Chapter LIV: Prologue: To the Tragedy of Fiesco, (2)

Yet fear not, shrink not thou, my child!
Though by the bolt’s descent
Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled,
And the wide forests rent.

Doth not thy God behold thee still,
With all-surveying eye?
Doth not his power all nature fill,
Around, beneath, on high?

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free,
To track the realms of air,
Thou couldst not reach a spot, where He
Would not be with thee there!

In the wide city’s peopled towers,
On the vast ocean’s plains,
Midst the deep woodland’s loneliest bowers,
Alike the Almighty reigns!

Then fear not, though the angry sky
A thousand darts should cast;
Why should we tremble, e’en to die,
And be with _Him_ at last?

THE BIRDS.

“Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings; and not one of them is forgotten before God?”--St Luke, xii. 6.

Tribes of the air! whose favour’d race
May wander through the realms of space,
Free guests of earth and sky;
In form, in plumage, and in song,
What gifts of nature mark your throng
With bright variety!

Nor differ less your forms, your flight,
Your dwellings hid from hostile sight,
And the wild haunts ye love;
Birds of the gentle beak![407] how dear
Your wood-note to the wanderer’s ear,
In shadowy vale or grove!

Far other scenes, remote, sublime,
Where swain or hunter may not climb
The mountain-eagle seeks;
Alone he reigns a monarch there,
Scarce will the chamois’ footstep dare
Ascend his Alpine peaks.

Others there are that make their home
Where the white billows roar and foam
Around the o’erhanging rock;
Fearless they skim the angry wave,
Or, shelter’d in their sea-beat cave,
The tempest’s fury mock.

Where Afric’s burning realm expands,
The ostrich haunts the desert-sands,
Parch’d by the blaze of day;
The swan, where northern rivers glide,
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide
Floats graceful on her way.

The condor, where the Andes tower,
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power,
And many a storm defies;
Bright in the Orient realms of morn,
All beauty’s richest hues adorn
The bird of paradise.

Some, amidst India’s groves of palm,
And spicy forests breathing balm,
Weave soft their pendant nest;
Some, deep in Western wilds, display
Their fairy form and plumage gay,
In rainbow colours drest.

Others no varied song may pour,
May boast no eagle-plume to soar,
No tints of light may wear;
Yet know, our Heavenly Father guides
The least of these, and well provides
For each, with tenderest care.

Shall He not then _thy_ guardian be?
Will not His aid extend to _thee_?
Oh, safely may’st thou rest!--
Trust in His love; and e’en should pain,
Should sorrow, tempt thee to complain,
Know what He wills is best!

[407] The Italians call all singing-birds, _birds of the gentle beak_.

THE SKYLARK.

CHILD’S MORNING HYMN.

The skylark, when the dews of morn
Hang tremulous on flower and thorn,
And violets round his nest exhale
Their fragrance on the early gale,
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings,
Buoyant with joy, and soars and sings.

He rests not on the leafy spray
To warble his exulting lay;
But high above the morning cloud
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud,
And swells, when nearest to the sky,
His notes of sweetest ecstasy.

Thus, my Creator! thus the more
My spirit’s wing to Thee can soar,
The more she triumphs to behold
Thy love in all thy works unfold,
And bids her hymns of rapture be
Most glad, when rising most to Thee!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

CHILD’S EVENING HYMN.

When twilight’s gray and pensive hour
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower,
And bids the solitary star
Shine in pale beauty from afar;

When gathering shades the landscape veil,
And peasants seek their village-dale,
And mists from river-wave arise,
And dew in every blossom lies;

When evening’s primrose opes to shed
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed;
When glow-worms in the wood-walk light
Their lamp to cheer the traveller’s sight;--

At that calm hour, so still, so pale,
Awakes the lonely nightingale;
And from a hermitage of shade
Fills with her voice the forest glade.

And sweeter far that melting voice
Than all which through the day rejoice;
And still shall bard and wanderer love
The twilight music of the grove.

Father in heaven! oh, thus when day
With all its cares hath pass’d away,
And silent hours waft peace on earth,
And hush the louder strains of mirth;

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer
To Thee my spirit’s offering bear--
Yon star, my signal, set on high,
For vesper-hymns of piety.

So may Thy mercy and Thy power
Protect me through the midnight hour,
And balmy sleep and visions blest
Smile on Thy servant’s bed of rest.

THE NORTHERN SPRING.

When the soft breath of Spring goes forth
Far o’er the mountains of the North,
How soon those wastes of dazzling snow
With life, and bloom, and beauty glow!

Then bursts the verdure of the plains,
Then break the streams from icy chains;
And the glad reindeer seeks no more
Amidst deep snows his mossy store.

Then the dark pine-wood’s boughs are seen
Fringed tenderly with living green;
And roses, in their brightest dyes,
By Lapland’s founts and lakes arise.

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom
And the cold fetters of the tomb,
Thus shall the blest Redeemer’s voice
Call forth his servants to rejoice.

For He, whose word is truth, hath said,
His power to life shall wake the dead,
And summon those he loves on high,
To “put on immortality!”

Then, all its transient sufferings o’er,
On wings of light the soul shall soar,
Exulting, to that blest abode
Where tears of sorrow never flow’d.

Early in the year 1834, the little volume of _Hymns for Childhood_ (which, though written many years before, had never been published in England) was brought out by Messrs Curry of Dublin, who were also the publishers of the _National Lyrics_, which appeared in a collected form about the same time. Of the latter, Mrs Hemans thus wrote to her friend Mrs Lawrence, in the note which accompanied the volume:--“I think you will love my little book, though it contains but the broken music of a troubled heart--for all the hours it will recall to you beam fresh and bright as ever in my memory, though I have passed through but too many of sad and deep excitement since that period.”--_Memoir_, p. 269.]

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII.

“Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heavens: praise him in the heights.”

Praise ye the Lord! on every height
Songs to his glory raise!
Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of night,
Join in immortal praise!

O heaven of heavens! let praise far-swelling
From all thine orbs be sent!
Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling!
Above the firmament!

For His the word which gave you birth,
And majesty and might:
Praise to the Highest from the earth,
And let the deeps unite!

O fire and vapour, hail and snow!
Ye servants of His will;
O stormy winds! that only blow
His mandates to fulfil;

Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise!
Fair cedars of the wood!
Creatures of life that wing the skies,
Or track the plains for food!

Judges of nations! kings, whose hand
Waves the proud sceptre high!
O youths and virgins of the land!
O age and infancy!

Praise ye His name, to whom alone
All homage should be given;
Whose glory from the eternal throne
Spreads wide o’er earth and heaven!

NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

TO

MRS LAWRENCE

OF WAVERTREE HALL, HER FRIEND, AND THE SISTER OF HER FRIEND COLONEL D’AGUILAR, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED IN REMEMBRANCE OF MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED HOURS, BY FELICIA HEMANS.

NATIONAL LYRICS.

THE THEMES OF SONG.

“Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope,
And melancholy fear subdued by faith.” Wordsworth.

Where shall the minstrel find a theme?
--Where’er, for freedom shed,
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream,
Amidst the mountains, red.

Where’er a rock, a fount, a grove,
Bears record to the faith
Of love--deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor o’er fear and death.

Where’er a chieftain’s crested brow
Too soon hath been struck down,
Or a bright virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth’s first crown.

Where’er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling, that all around have striven
Man’s heart, and hope, and prayer.

Where’er a blessed home hath been,
That now is home no more:
A place of ivy, darkly green,
Where laughter’s light is o’er.

Where’er by some forsaken grave,
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave,
A star its vigil keep.

Or where a yearning heart of old,
A dream of shepherd men,
With forms of more than earthly mould
Hath peopled grot or glen.

_There_ may the bard’s high themes be found--
We die, we pass away;
But faith, love, pity--these are bound
To earth without decay.

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,
The tear from hidden springs,
The thorn and glory of the rose--
_These_ are undying things.

Wave after wave of mighty stream
To the deep sea hath gone:
Yet not the less, like youth’s bright dream,
The exhaustless flood rolls on.

RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.

TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN.”

SINGLE VOICE.

It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving,
I see the bright flood shine! (_bis._)
Sing on the march with every banner waving--
Sing, brothers! ’tis the Rhine! (_bis._)

CHORUS.

The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river!
Be glory on thy track!
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver--
We bear thee freedom back!

SINGLE VOICE.

Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water,
Even as my mother’s song;
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter,
And heart and arm grew strong!

CHORUS.

Roll proudly on!--brave blood is with thee sweeping,
Pour’d out by sons of thine,
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping,
Like thee, victorious Rhine!

SINGLE VOICE.

Home! Home! Thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,
Thy path is by my home,
Even now my children count the hours till meeting:
O ransom’d ones! I come.

CHORUS.

Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never!
Sound on by hearth and shrine!
Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever--
Lift up thy voice, O Rhine!

[“I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his!--the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. ‘At the first gleam of the river,’ he said, ‘they all burst forth into the national chant, _Am Rhein! Am Rhein!_’ They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time--for each band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossacks, with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, ‘_Am Rhein! Am Rhein!_’”--_Manuscript letter._

This anecdote, (on which was founded Mrs Hemans’s own “Rhine Song,”) and the look and tone with which it was related, made an impression on her memory which nothing could efface. The very name of the “Father Rhine,” the “exulting and abounding river,” (how often would she quote that magnificent line of Lord Byron’s!) had always worked upon her like a spell, conjuring up a thousand visions of romance and beauty; and Haydn’s inspiring _Rheinweinlied_, with its fine, rich tide of flowing harmony, was one of the airs she most delighted in. “You are quite right,” she wrote to a friend who had echoed her enthusiasm, “it was the description of that noble Rhine scene which interested me more than any part of Sir Walter’s conversation; and I wished more that you could have heard it than all the high legends and solemn scenes of which we spoke that day.”]

A SONG OF DELOS.

[The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.]

“Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature,
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;
L’air est si parfume! la lumiere est si pure!
Aux regards d’un Mourant le soleil est si beau!” Lamartine.

A song was heard of old--a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle,
The Sun-god’s own domain, a gentle girl--
Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright--
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!--but for _her_,
The child of beauty and of poesy,
And of soft Grecian skies--oh! who may dream
Of all that from _her_ changeful eye flash’d forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land’s rich vision, fane o’er fane
Colour’d with loving light, she gazed her last,
Her young life’s last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward, as the spirit sway’d
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O’er dancing waves:--“Oh, linger yet!” she cried,

“Oh, linger, linger on the oar!
Oh, pause upon the deep!
That I may gaze yet once, once more,
Where floats the golden day o’er fane and steep!
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore--
Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!

“I see the laurels fling back showers
Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes--a swell of song--
_Mine_ is too low to reach that joyous throng!

“Oh! linger, linger on the oar
Beneath my native sky!
Let my life part from that bright shore
With day’s last crimson--gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!--slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.

“A fatal gift hath been thy dower,
Lord of the Lyre! to me;
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart,
Have lain and listen’d to my beating heart.

“Now, wasted by the inborn fire,
I sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
--O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go,
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!

“Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep
A tone of my farewell,
One tender accent, low and deep,
Shrined midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell!
Might my last breath send music to thy shore!
--Oh, linger, seamen! linger on the oar!”

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

“Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.” Byron.

Io! they come, they come!
Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home;
Bring roses, pour ye wine!

Swell, swell the Dorian flute
Through the blue triumphant sky!
Let the cittern’s tone salute
The sons of victory.

With the offering of bright blood
They have ransom’d hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;--
Io! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o’er each hero’s grave--
Sing, sing, the land is free!

Mark ye the flashing oars,
And the spears that light the deep?
How the festal sunshine pours
Where the lords of battle sweep!

Each hath brought back his shield;--
Maid, greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
Io! thy son is come!

Who murmur’d of the dead?
Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
Lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day!
They shall have their praise ere long,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song.

But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine--
Io! they come, they come!

NAPLES.

A SONG OF THE SYREN.

“Then gentle winds arose,
With many a mingled close
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain-odour keen,
Where the clear Baian ocean
Welters with air-like motion
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.”
Shelley.

Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore,
Bright city of the waves! Her magic song
Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy,
Fills thy soft summer air:--and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o’er fancy’s ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing.

“Thine is the glad wave’s flashing play,
Thine is the laugh of the golden day--
The golden day, and the glorious night,
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light!
--Forget, forget, that thou art not free!
Queen of the Summer sea.

“Favour’d and crown’d of the earth and sky!
Thine are all voices of melody,
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower,
Floating o’er fountain and myrtle bower;
Hark! how they melt o’er thy glittering sea--
Forget that thou art not free!

“Let the wine flow in thy marble halls!
Let the lute answer thy fountain-falls!
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough,
And cover with roses thy glowing brow!
Queen of the day and the summer sea,
Forget that thou art not free!”

So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully,
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore
Take up the cadence of her strain alone,
Murmuring--“_Thou, art not free_!”

THE FALL OF D’ASSAS.

A BALLAD OF FRANCE.

[The Chevalier D’Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, and calling aloud “A moi, Auvergne! ces sont les ennemis!” fell, pierced with mortal blows.]

Alone through gloomy forest-shades
A soldier went by night;
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades,
No star shed guiding light.

Yet on his vigil’s midnight round
The youth all cheerly pass’d;
Uncheck’d by aught of boding sound
That mutter’d in the blast.

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour?
--In his far home, perchance;
His father’s hall, his mother’s bower,
Midst the gay vines of France:

Wandering from battles lost and won,
To hear and bless again
The rolling of the wide Garonne,
Or murmur of the Seine.

Hush! hark!--did stealing steps go by?
Came not faint whispers near?
No! the wild wind hath many a sigh,
Amidst the foliage sere.

Hark, yet again!--and from his hand,
What grasp hath wrench’d the blade?
--Oh, single midst a hostile band,
Young soldier! thou’rt betray’d!

“Silence!” in under-tones they cry--
“No whisper--not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh
Shall sentence thee to death.”

Still, at the bayonet’s point he stood,
And strong to meet the blow;
And shouted, midst his rushing blood,
“Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!”

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call--
He heard their tumults grow;
And sent his dying voice through all--
“_Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!_”

THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR,

AT CAEN IN NORMANDY--1087.

[“At the day appointed for the king’s interment, Prince Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude of clergy and people, assembled in the church of St Stephen, which the Conqueror had founded. The mass had been performed, the corpse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd exclaimed,--‘He whom you have praised was a robber. The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.’ The speaker was Asceline Fitz-Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shillings for the grave, and promised that he should receive the full value of his land. The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of stone.”--Lingard, vol. ii. p. 98.]

Lowly upon his bier
The royal conqueror lay;
Baron and chief stood near,
Silent in war-array.

Down the long minster’s aisle
Crowds mutely gazing stream’d;
Altar and tomb the while
Through mists of incense gleam’d.

And, by the torches’ blaze,
The stately priest had said
High words of power and praise
To the glory of the dead.

They lower’d him, with the sound
Of requiems, to repose;
When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose:--

“Forbear! forbear!” it cried;
“In the holiest name, forbear!
He hath conquer’d regions wide,
But he shall not slumber _there_!

“By the violated hearth
Which made way for yon proud shrine;
By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;

“By the house e’en here o’erthrown,
On my brethren’s native spot;
Hence! with his dark renown,
Cumber our birthplace not!

“Will my sire’s unransom’d field,
O’er which your censers wave,
To the buried spoiler yield
Soft slumbers in the grave!

“The tree before him fell
Which we cherish’d many a year;
But its deep root yet shall swell,
And heave against his bier.

“The land that I have till’d
Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home’s white ashes fill’d,
And it shall not give him rest!

“Each pillar’s massy bed
Hath been wet by weeping eyes--
Away! bestow your dead
Where no wrong against him cries.”

Shame glow’d on each dark face
Of those proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader’s dust e’en then.

A little earth for him
Whose banner flew so far!
And a peasant’s tale could dim
The name, a nation’s star!

_One_ deep voice thus arose
From a heart which wrongs had riven:
Oh! who shall number those
That were but heard in heaven?

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE![408]

Near thee, still near thee!--o’er thy pathway gliding,
Unseen I pass thee with the wind’s low sigh;
Life’s veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing,
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently!
Not midst the festal throng,
In halls of mirth and song;
But when thy thoughts are deepest,
When holy tears thou weepest,
Know then _that_ love is nigh!

When the night’s whisper o’er thy harp-strings creeping,
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore,
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping,
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore;
When every thought and prayer
We loved to breathe and share,
On thy full heart returning,
Shall wake its voiceless yearning;
Then feel me near once more!

Near thee, still near thee!--trust thy soul’s deep dreaming!
Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die!
Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming,
Thine image wanders with me through the sky.
The fields of air are free,
Yet lonely, wanting thee;
But when thy chains are falling,
When heaven its own is calling,
Know then, thy guide is nigh!

[408] This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the author’s songs were written.

OH! DROOP THOU NOT.

“They sin who tell us love can die!
With life all other passions fly--
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions, as of earth--
They perish where they drew their birth.
But love is indestructible!
Its holy flame for ever burneth--
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.” Southey.

Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love!
Mine still to be!
I bore through death, to brighter lands above,
My thoughts of thee.

Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears,
Our mingled prayer,
Our suffering love, through long devoted years,
Went with me there.

It was not vain, the hallow’d and the tried--
It was not vain!
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side,
I watch again!

From our own paths, our love’s attesting bowers,
I am not gone;
In the deep calm of midnight’s whispering hours,
Thou art not lone:

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest
--That stream whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest,
We two have known:

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking
Of days long past,
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking,
Silent and fast:

Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning
Thy dreamy glance,
Thou seek’st my home, where solemn stars are burning
O’er night’s expanse.

My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee,
Where’er thou art;
Though still mortality’s thick cloud hath bound thee,
Doubt not thy heart!

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken:
Let faith be given
To the still tones which oft our being waken--
They are of heaven.

SONGS OF SPAIN.

[Written for a set of airs, entitled _Peninsular Melodies_, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs Goulding and D’Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume.]

ANCIENT BATTLE-SONG.

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again!
Let the high word _Castile!_ go resounding through Spain!
And thou, free Asturias! encamp’d on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!

The voices are mighty that swell from the past,
With Arragon’s cry on the shrill mountain-blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed.
--Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again,
And shout ye “Castile! to the rescue for Spain!”

THE ZEGRI MAID.

[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.]

The summer leaves were sighing
Around the Zegri maid,
To her low, sad song replying
As it fill’d the olive shade.
“Alas! for her that loveth
Her land’s, her kindred’s foe!
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri’s spirit go?

“From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress’d,
And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast.”--
Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.

“And for all this heart’s wealth wasted,
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,
Should I win back aught but scorn?
By aught but daily dying
Would my lone truth be repaid?”--
Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.

THE RIO VERDE SONG.

[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring to this stream in _Percy’s Reliques_ will be remembered by many readers.

“Gentle river, gentle river!
Lo! thy streams are stain’d with gore.”]

Flow, Rio Verde!
In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth
To slumber from woe;
Bid thy wave’s music
Roll through her dreams--
Grief ever loveth
The kind voice of streams.

Bear her lone spirit
Afar on the sound
Back to her childhood,
Her life’s fairy ground;
Pass like the whisper
Of love that is gone--
Flow, Rio Verde!
Softly flow on!

Dark glassy water
So crimson’d of yore!
Love, death, and sorrow
Know thy green shore.
Thou shouldst have echoes
For grief’s deepest tone--
Flow, Rio Verde!
Softly flow on!

SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

Seek by the silvery Darro,
Where jasmine flowers have blown:
There hath she left no footsteps?
--Weep, weep! the maid is gone!

Seek where Our Lady’s image
Smiles o’er the pine-hung steep:
Hear ye not there her vespers?
--Weep for the parted, weep!

Seek in the porch where vine-leaves
O’ershade her father’s head:
Are _his_ gray hairs left lonely?
--Weep! her bright soul is fled.

SPANISH EVENING HYMN.

Ave! now let prayer and music
Meet in love on earth and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
Turn from this cold world to thee!

From the wide and restless waters
Hear the sailor’s hymn arise?
From his watch-fire midst the mountains,
Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices,
If o’erburden’d souls there be,
Dark and silent in their anguish,
Aid those captives! set them free!

Touch them, every fount unsealing
Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,
Aid! oh, aid to pray and weep!

BIRD THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO’S SIDE!

Bird that art singing on Ebro’s side!
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,
Doth sorrow dwell midst the leaves with thee?
Doth song avail thy full heart to free?
--Bird of the midnight’s purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Bird! is it blighted affection’s pain
Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?
And is the wound of that arrow still’d
When thy lone music the leaves hath fill’d?
--Bird of the midnight’s purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.

MOORISH GATHERING-SONG.

ZORZICO.[409]

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

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

Come from Alhambra!--garden and grove
Now may not shelter beauty or love.
Blood on the waters! death midst the flowers!
--Only the spear and the rock are ours.

[409] The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singularly antique Moorish melody.

THE SONG OF MINA’S SOLDIERS.

We heard thy name, O Mina!
Far through our hills it rang;
A sound more strong than tempests,
More keen than armour’s clang.

The peasant left his vintage,
The shepherd grasp’d the spear--
We heard thy name, O Mina!
--The mountain-bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring,
As torrents to the sea,
From every dark sierra
So rush’d our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner,
Thine eye our beacon-sign,
Thy name our trumpet, Mina!
--The mountain-bands are thine.

MOTHER! OH, SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

Mother! oh, sing me to rest
As in my bright days departed:
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted,
Songs for a spirit oppress’d.

Lay this tired head on thy breast!
Flowers from the night-dew are closing,
Pilgrims and mourners reposing:
Mother! oh, sing me to rest!

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

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles,
There are echoes on Biscay’s wild shore;
There are murmurs--but not of the torrent,
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest’s roar.

’Tis a day of the spear and the banner,
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards!
Or start from your old battle-dells.

There are streams of unconquer’d Asturias
That have roll’d with your father’s free blood:
Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty
Proud marks where their children have stood!

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription--“_Et in Arcadia ego_.”]

They have wander’d in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;
They have climb’d o’er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain-moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow--
What hath staid the wanderers now?
Lo! a gray and rustic tomb,
Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
--“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

There is many a summer sound
That pale sepulchre around;
Through the shade young birds are glancing,
Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;
Glimpses of blue festal skies
Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o’er the turf below
Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own
O’er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness gray
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something dimly from those old words felt,
--“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

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

THE WANDERING WIND.

The Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves--
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones among the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices
Of all in one combined,
That it wins the tone of mastery?
The Wind, the wandering Wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low;

They are not of the waters,
Nor of the cavern’d hill:
’Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill.
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the Wind, the wandering Wind!

YE ARE NOT MISS’D, FAIR FLOWERS!

Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot;
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding--
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.

Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water,
O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone.

And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d.
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving,
A joy to all--yet, yet, ye are not miss’d!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say earth’s _human_ flowers not more are miss’d.

THE WILLOW SONG.

Willow! in thy breezy moan,
I can hear a deeper tone;
Through thy leaves come whispering low,
Faint, sweet sounds of long ago.
Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow! sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent.
Willow! sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on!
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow! willow!

LEAVE ME NOT YET.

Leave me not yet! through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!

Not yet! oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise;
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper’s hymns and harmonies:
Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love!
By day shut up in their own still recess;
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
_Then_ to breathe out their soul of tenderness:
Leave me not yet!

THE ORANGE BOUGH.

Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!

Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.

Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone
My faint heart, even in death, would own.

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed
Life’s parting sweetness round my head;
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.

THE STREAM SET FREE.

Flow on, rejoice, make music,
Bright living stream set free!
The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!

The woodland is thy country,
Thou art all its own again;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.

Flow on, rejoice, make music
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds
And golden eaves!

Once more the holy starlight
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man’s unrest.

Flow, and let freeborn music
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove’s lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.

And the green reeds quivering o’er thee,
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill’d with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.

Yet, midst thy song’s glad changes,
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.

One sound, of all the deepest,
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense that nature ne’er forsakes
The meek and true.

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

THE SUMMER’S CALL.[410]

Come away! The sunny hours
Woo thee far to founts and bowers!
O’er the very waters now,
In their play,
Flowers are shedding beauty’s glow--
Come away!
Where the lily’s tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing stream,
Come away!

All the air is fill’d with sound,
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray;
Faint winds whisper as they pass--
Come away!
Where the bee’s deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells,
Come away!

In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day
Floats with leafy scents along--
Come away!
Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloom,
Come away!

In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm’s lamp by night
Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright--
Come away!
Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!

Now each tree by summer crown’d,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Glancing there from sun to shade,
Bright wings play;
There the deer its couch hath made--
Come away!
Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-time,
Come away--away![411]

[410] “The Summer’s Call.”--This faculty for realising images of the distant and the beautiful, amidst outward circumstances of apparently the most adverse influence, is thus gracefully illustrated by Washington Irving in the “Royal Poet” of his _Sketch-Book_:--“Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.

‘Have you not seen the nightingale,
A pilgrim cooped into a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale
In that her lonely hermitage?
Even there her charming melody doth prove,
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.’”

Roger L’Estrange.

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable; and that, when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived ’round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his _Jerusalem_; and we may consider _The King’s Quair_, composed by James of Scotland during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house.”

[411] “In my literary pursuits,” wrote Mrs Hemans at this time to a friend, “I fear I shall be obliged to look out for an amanuensis. I sometimes retain a piece of poetry several weeks in my memory, from actual dread of writing it down.... I was so glad you liked my little summer breathing strain, (‘The Summer’s Call.’) I assure you it quite consoled me for the want of natural objects of beauty around, to heap up their remembered images in one wild strain.”

OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

Oh! Skylark, for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven’s empyreal height!
With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me,
O Skylark! on thy wing!

Free, free, from earth-born fear,
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain’s vernal treasures,
As I wander’d on thy wing.

But oh! the silver cords
That around the heart are spun,
From gentle tones and words,
And kind eyes that make our sun!
To some low, sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring
There, _there_ the dews of morning,
O Skylark! on thy wing!

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

[These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been set to music by the author’s sister, and are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whose permission they are here published.]