Chapter XXXIX: Part II (2)

Then the torrents of the North
And the forest pines were still,
While a hollow chant came forth
From the dark sepulchral hill.

“There shines no sun midst the hidden dead,
But where the day looks not the brave may tread;
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour’d,
But the warrior may come to the silent board
In the shadow of the night.
There is laid a sword in thy father’s tomb,
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman’s doom;
But soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”

Then died the solemn lay,
As a trumpet’s music dies,
By the night-wind borne away
Through the wild and stormy skies.

The fir-trees rock’d to the wailing blast,
As on through the forest the warrior pass’d--
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old--
The dark place of visions and legends, told
By the fires of Northern pine.
The fir-trees rock’d, and the frozen ground
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound;
And it seem’d that the depths of those awful shades,
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,
Gave warning, with voice and sign.

But the wind strange magic knows,
To call wild shape and tone
From the gray wood’s tossing boughs,
When Night is on her throne.

The pines closed o’er him with deeper gloom,
As he took the path to the monarch’s tomb:
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light;
But his road through dimness lay!
He pass’d, in the heart of that ancient wood,
The dark shrine stain’d with the victim’s blood;
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
Arose on his midnight way.

Then first a moment’s chill
Went shuddering through his breast,
And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.

But he cross’d at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look’d on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam’d from the urn of his warrior-sire
With a strange and solemn light.
Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again--
“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep;
For the viewless have fearful might!”

But the gleaming sword and shield
Of many a battle-day
Hung o’er that urn, reveal’d
By the tomb-fire’s waveless ray;

With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound,
They hung o’er the dust of the far-renown’d,
Whom the bright Valkyriur’s warning voice
Had call’d to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear--
“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep;
For the viewless have fearful might!”

And many a Saga’s rhyme,
And legend of the grave,
That shadowy scene and time
Call’d back, to daunt the brave.

But he raised his arm--and the flame grew dim,
And the sword in its light seem’d to wave and swim,
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well--
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shiver’d in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quench’d the fire,
And the scatter’d dust of his warlike sire
Was strewn on the champion’s head.

One moment--and all was still
In the slumberer’s ancient hall,
When the rock had ceased to thrill
With the mighty weapon’s fall.

The stars were just fading one by one,
The clouds were just tinged by the early sun,
When there stream’d through the cavern a torch’s flame,
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came
To seek him in the tomb.
Stretch’d on his shield, like the steel-girt slain,
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there;
But he wildly woke when the torch’s glare
Burst on him through the gloom.

“The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth with me!
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?”

“I have put out the holy sepulchral fire,
I have scatter’d the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o’er the restless deep!
In the mantle of death he was here with me now--
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell
With an icy ray and a withering spell--
Oh! chill is the house of sleep!”

“The morning wind blows free,
And the reddening sun shines clear;
Come forth, come forth with me!
It is dark and fearful here!”

“He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown!
But gone from his head is the kingly crown--
The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand--
They have chased him far from the glorious land
Where the feast of the gods is spread!
He must go forth alone on his phantom steed,
He must ride o’er the grave-hills with stormy speed!
His place is no longer at Odin’s board,
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword;
But the slayer shall avenge the dead!”

That sword its fame had won
By the fall of many a crest;
But its fiercest work was done
In the tomb, on Sigurd’s breast!

VALKYRIUR SONG.

[The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in battle, and be received into the halls of Odin.

When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies were honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else he held most dear, were placed with him on the pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a point of honour to die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And, lastly, his wife was generally consumed with him on the same pile.--See Mallet’s _Northern Antiquities_, Herbert’s _Helga_, &c.]

“Tremblingly flash’d th’ inconstant meteor-light,
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth;
Save that all signs of human joy or grief,
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem’d
On the fix’d brightness of each dazzling cheek
Strange and unnatural.” Milman.

The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep
Of a vision-haunted night,
And he look’d from his bark o’er the gloomy deep,
And counted the streaks of light;
For the red sun’s earliest ray
Was to rouse his bands that day
To the stormy joy of fight!

But the dreams of rest were still on earth,
And the silent stars on high,
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth
Midst the quiet of the sky;
And along the twilight bay,
In their sleep the hamlets lay,
For they knew not the Norse were nigh!

The Sea-king look’d o’er the brooding wave,
He turn’d to the dusky shore,
And there seem’d, through the arch of a tide-worn cave,
A gleam, as of snow, to pour;
And forth, in watery light,
Moved phantoms, dimly white,
Which the garb of woman bore.

Slowly they moved to the billow-side;
And the forms, as they grew more clear,
Seem’d each on a tall pale steed to ride,
And a shadowy crest to rear,
And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
And to point a gleaming spear.

Then a stillness on his spirit fell,
Before th’ unearthly train,
For he knew Valhalla’s daughters well--
The Choosers of the slain!
And a sudden rising breeze
Bore, across the moaning seas,
To his ear their thrilling strain.

“There are songs in Odin’s Hall
For the brave ere night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray?
He must bring a wrathful day!
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner!--Sea-king!--_thee_ we call!--
There is joy in Odin’s Hall.

“At the feast, and in the song,
Thou shalt be remember’d long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
’Tis enough,--the war-gods call,--
There is mead in Odin’s Hall!

“Regner! tell thy fair-hair’d bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,--
There is room in Odin’s Hall!

“Lo! the mighty sun looks forth--
Arm! thou leader of the North!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly--
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows no fear,
Sea-king! nobly thou shalt fall!--
There is joy in Odin’s Hall!”

There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread,
And the phantom-forms of the tide-worn cave
With the mists of morning fled;
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand
Lay cold on a pile of dead!

THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.

A SWISS TRADITION.

[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land.--See _Quarterly Review_, No. 44.

The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest-Sea.]

Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines that o’er it wave
With freshness fill the air:
For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array’d,
By their native Forest-Sea
On a rocky couch are laid.

The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore
In the name of liberty!
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep
Till their country’s hour of need.

They start not at the hunter’s call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer’s cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent’s fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by;
And the Alpine herdsman’s lay,
To a Switzer’s heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.

But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn’s peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau’s cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles’ lonely sky;
When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier’s mute repose;

When Uri’s beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet’s light--
_Then_ from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell’s proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung![312]

They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link’d the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli’s moonlight shore;
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer’d with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr’d,
And the signal-fires blaze out.

And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day
When Winkelried, on Sempach’s plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crownèd casques,[313] o’erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!

For the Kühreihen’s[314] notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom’s holy ground
Untrampled must remain;
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger’s hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!

[312] The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the _Tellensprung_.

[313] Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond’s _Switzerland_.

[314] The Kühreihen--the celebrated _Ranz des Vaches_.

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.--See Planta’s _History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land
Where Freedom’s voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,--
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle-dell!

If yet, the wilds among,
Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung,
And home our steps may turn,--
Home!--home!--if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish’d here!

Look on the white Alps round!
Up to their shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,
The sound of battle, rose!
Their caves prolong’d the trumpet’s blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass’d!

They saw the princely crest,
They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,
Borne down and trampled here!
They saw--and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!

Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire’s lance and shield!

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet, along their steeps,
Our children’s fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!

If, by the wood-fire’s blaze,
When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd race.
Who made the hearth a holy place!

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath-bell
Comes o’er them with a gladdening sound,
Think on the battle-dell!
For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world.--See Picart’s _Ceremonies and Religious Customs_.]

Thou art come from the spirits’ land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits’ land:
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore;
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there--and they weep no more!

And we know they have quench’d their fever’s thirst
From the fountain of youth ere now,[315]
For _there_ must the stream in its freshness burst
Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours:

Though they sat with us by the night-fire’s blaze,
And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers’ days,
Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call--and they answer not again:
Do they love--do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother _there_,
And the father of his child?
And the chief of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?[316]

[315] An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters.--See Robertson’s _History of America_.

[316] ANSWER TO “THE MESSENGER BIRD.”

BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.

Yes! I came from the spirits’ land, From the land that is bright and fair; I came with a voice from the shadowy band, To tell that they love you there.

To say, if a wish or a vain regret Could live in Elysian bowers, ’Twould be for the friends they can ne’er forget, The beloved of their youthful hours.

To whisper the dear deserted band, Who smiled on their tarriance here, That a faithful guard in the dreamless land Are the friends they have loved so dear.

’Tis true, in the silent night you call, And they answer you not again; But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all-- Sound only was made for pain.

That their land is bright and they weep no more, I have warbled from hill to hill; But my plaintive strain should have told before, That they love, oh! they love you still.

They bid me say that unfading flowers You’ll find in the path they trode; And a welcome true to their deathless bowers, Pronounced by the voice of God. 1827.

THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.

[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.--Picart’s _Ceremonies and Religious Customs_.

“J’ai passé moi-même,” says Chateaubriand in his _Souvenirs d’Amérique_, “chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la vue d’un voyageur, parce qu’il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-tems _en voyage_.”]

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance;
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee.
But there came a voice from a distant shore--
He was call’d--he is found midst his tribe no more
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still--he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him--we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step--but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the maid of the mournful song--
Mournful, though sweet,--she hath left us long:
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him--she pass’d alone.
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head:
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest--yet she comes not back!
We look’d for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step--but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the chief, who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here:
We look’d for the hunter, whose bride’s lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look’d for the first-born, whose mother’s cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!--
Where are they? Thou’rt seeking some distant coast:
Oh ask of them, stranger!--send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step--but the step was thine!

THE ISLE OF FOUNTS;

AN INDIAN TRADITION.

[“The river St Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game; but that in their endeavours to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved, at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return; which, after a number of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire to invade and make a conquest of so charming a country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never having been able again to find that enchanting spot.”--Bertram’s _Travels through North and South Carolina, &c._

The additional circumstances in the “Isle of Founts” are merely imaginary.]

Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O’er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile--
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

Lull but the mighty serpent-king,[317]
Midst the gray rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar’s deadly spring,--
Thy step that lake’s green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is pass’d,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow’s flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e’en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed’s hollow cell.

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies
To which the ancient rocks gave birth?[318]
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o’er the waves.

The emerald waves!--they take their hue
And image from that sun-bright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,--
Before thee, hadst thou morning’s speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!

But woe for him who sees them burst
With their bright spray-showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams
The gush of those untasted streams!

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parch’d with the fever’s agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

E’en thus our hunters came of yore
Back from their long and weary quest;--
Had they not seen th’ untrodden shore?
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!

They lay beside our glittering rills
With visions in their darken’d eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly:
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.

They bent no more the forest bow,
They arm’d not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o’er them dim and slow--
They left us for the spirits’ land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.

Son of the stranger! if at eve
Silence be midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile--
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

[317] The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the “bright old inhabitants.” They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling brightness.--See _Notes to_ Leyden’s _Scenes of Infancy_.

[318] The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries _Laxas de Musica_, and alluded to in a former note.

THE BENDED BOW.

[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in different directions through the land, each bearing a _bended bow_; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.--See the _Cambrian Antiquities_.]

There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.

“Heard you not the battle-horn?--
Reaper! leave thy golden corn:
Leave it for the birds of heaven--
Swords must flash and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed--
Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.”

And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Hunter! leave the mountain-chase,
Take the falchion from its place;
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey;
Let the deer ungall’d sweep by--
Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh.”

And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Chieftain! quit the joyous feast--
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall--
Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.”

And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Prince! thy father’s deeds are told
In the bower and in the hold,
Where the goatherd’s lay is sung,
Where the minstrel’s harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea--
Give our bards a tale of thee!”

And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Mother! stay thou not thy boy,
He must learn the battle’s joy:
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer:
Maiden! bid thy lover part:
Britain calls the strong in heart!”

And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on;
And the bards made song for a battle won.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.]

The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll’d on;
And what was England’s glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived--for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death to those who mourn?
He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass’d the young and fair,
In pleasure’s reckless train;
But seas dash’d o’er his son’s bright hair--
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney’s victor crown’d
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep--
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour’d,
And strangers took the kinsman’s place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven’s bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years--
_He_ never smiled again!

CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.]

Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o’er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath;
And light, as noon’s broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm’d at times by the censer’s breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply furrow’d trace
Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that sceptred mortal’s race
Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests round him that slept
Sang mass for the parted soul:
And solemn were the strains they pour’d
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush’d awhile,
As, by the torch’s flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp’d hands o’er it raised;
For his father lay before him low--
It was Cœur-de-Lion gazed!

And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast;
But there’s more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress’d!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,--
Men held their breath in awe;
For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he reck’d not that they saw.

He look’d upon the dead--
And sorrow seem’d to lie,
A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop’d--and kiss’d the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;
Till bursting words--yet all too weak--
Gave his soul’s passion way.

“O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again:
I weep--behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!--
Were but this work undone,
I would give England’s crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.

“Speak to me! Mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr’d!
Hear me, but hear me!--father, chief,
My king! I _must_ be heard!
Hush’d, hush’d--how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?----Woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!

“Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
_I_ bore thee down, high heart! at last:
No longer couldst thou strive.
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say--‘forgive!’

“Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e’er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart:
Oh! ever the renown’d and loved
Thou wert--and _there_ thou art!

“Thou that my boyhood’s guide
Didst take fond joy to be!--
The times I’ve sported at thy side,
And climb’d thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,--
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”

THE VASSAL’S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.

[“Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days.”--Camden’s _Britannia_.]

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell’d by the woodman’s stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.

I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might;
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew!

’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep
For the forest’s pride o’erthrown--
An old man’s tears lie far too deep
To be pour’d for this alone;
But by that sign too well I know
That a youthful head must soon be low!

A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye;
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set--
Oh! could _my_ life redeem him yet!

He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem’d like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine.
With a stag’s fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life--but he must die!

He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water’s side,
’Tis known that ne’er a proud tree fell
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he--there’s laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice--yet he must die!

I’ve borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!--yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast!

The noble boy!--how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!
It seem’d like youth to see _him_ young,
A flower in his father’s land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.

Say not ’tis vain! I tell thee, some
Are warn’d by a meteor’s light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go! And he too, he!--
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.]

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour,
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by
Through the dark unquiet sky!

The stag sprang up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!

The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!

From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle’s festive board,
And a sudden pause came o’er the swell
Of the harp’s triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger’s[319] thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.

The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d,
And the hermit dropp’d his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.

The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky;
But the mother looks on her son to-day
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair!

The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie--
For the Huntsman hath gone by!

[319] Minnesinger, _love-singer_--the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages.

BRANDENBURG HARVEST-SONG.[320]

FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

The corn in golden light
Waves o’er the plain;
The sickle’s gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.

Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!--
Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o’er the day!

Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eyes blue,--
Now o’er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!

On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour:
We know its cause too well--
_She is no more_!

[320] For the year of the Queen of Prussia’s death.

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.

Know ye not when our dead
From sleep to battle sprung?--
When the Persian charger’s tread
On their covering greensward rung;
When the trampling march of foes
Had crush’d our vines and flowers,
When jewel’d crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers;
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

There was one, a leader crown’d,
And arm’d for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle’s front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood,
Though their path was through his breast.
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

His sword was seen to flash
Where the boldest deeds were done;
But it smote without a clash--
The stroke was heard by none!
His voice was not of those
That swell’d the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush’d like snows--
’Twas the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.

Where is the summer with her golden sun?--
That festal glory hath not pass’d from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
--Far in my own bright land?

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?--the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?--
The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves?
--Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes?
--Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
--Far in my own bright land!

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad’s footsteps, and the minstrel’s dreams?--
Oh, that my life were as a southern flower’s!--
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.

[“Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia--comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu’elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de vêtemens, s’habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale, avec cette différence, qu’elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur douleur s’exhale de nouveau, et comme la première fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des lamentations d’une autre espèce: ce sont les _Myriologues_. Ordinairement c’est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d’un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poésie.”--_Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par_ C. Fauriel.]

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung:--
“Ianthis! dost thou sleep? Thou sleep’st--but this is not the rest,
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow’d on my breast:
I lull’d thee not to _this_ repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As, in thy glowing childhood’s time, by twilight I have done.
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?

“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave.
Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,--‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,--
And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay!

“Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that _this_ would be!
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;--
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing
red.--
Why doth a mother live to say--My first-born and my dead!
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won:
Speak _thou_, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!”

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:--
“Ianthis! look’st thou not on _me_? Can love indeed be fled?
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had follow’d thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved;
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side!--
It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!

“But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board?
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine?
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart
Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring! And couldst thou thus depart?
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?--
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!

“Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was
spread;
But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins
flew--
Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu?
What now can breathe of gladness more,--what scene, what hour,
what tone?
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou
art gone!
Even _that_ must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved:
Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:--
“Ianthis! brother of my soul!--oh! where are now the days
That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays?
When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source,
And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless
course!--
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,
But see thy bounding step no more--my brother and my friend!

“I come with flowers--for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou _here_?
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier.
Thou shouldst be crown’d with victory’s crown--but oh! more meet
_they_ seem,
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream--
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low.
Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine’s glow--
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send:
Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!--my brother and my friend!”

GREEK PARTING SONG.

[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his “Chansons Populaires de la Grèce Moderne,” and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country and friends.]

A Youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall’d,
And brightest kept, of love;--a mountain-home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines,
And sounding waters, first in childhood’s heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half-unconscious prayer;--a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left! Yet many leave
Far more--the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call’d out the soul’s bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection’s tones. _He_ left not these.
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother’s love! A bitterer grief
Was his--to part _unloved_!--of her unloved
That should have breathed upon his heart like spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!

Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot; and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach’d--a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue still upper heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.

“Farewell, farewell!
I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!--thou’rt from my native dell,
Thou’rt bearing thence a mournful sound--a murmur of farewell!
And fare _thee_ well--flow on, my stream!--flow on, thou bright
and free!
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unloved from childhood’s loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears!
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:
The woods can tell where _he_ hath wept, that ever wept alone!

“I see thee once again, my home! thou’rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves--
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves.
The hour _the mother_ loves!--for _me_ beloved it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, _thou_ smilest, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o’er my soul through distant years will come--
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

“Not as the dead!--no, not the dead! We speak of _them_--we keep
_Their_ names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms
deep:
We hallow even the lyre they touch’d, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place _they_ fill’d our band among!
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!--the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, mountains, home, farewell!

“And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong;
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak! Within my breast, whate’er hath seem’d to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gush’d for thee!
Brightly it would have gush’d--but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own!

“Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine,
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine.
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!--it may be that a tone
Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone;
And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne’er hast
smiled,
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child!
Might but my spirit _then_ return, and midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love’s free tears! ’Tis all a
dream--farewell!”

“Farewell!”--the echo died with that deep word;
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken’d in the mother’s breast!
There had pass’d many changes o’er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
“Return, return, my son!” The echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring, “Return, my son!”

THE SULIOTE MOTHER.

[It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.]

She stood upon the loftiest peak,
Amidst the clear blue sky;
A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye.

“Dost thou see them, boy?--through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman’s armour shines?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror’s crest?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast!
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother’s arms with joy?
--That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!”