And left him to the fowls of air, Are yet alive-and they must die. They slew him—and my virgin years Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, And many an Othman dame, in tears, I touched the lute in better days, I led in dance the joyous band; Ah! they may move to mirthful lays Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. The march of hosts that haste to meet Seems gayer than the dance to me; The lute's sweet tones are not so swee As the fierce shout of victory. TO A CLOUD. BEAUTIFUL cloud! with folds so soft and fair, Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee In thy calm way o'er land and sea: To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, To where the sun of Andalusia shines But I would woo the winds to let us rest O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed, Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made! The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown Miss thee, for ever, from the sky. THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by. The red-bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead, And fearless, near the fatal spot, But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim. They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Nor how, when round the frosty pole The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come. Long, long they looked-but never spied His welcome step again, Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. |