;
’Twas not his tone, ’twas not his step receding--
Nor lovers’ echoed songs in trelliced bower;--

My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
’Twas thou, whose spirit communed still with mine!

When, a young mother, round my peaceful hearth
I brought those gifts which bounteous heaven had sent,
While at my door the fig-tree flung the earth
Its fruits, by hands of eager children bent--
A voice, vague, tender, swelled within my breast--
’Twas not the wild bird’s note, the cock’s shrill cry--
Nor breath of infants in their cradled rest;
Nor fishers’ chant, blent with the surge’s sigh;--

My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
’Twas thou, whose spirit mixed its song with mine!

Now lone and old, with scattered locks and white,
The wood my shelter from the tempest’s sweep,
My shrivelled hands warmed by the fires they light,
My gentle kids, my infant charge I keep.
That hidden voice, yet in this breast forlorn,
Enchants, consoles me with its ceaseless song;
It is no more the voice of life’s young morn,
Nor his fond tone whom I have wept so long:

My guardian genius! still--yes, still ’tis thine!
’Tis thou, whose spirit dwells and mourns with mine!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING THROUGH THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.

Onward with gliding swiftness
Our light bark cleaves the deep;
The billow dances in our wake
As down the tide we sweep.
The broad high cliffs above us
Like giant columns stand;
As in their grandeur stationed there
The guardians of the land.

Yon purple clouds are drooping
Their banners from on high,
And brightly through their waving folds
Gleams forth the azure sky.
Sunset’s rich beams are tinting
The mountain’s lofty crest;
Yet fails their golden light to reach
The silent river’s breast.

The eagle soars around us;
His home is on the height
To which with eager, upward wing,
He shoots in airy flight.
The rough night blast high o’er us
Assails the beetling verge;
And through the forest’s tangled depths
Murmurs like ocean’s surge:
The foliage trembles to his breath,
The massive timbers groan--
But we, his might defying, pass
In sheltered silence on.

Onward! dim night is gathering;
Those gilded summits fade--
And darkly from the thickets brown
Extends the deepening shade.
It shrouds us, but we pause not;--
With light and graceful sweep,
Shadowy and swift, our vessel breaks
The waters’ glassy sleep.
Their rocky barrier past at length,
We feel the cool fresh air:
Yon light is beaming from our home,
And welcome waits us there.

SONG--THE CLOSING YEAR.

Hark--to the midnight bell!
The solemn peal rolls on
That tells us, with an iron tongue,
Another year is gone!
Gone with its hopes, its mockeries and its fears,
To the dim rest which wraps our former years.

Gray pilgrim to the past!
We will not bid thee stay;
For joys of youth and passion’s plaint
Thou bear’st alike away.
Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow’s swell
Gather to hymn thy parting.--Fare thee well!

Fill high the cup--and drink
To Time’s unwearied sweep!
He claims a parting pledge from us--
And let the draught be deep!
We may not shadow moments fleet as this,
With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.

No comrade’s voice is here,
That could not tell of grief:--
Fill up!--We know that friendship’s hours,
Like their own joys--are brief.
Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
And drown in song the memory of the past!

The winter’s leafless bough
In sunshine yet shall bloom;
And hearts that sink in sadness now
Ere long dismiss their gloom.
Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow,
In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!

Once more! A welcoming strain!
A solemn sound--yet sweet!
While life is ours, Time’s onward steps
In gladness will we greet!
Fill high the cup! What prophet lips may tell
Where we shall bid another year farewell?

SCENE FROM ALFIERI’S TRAGEDY OF SAUL.

SAUL, JONATHAN, MICHOL, DAVID.

JONATHAN.

Come, sire beloved--give truce awhile to thought,
The pure free air restore thee! Sit thou here
Beside us.

MICHOL.

Father--

SAUL.

Who are ye? Who is’t
Talks of pure air? This? ’tis a hateful mist--
The shade, the gloom of death. Hither! Behold--
Around the sun a garland dusk--of blood!
Yet listen--dost not hear the shriek of birds
Of evil omen?--In the fatal air
A sadness broods, which heavy on my heart
Sinks and compels my tears.--But why weep you?

JONATHAN.

Great God of Israel! is thy face withdrawn
Thus, from thy people’s king? him, once thy servant,
Leav’st thou to foes infernal?

* * * * *

SAUL.

Peace is torn from me,
Light--offspring soul--and kingdom. I am reft
Of all at once! Saul--miserable Saul!
Who shall console thee! In thy path of darkness
Who now shall guide, sustain thee? E’en thy children
Are mute--relentless--savage! All invoke,
Wretched old man, thy death! all hearts are fixed
Upon the diadem, which now too long
Hath circled thy gray locks! Hence--tear it hence!
And sever at the same time from this body
This trembling head! Death were more welcome far
Than present anguish!--death--’tis death I ask.

JONATHAN.

Now, since his vengeful wrath dissolves in grief,
Oh, brother! let thy voice his peace restore;
In sweet forgetfulness thou oft hast wrapt
His soul with song celestial.

MICHOL.

Lo! his breast
Convulsive heaves--and his wild fiery glance
Is quenched in tears! ’tis time to speed thy work.

DAVID.

Oh Thou! who uncreate, unseen, unknown,
O’er all creation sit’st in sovereignty--
By whose dread fiat and whose power alone
This spirit lives, that dares to mount to Thee!--
Whose searching glance hell’s dark abysses own,
And yield to light their depths of mystery--
Whose nod can shake the world--before whose hand
The rebel nations vanish from the land--

Thou on thy cherubim’s exulting wing
Wert wont in veiled glory to descend;
Thou with the might of Heaven’s eternal King
Thine Israel’s chief in danger did’st defend!
To him thou wert of peace the exhaustless spring--
His Shield in war--his Captain--and his Friend!
Oh! from thy glory send one pitying ray
To cleave the clouds that hide from us the day!

In wo and darkness sunk----

SAUL.

Hear I the voice
Of David? Rousing from the palsied sway
Of mortal lethargy--it breathes a tone
Transient, but glorious, of mine early days!

DAVID.

Who comes? who comes? Heard from the murky cloud,
But hidden from the sight by dun mists, driven
Across the face of Heaven!
They part--and from their bosom glance afar
The flashing steel--the panoply of war!
Lo! from the dusky shroud
The monarch, tower-like, stands! crowning his head
The blood-red halo--gleams above, around,
His sword victorious!--To the thundering tread
Of men and steeds the quaking hills resound!--
The sea, the laboring earth, the lurid sky.
Echo his battle cry.
The king comes forth! to hurl in dreadful might
Soldier, and car, and courser from his path,
O’erwhelmed in wild confusion:--at the sight
His foemen shrink--nor dare to meet his wrath,
But trembling fly,
For God’s own lightning flashes from his eye.

Ye sons of Ammon! where is now your boast?
Ye that could once insult, defy, disdain
Israel’s despised host?
Lo! your pale corpses cumber all the plain!
Your living men remain
A bloody harvest, soon to writhe in dust--
Such is their fate who in false idols trust!--
But hark! with sudden peal
Another trumpet shakes the sounding air!
’Tis still the avenging steel
Of conquering Saul, that widely flashes there!
He comes to quell the pride
Of Moab, and of impious Amalek--
Edom--and Zobah--who his power defied!
As the fierce torrent, bursting from the chain
Which lingering winter strives to bind in vain,
Thus in the tide of wo
His haughty crested foe
The monarch sweeps in one o’erwhelming wreck!

SAUL.

It is the war-cry of mine ancient days
That calls me back to glory! At the sound,
Life, as in past years I was wont to live,
Thrills in my veins.--Alas! who now would speak
To me of war? Oblivion, peace, invite
The old man to their shades.

DAVID.

We sing of peace.
Wearied--beside the verdant shore
Of his own native river laid,
The champion dreams of victories o’er
Beneath the laurel shade.
His children stand the warrior near,
They kiss away each starting tear,
Exult in every smile!
So sweet the gloom that shades each face,
So soft of every tear the trace,

’Tis scarcely marked the while.
His daughters with fond hands undo
The shining helmet from his brow;
His consort courts the mute caress--
While they with emulous gentleness
Bear water from the crystal spring,
And bathe his front, and o’er him fling
Flowers whose rich odors well might seem
The lingerings of some fairy dream!
Bedew his hand with tears of love,
And grieve that ’tis to each denied
Superior tenderness to prove--
And be the closest at his side.

And near him too, a smiling band
Absorbed in other labors stand;
His graceful sons!--One strives apart
Its mirrored brilliance to restore
To that blood-rusted steel once more:
Another asks, with swelling heart,
When he shall whirl the lance and shield,
Which now his arm essays in vain to wield!
While thus his tardy youth he chides,
A third, with infant wile
Behind the ponderous armor hides
His soft seraphic smile.

Tears that the depths of bliss bespeak,
Roll down the monarch’s furrowed cheek;
His presence mid that lovely race
Lights up the joy in every face.
Oh, beauteous peace! where’er we roam,
Where could our wandering footsteps meet
A truth so pure, a love so sweet,
As in this bower of home?
But lo! beneath the tranquil deep
The sun is set; o’er tree and hill
And waveless stream the winds are still--
The king has sunk to sleep!

SAUL.

Oh! happy father of a race so noble!
Blest peace of mind! A tranquil sweetness glides
O’er all my yielding soul!

THE VANITY OF THE VULGAR GREAT.

A FRAGMENT FROM THE ITALIAN OF FULVIO TESTI.

Stay, thou ambitious rill--
Ignoble offspring of some fount impure!
Beneath the rugged hill
Gloomy with shade, thou hadst thy birth obscure;
With faint steps issuing slow,
In scanty waves among the rocks to flow.

Fling not abroad thy spray,
Nor fiercely lash the green turf at thy side!
What though indulgent May
With liquid snows hath swol’n thy foaming tide;--
August will follow soon
To still thy boastings with his scorching noon.

Lo! calmly through the vale
The Po, the king of rivers, sweeps along;
Yet many a mighty sail
Bears on his breast--proud vessels--swift and strong.
Nor from the meadow’s side
’Neath summer’s sun recedes his lessened tide.

Thou threatening all around
Dost foam and roar along thy troubled path;
In grandeur newly found--
Stunning the gazer with thy noisy wrath!
Yet foolish stream! not one
Of all thy boasted glories is thine own.

The smile of yonder sky
Is brief--and change the fleeting seasons know;
On barren sands and dry
Soon to their death thy brawling waves shall flow.
O’er thee, in summer’s heat,
Shall pass the traveller with unmoistened feet.

SONNET--ROME IN RUINS.

FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO.

Pilgrim! in vain thou seek’st in Rome for Rome!
Alas! the Queen of nations is no more!
Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore,
And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb.

Where once it reigned, the Palatine in gloom
Lies desolate; and medals which of old,
Trophies of victory--power and triumph told,
Mouldered by time, speak only of her doom.

Tiber alone remaining--he whose tide
Circled the royal city, now with tone
Solemn and sad, weeps o’er her hopeless fall.
Oh Rome! thy grandeur and thy beauty--all
Have passed away;--and of thine ancient pride,
That which seemed fugitive survives alone!

FABLES.

FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE.

I.

A bear who with his master sought
An honest living to obtain,
In dance professional essayed
The indulgent public’s praise to gain.

Triumphant on the circle round
Gazing--an ape at length he spied:
“What think you of my art?” quoth he--
“Bad--bad!”--the knowing ape replied.

“Indeed!” the disappointed brute
Sullen rejoined;--“’tis envy’s strain!
Is not mine air the height of grace,
And every step with judgment ta’en?”

A pig approached;--with rapture gazed--
“Wondrous!” he cried;--“what steps! what mien!
A dancer of such magic skill
Ne’er has been, nor e’er will be seen!”

Bruin the sentence heard--and paused;
Long in his brain revolved the same--
Then thus, in modest attitude,
Humbled and changed, was heard exclaim--

“When the wise monkey censured me,
I ’gan to fear my labor vain;
But since the pig has praised--alas!
I ne’er shall dare to dance again!”

Each author to this rule attend--
Doubt fortune, if the critic blames;
But when your work the fools commend,
At once consign it to the flames!

II.

Gentles, attend this simple rhyme:
It boasts small skill, I’m free to say;
Yet heard aright, its untaught chime
May teach you more than loftier lay.

An Ass one morning sallied forth
To journey down a sunny vale;
He cropped the dewy flowers of earth,
And snuffed with joy the fragrant gale.

Bounding at length to seek repose
Beneath an oak tree’s welcome shade,
He saw amid the herbage close,
A shepherd’s flute neglected laid.

Starting--he turned him at the sight--
Then stooped the wonder near to view--
When lo! his breath by chance aright,
A tone of sudden music drew!

Proud he looked up.--“What mortal now
Shall doubt my skill?”--he cried with glee--
“The bird that carols on yon bough
Can boast no rivalship with me!”

May many by this ditty learn--
--Nor let the moral pass unheeded--
Who like the Ass, all lessons spurn,
Because they once, by chance, succeeded!

O’ER THE FAR MOUNTAIN PEAK ON HIGH.

O’er the far mountain peak on high
First shines the morning’s ray;
And latest from the crimsoned sky
The beam of parting day.

Yet there, to greet the partial light,
Nor flowers nor verdure bloom;
But barren all--though coldly bright--
And cheerless as the tomb.

While in the modest vale’s recess,
Where sunlight scarce descends,
Fresh flowerets spring the beam to bless,
And grateful foliage bends.

Thus hearts that bask in fortune’s smile,
Undimmed by clouds of care,
Feel not the joys their hours beguile,
Which humbler bosoms share.

INCANTATION OF HERVOR.[13]

Spirit of the royal dead!
Many a weary year is sped,
Since these stern mountains, wild and high,
Echoed thy lofty battle cry.
Silence and peace their hallowed gloom
Have shed upon the warrior’s tomb.
I come to break the sacred rest
The grave has heaped upon thy breast;
The daughter of a warlike name,
And deeds of glory--here I claim
The sword of more than mortal fire,
That fiercely armed thee, royal sire!
That drank Hialmar’s murderous breath,
And held at every point a death.

All hushed? Are Andgrym’s fiery race,
--Ever the first in battle’s face--
Dim now and dust? Hath Eyvor’s son,
The free, the bold, the glorious one,
His pride forgot? Or sleep ye all?
Each of the brethren twelve I call!--
Hiorvardur!--In vain--in vain!
Unbroken death and silence reign.

I know the spells, with danger fraught,
With which that fearful blade was wrought;
I know the hand whose mystic seal
Gave power and vengeance to the steel;
When the dark dwarf-king in his ire
Begirt it thrice with central fire,
And thrice denounced, in accents dread,
His curse upon the victor’s head,
Who bore it from its flaming bed.
I know that curse, whate’er it be,
Has not been all fulfilled in thee;
That he who dares this sword to wield
Must his own heart its victim yield:--
Yet will I brave the death, the guilt,
To grasp in pride its blood-stained hilt.
Now give! Believe, the subtle brand
Shall grace a northern maiden’s hand.

Still silent? Then by spear and shield
I bid thee to my wishes yield!
By bucklers strewn upon the plain--
By thousand foes in battle slain--
By Saxon bones in fearful trust
That crumble o’er thy conquering dust--
By banners in the red field borne--
By hearts from bleeding bosoms torn--
By hate-lit eye--and lowering brow--
By lifted hand--and solemn vow--
I charm thee from repose--and doom
Thine ashes to a restless tomb,
Till from the shelter of the grave
Thy hand shall give the boon I crave!

By this o’ershadowing vine, whose stem
Gives to the wind thy requiem--
By spreading forest--flowing stream--
By mountain shade--and sun light’s gleam--
By crimsoned clouds at eve that lie
Upon the margin of the sky--
By midnight tones from every flower--
By viewless steps in every bower--
By songs that from its caverns sweep
When twilight shrouds the foaming deep--
By moonlight forms that nightly lave
Their locks upon the emerald wave--
By all that’s bright in earth or sky--
Monarch! I charm thee to comply!

By gathering clouds and tempests driven
When the red lightning rends the heaven--
By Odin’s self, when his dread form
Bestrides and guides the vengeful storm--
By Eger’s hoary sceptre, spread
Across the ocean’s crystal bed--
By mighty Thor’s cloud-girdled throne,
Who hurls the thunderbolt alone--
I ask the gift with spirit bold,
Which none but thee would dare withhold.