Chapter LV: Introduction (1)

One hour for distant homes to weep
Midst Afric’s burnings sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.

They sat beneath a lonely palm,
In the gardens of their lord;
And, mingling with the fountain’s tune,
Their songs of exile pour’d.

And strangely, sadly did those lays
Of Alp and ocean sound,
With Afric’s wild, red skies above,
And solemn wastes around.

Broken with tears were oft their tones,
And most when most they tried
To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.

So met the sons of many lands,
Parted by mount and main;
So did they sing in brotherhood,
Made kindred by the chain.

THE BROTHER’S DIRGE.

In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior-fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o’er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but _thou_, my brother!
O’er thee dark billows sweep--
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.

In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled;
For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
_Thy_ life-drops flow’d for me--
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea!

In a shelter’d home of England
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone.
She little dreams, my brother!
Of the wild fate we have found;
I, midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.

THE ALPINE HORN.

The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more--but once--and die!

Yet, no! Midst breezy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of death--
O joyous Alpine horn!

But _here_ the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!

Haunt me no more! for slavery’s air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair--
Be hush’d, thou Alpine horn!

O YE VOICES!

O ye voices round my own hearth singing,
As the winds of May to memory sweet!
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?

Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again!

Or if still around my heart ye linger,
Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come:
Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer,
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home
Ne’er again!

I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I dream of all things free!
Of a gallant, gallant bark
That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o’er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills--
Of all things glad and free.

I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain-king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver--
I dream of all things free!

Of a happy forest child,
With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way;
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer’s greenwood tree--
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free!

FAR O’ER THE SEA.

Where are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee?
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,
Where doth my birthplace lie?
--Far o’er the sea.

Where floats the myrtle-scent
O’er vale and lea,
When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee!
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
--Far o’er the sea!

Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me?
Where o’er the cabin roof
Waves the green tree?
Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?
--Far o’er the sea.

Dance on, ye vintage bands!
Fearless and free;
Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father’s tree!
Still smile, ye kind, blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o’er the sea!

THE INVOCATION.

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love?
My only love!
Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?

Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love?
Thy light step gone?
And art thou not, in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?

I see thee with thy gleaming hair,
In midnight dreams!
But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love!
Dwelt on thy brow;
But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!

And silent ever is thy lip,
And pale thy cheek;--
Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s?
Speak to me, speak!

THE SONG OF HOPE.

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain--
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain;
A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches--we yet shall be free!
Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps;
Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,
Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam.

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea--
Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking signs,
Which ne’er might be repeated.” Byron.

The vesper-bell, from church and tower,
Had sent its dying sound;
And the household, in the hush of eve,
Were met their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power--
“We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s
gathering-hour:
There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell.
Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”

Then the father gave his son the sword
Which a hundred fights had seen--
“Away! and bear it back, my boy!
All that it still hath been!

“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s
blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”

Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears
That o’er his dark locks fell:
“I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er,
Yet I stay thee not--Farewell!”

“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!
It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d.
Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight,
To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might.

And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
“In the vigil, in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!”

“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is
burst!
So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed.
The night is pass’d, the silence o’er--on all our hills we rise:
We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle
cries.”

There were sad hearts in a darken’d home,
When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.

MIGNON’S SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.]

“Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?”

Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers,
Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove?
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,
And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove.
Know’st thou it well?
There, there, with thee,
O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say--“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?”
Know’st thou it well?
There, there with thee,
O my protector! homewards might I flee!

Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung,
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way;
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among,
O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray.
Know’st thou it well?
With thee, with thee,
There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

THE SISTERS.[412]

A BALLAD.

“I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain,
And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain:
Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear,
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair!
Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.”

“Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love?
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall
move!
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng?
I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song.
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”

“Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain?
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again?
Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long,
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong.
It could not still _my_ beating heart! but may it be a sign
Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.”

“Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee--
It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be;
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine.
O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d,
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?”

“Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years!
I should but darken _thy_ young life with fruitless pangs and fears.
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake!
Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn,
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”

“Yes! I _will_ take the silvery lute--and I will sing to thee
A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee.
O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain?
Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”

[412] This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.

SONG.

“Leave us not, leave us not!
Say not adieu!
Have we not been to thee
Tender and true?

“Take not thy sunny smile
Far from our hearth!
With that sweet light will fade
Summer and mirth.

“Leave us not, leave us not!
Can thy heart roam?
Wilt thou not pine to hear
Voices from home?

“Too sad our love would be
If thou wert gone!
Turn to us, leave us not!
Thou art our own!”

“O sister! hush that thrilling lute!--oh, cease that haunting lay!
Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes--yet, yet I cannot stay:
For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper’d call
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall.
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell
Where the world’s voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee!--Fare thee
well!”

[“Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passionately fond of music. She has described in--perhaps the finest of her lyrics--the ‘Requiem of Mozart’ the manner in which she herself felt its thrilling influences.

“It was after having listened with great delight one evening to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, composed from Sir Walter Scott’s dictation, for one of the old _Rhine songs_, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on ‘Triumphant Music;’ and triumphant they really were, in the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, ‘The Sisters,’ which formed, as it was represented[413] with extraordinary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr Lodge’s music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, when the youthful performers in Milton’s exquisite masque were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal personages they represented.”--_Recollections of Mrs Hemans_, by Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.]

[413] At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.]

Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee
To its own ceaseless cry--“Alone, alone!”

Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease!
Oh! let your secret caves be stirr’d,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me _peace_?

Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts--and will the _wave_ reply?

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride!
I ask not, alien world! from thee
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things!
Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench’d its living strings?

Let them lie silent at my feet!
Since, broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet
Hath pour’d on desert sands its wealth away.

Yet glory’s light hath touch’d my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine--
With a lone heart, a weary frame--
O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow’s crest!
_Thou_ hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, th’ unsought, unwatch’d-for--I too come!

I, with this wingèd nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought--
_Alone_ I come--oh! give me peace, dark sea!

DIRGE.

Where shall we make her grave?
Oh! where the wild-flowers wave
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard--
There--lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her--
Now may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:
Low on sweet nature’s breast
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters! by;
Faint gales! with happy sigh,
Come wandering o’er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,
Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind?
Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew
Thence in the heart renew
Life’s vernal glow!
And o’er that holy earth
Scents of the violet’s birth
Still come and go!

Oh! then, where wild flowers wave
Make ye her mossy grave,
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard--
There--lay her there!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

“Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace
All ’acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno
D’ una stagion volubile e fugace;
E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo,
Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace,
Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.” Metastasio.

Rose! what dost thou here?
Bridal, royal rose!
How, midst grief and fear,
Canst thou thus disclose
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows?

Rose! too much array’d
For triumphal hours,
Look’st thou through the shade
Of these mortal bowers,
Not to disturb my soul, thou crown’d one of all flowers!

As an eagle soaring
Through a sunny sky,
As a clarion pouring
Notes of victory,
So dost _thou_ kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high.

Thoughts of rapture, flushing
Youthful poet’s cheek;
Thoughts of glory, rushing
Forth in song to break,
But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak.

Yet, O festal rose!
I have seen thee lying
In thy bright repose
Pillow’d with the dying,
_Thy_ crimson by the lip whence life’s quick blood was flying.

Summer, hope, and love
O’er that bed of pain,
Met in thee, yet wove
Too, too frail a chain
In its embracing links the lovely to detain.

Smilest thou, gorgeous flower?
Oh! within the spells
Of thy beauty’s power,
Something dimly dwells,
At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.

All the soul forth flowing
In that rich perfume,
All the proud life glowing
In that radiant bloom--
Have they no place but _here_, beneath th’ o’ershadowing tomb?

Crown’st thou but the daughters
Of our tearful race?
Heaven’s own purest waters
Well might wear the trace
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee
With immortal air?
Shall we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there?
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair!

Yes! my fancy sees thee
In that light disclose,
And its dream thus frees thee
From the mist of woes,
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal royal rose!

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly,
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied;
O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
--So doth love’s dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought, which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
--So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

“Call back your odours, lovely flowers!
From the night-winds call them back;
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours
Come forth in the sunbeam’s track!

“The lark lies couch’d in her grassy nest,
And the honey-bee is gone,
And all bright things are away to rest--
Why watch ye here alone?

“Is not your world a mournful one,
When your sisters close their eyes,
And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone
Of song in the starry skies?

“Take ye no joy in the dayspring’s birth
When it kindles the sparks of dew?
And the thousand strains of the forest’s mirth,
Shall they gladden all but you?

“Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out
On the sunny turf to play,
And the woodland child with a fairy shout
Goes dancing on its way!”

“Nay! let our shadowy beauty bloom
When the stars give quiet light,
And let us offer our faint perfume
On the silent shrine of night.

“Call it not wasted, the scent we lend
To the breeze, when no step is nigh:
Oh, thus for ever the earth should send
Her grateful breath on high!

“And love us as emblems, night’s dewy flowers,
Of hopes unto sorrow given,
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours
Looking alone to heaven!”

ECHO-SONG.

In thy cavern-hall,
Echo! art thou sleeping?
By the fountain’s fall
Dreamy silence keeping?
Yet one soft note borne
From the shepherd’s horn,
Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping!
--Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping.

Then the woods rejoice,
Then glad sounds are swelling
From each sister-voice
Round thy rocky dwelling;
And their sweetness fills
All the hollow hills,
With a thousand notes, of _one_ life telling!
--Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.

Echo! in my heart
Thus deep thoughts are lying,
Silent and apart,
Buried, yet undying;
Till some gentle tone
Wakening haply _one_,
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying!
--Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.[414]

[414] This song is in the possession of Mr Power.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.[415]

The muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier’s burial-rite.

But it told them not how dear,
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour
By a mountain-stream of Spain.

The oaks of England waved
O’er the slumbers of his race,
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above _his_ last, lone place;

When the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep rolling sound,
Which call’d strange echoes round
To the soldier’s burial-rite.

Brief was the sorrowing _there_,
By the stream from battle red,
And tossing on its wave the plumes
Of many a stately head:

But a mother--soon to die,
And a sister--long to weep,
Even then were breathing prayers for him
In that home beyond the deep;

While the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep rolling sound,
And the dark pines mourn’d round,
O’er the soldier’s burial-rite.

[415] Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

“Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades.” Keats.

“Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.”
Shelley.

Midst the long reeds that o’er a Grecian stream
Unto the faint wind sigh’d melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out thro’ shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers
Dim alabaster gleams--a lonely swan
Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet,
Even painfully--as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the poet’s thought
_This_ was their language.

“Summer! I depart--
O light and laughing summer! fare thee well:
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell,
For one, one broken heart.

“And fare ye well, young flowers!
Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still,
And wave in glory, colouring every rill,
Known to my youth’s fresh hours.

“And ye, bright founts! that lie
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep--
Sweet waters! I must die.

“Will ye not send one tone
Of sorrow through the pines?--one murmur low?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?

“No! ever glad and free
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell:
Waves, joyous waves! flow on, and fare ye well?
Ye will not mourn for me.

“But thou, sweet boon! too late
Pour’d on my parting breath, vain gift of song!
Why com’st thou thus, o’ermastering, rich and strong,
In the dark hour of fate?

“Only to wake the sighs
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say--O sunshine and blue skies!
O life and love! farewell.”

Thus flow’d the death-chant on; while mournfully
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream--
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy--
Woke to respond: and all the air was fill’d
With that one sighing sound--_Farewell! farewell!_

Fill’d with that sound? High in the calm blue heav’n
Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light,
And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings
Quiver’d with song: such free, triumphant song,
As if tears were not,--as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below; and _thus_ that strain
Spoke to the poet’s ear exultingly:--

“The summer is come; she hath said _Rejoice!_
The wild-woods thrill to her merry voice;
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high:
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!

“There is joy in the mountains! The bright waves leap
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep;
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along--
Let the heavens ring with song!

“There is joy in the forests! The bird of night
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But _mine_ is the glory to sunshine given--
Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!

“Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high--
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!”

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,--
“Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one _heart_, one changeful human heart--
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world--
Thou call’st their music forth, with all its tones,
To startle and to pierce!--the dying swan’s,
And the glad skylark’s--triumph and despair!”

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

Hark! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow Curfew’s chime!
--A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England’s olden time!
Sadly ’twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children’s eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,
As it quench’d the wood-fire’s glow,
Which had cheer’d the board with the mirthful word,
And the red wine’s foaming flow!
Until that sullen, boding knell,
Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then
In the wild-deer’s forest far!
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill’d,
Would have lived o’er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still’d!

And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
For the mother, doom’d unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain’s hall!
Darkness in peasant’s cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o’er her lot.
Oh! the fireside’s peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow’d like rain,
Pour’d forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England’s homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home’s own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

“That voice re-measures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.” Coleridge.

I heard a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones--though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass’d, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
--At times the passion-kindled melody
Might seem to gush from Sappho’s fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;--at times the strain
Flow’d with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch’s voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso’s holy lyre. Yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant--“_Leave me not!_” was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world, amidst th’ o’erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.

“They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown--
O Love! forsake me not!
Mine were a lone, dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o’er the earth;
From thee, from _thee_, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes,
It gives to flower and skies
A bright, new birth!

“Thence gleams the path of morning
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone!
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own!
Thence every wood-recess
Is fill’d with loveliness,
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.

“I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile;=
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th’ alloy
Of fear midst quivering joy.
Yet must I perish if the gift depart--
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

“The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee;
The world’s cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul--a temple fill’d with thee!
Seal’d would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst free!

“Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter’d.
Such would my spirit be--
So mute, so void, so shatter’d,
Bereft of thee!

“Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers ‘_Come!_’
Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet’s dream;
With all th’ Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse,
With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take _me_, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!”

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.

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

Bring music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!

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

Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean’d heart hath said farewell,
And pass’d the gates of strife.

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

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

Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:

A passion unto music given,
A sweet, yet piercing cry;
A breaking heart’s appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith’s victory!

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all which crowds on earth’s last hour
No fuller language find?

Away! and hush the feeble song,
And let the chord be still’d!
Far in another land ere long
My dream shall be fulfill’d.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN’S GRAVE.

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

Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle’s blast,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior’s bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown’d thy head.

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.

The soldier’s heart at thy step leapt high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.

Now may’st thou slumber--thy work is done--
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou’rt gone,
But not to the festal board.

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow’d:
O lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch’d in a still abode!

A quiet home from the noonday’s glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast--
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair
To win thee but _this_ at last?

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

O joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time!
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen’d our gray forefathers
From the noontide’s glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch’d with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets
Wrapt in fairy dreams.
O tree of our fathers! O hallow’d tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate
Of thy fragrant breast!
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!

These may yet find coverts
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odour, and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gather’d
Round another tree?
O pride of our fathers! O hallow’d tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

THE BIRD AT SEA.

Bird of the greenwood!
Oh, why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o’er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
Far hence are at play--
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

Where the mast quivers
Thy place will not be,
As midst the waving
Of wild-rose and tree.
How shouldst thou battle
With storm and with spray?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind
Vine leaves are fann’d?
’Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

“Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark--
A heart that hath cherish’d
Through winter’s long day:
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!”

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

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

“Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.”

Bear them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm’s emerald star,
And the bird whose song is free,
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.

Spread them not before the eyes
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o’er all the colour’d earth!

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

Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is _her_ gentle heart.
Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

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

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

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

THE IVY-SONG.[416]

Oh! how could fancy crown with _thee_,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?
Ivy! _thy_ home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er;
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more;
Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow’d the victor’s tent.
Though, shining there in deathless green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave--
Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead,
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread--
Ivy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine
Thou wavest where once proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine--
The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass’d, and left no trace.
But thou art there!--serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy! Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.

’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread
O’er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power--
Days pass--thou Ivy never sere,[417]
And thou shalt have thy dower.
All are thine, or must be thine--
Temple, pillar, shrine!

[416] This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.

[417] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--_Lycidas._

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK’S.

[The choral music of St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old--a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.]

“All the choir
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”--Milton.

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

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard,
While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown:
Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

Those notes once more!--they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source,
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower!
--Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?

[The mention of Neukomm’s magnificent organ-playing brings to remembrance one great enjoyment of Mrs Hemans’s residence in Dublin--the exquisite “Music of St Patrick’s,” of which she has recorded her impressions in the little poem so entitled. Its effect is, indeed, such as, once heard, can never be forgotten. If ever earthly music can be _satisfying_, it must surely be such as this, bringing home to our bosoms the solemn beauty of our own holy liturgy, with all its precious and endeared associations, in tones that make the heart swell with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with unbidden tears. There was one anthem, frequently heard within those ancient walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar enthusiasm--that from the 3d Psalm--“Lord, how are they increased that trouble me!” The consummate skill exhibited in the adaptation of sound to sense in this noble composition is, in truth, most admirable. The symphony to the 5th verse--“I laid me down and slept”--with its soft, dreamy vibrations, gentle as the hovering of an angel’s wing--the utter _abandon_, the melting into slumber, implied by the half-whispered words that came breathing as from a world of spirits--almost “steep the senses in forgetfulness,” when a sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with the glad announcement, “I awaked, for the Lord sustained me;” then the old sombre arches ring with an almost overpowering peal of triumph, bearing to Heaven’s gate the exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th verses.--_Memoir_, p. 260-1.]

KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]

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

There is blood upon the threshold
Whence thy step went forth at morn
Like a dancer’s in its fleetness,
O my bright first-born!

At the glad sound of that footstep
My heart within me smiled;--
Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!

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

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

I shall go to sit beside thee,
Thy kindred’s graves among;
I shall hear the tall grass whisper--
I shall not hear it long.

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

And I, too, shall find slumber
With my lost one in the earth;--
Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!

Let the roof go down!--let silence
On the home for ever fall,
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother’s call!

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

FAR AWAY.[418]

Far away!--my home is far away,
Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
Midst the flowers my sister sings once more,
Far away!

Far away!--my dreams are far away,
When at midnight stars and shadows reign:
“Gentle child!” my mother seems to say,
“Follow me where home shall smile again,
Far away!”

Far away!--my hope is far away,
Where love’s voice young gladness may restore.
--O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!

[418] This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann and H. F. Chorley, Esq., and are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this volume.

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d
Forth on the wild wind’s track;
The stormy wanderer jarr’d the chord,
But gave no music back.--
O child of song!
Bear hence to heaven thy fire:
What hopest thou from the reckless throng?
Be not like that lost lyre!
Not like that lyre!

A flower its leaves and odours cast
On a swift-rolling wave;
Th’ unheeding torrent darkly pass’d,
And back no treasure gave.--
O heart of love!
Waste not thy precious dower:
Turn to thine only home above!
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower!

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

Sister! since I met thee last,
O’er thy brow a change hath past.
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
--Gentle sister! thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream
Thou art follow’d by a dream;
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
--Sister! thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr’d!
Home alone can give thee rest.
--Weep, sweet sister! on my breast!

THE LONELY BIRD.

From a ruin thou art singing,
O lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,
By thy summer music stirr’d.
But all is dark and cold beneath,
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence win’st thou that exulting breath,
O lonely, lonely bird?

Thy songs flow richly swelling
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern-dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle-echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done,
O lonely, lonely bird?

How can that flood of gladness
Rush through thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,
From the bosom of decay--
While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan,
Through the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
O lonely, lonely bird?

There’s many a heart, wild singer!
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,
Where Love hath left his bower:
And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr’d,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
O lonely, lonely bird!

DIRGE AT SEA.

Sleep!--we give thee to the wave,
Red with life-blood from the brave.
Thou shalt find a noble grave.
Fare thee well!

Sleep! thy billowy field is won:
Proudly may the funeral gun,
Midst the hush at set of sun,
Boom thy knell!

Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
Never there may flower be shed,
Marble rear’d, or brother’s head
Bow’d to weep.

Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the red-cross flag shall be.
Sleep! oh, sleep!

PILGRIM’S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

O soft star of the west!
Gleaming far,
Thou’rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Thou bring’st from rock and wave
The sea-bird to her nest,
The hunter from the hills,
The fisher back to rest.
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!

No bowery roof is mine,
No hearth of love and rest,
Yet guide me to my shrine,
O soft star of the west!
There, there my home shall be,
Heaven’s dew shall cool my breast,
When prayer and tear gush free,
O soft star of the west!

O soft star of the west,
Gleaming far!
Thou’rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Shine from thy rosy heaven,
Pour joy on earth and sea!
Shine on, though no sweet eyes
Look forth to watch for me!
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming afar!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

“We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments: and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other.”--Washington Irving.

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had still’d the tide;
A few bright days of summer glee
There found them side by side.

And voices of the fair and brave
Rose mingling thence in mirth;
And sweetly floated o’er the wave
The melodies of earth.

Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.

And hands were link’d, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown!

A little while such joy was cast
Over the deep’s repose,
Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet-music rose.

And proudly, freely on their way
The parting vessels bore;
In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet--oh, never more!

Never to blend in victory’s cheer,
To aid in hours of woe:
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are form’d below!

COME AWAY.

Come away!--the child, where flowers are springing
Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope,
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing,
Like the skylark’s with its tone of hope:
Come away!

Bounding on, with sunny lands before him,
All the wealth of glowing life outspread,
Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o’er him,
By that strain the youth in joy is led:
Come away!

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling
O’er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win:
Come away!

Come away!--the heart at last forsaken,
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue;
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
Though to other shores far hence they woo:
Come away!

In the light leaves, in the reed’s faint sighing,
In the low, sweet sounds of early spring,
Still their music wanders--till the dying
Hears them pass, as on a spirit’s wing:
Come away!

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.

[“Fair Helen of Kirkconnel,” as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.]

Hold me upon thy faithful heart,
Keep back my flitting breath;
’Tis early, early to depart,
Beloved!--yet this is death!

Look on me still--let that kind eye
Be the last light I see!
Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!

For thee, my own!--thy stately head
Was never thus to bow:
Give tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know’st it now!

Oh, the free streams look’d bright, where’er
We in our gladness roved;
And the blue skies were very fair,
O friend! because we loved.

Farewell!--I bless thee--live thou on
When this young heart is low!
Surely my blood thy life hath won--
Clasp me once more--I go!

MUSIC FROM SHORE.

A sound comes on the rising breeze,
A sweet and lovely sound!
Piercing the tumult of the seas
That wildly dash around.