The dark-eyed dames of Spain, who shoot love's lightnings thro' the breast, Are there by dusky Moors or native slaves alone caress'd;
And there the blushing grape a flood of rapture pours along
The blood that teems with those fierce loves to sunny climes belong,
And music charms the ear of night with sweet seraphic song!
Death to the dastard slave that whines to leave his native strand :
A brave man's country is the globe-the world, his father-land!
Wherever wealth and beauty dwells, where foes are to be found,
That is the Norseman's home on earth-his grave, the battle ground!
His bosom's joy is in the bristling ranks of Death to form-
His life-breath is the battle dust-his element, the storm!
His sceptre, that which Thor* has given the strongest still to wield—
His charter, his broad battle axe-his sure defence, his shield!
'Gainst rights and arms like these, what can the wretched Southern shew?
A nerveless frame-a puny arm, scarce fit to strike a blow!
Then forward! forward! valiant Norse! across the shouting sea;
The north-east breeze right soon will place old Spain beneath our lee,
With love, and gold, and wine, and mirth, to crown our victory!
With clashing arms the cavern'd rocks resound,
As Eric dash'd his wild harp to the ground:
Out rush'd the warlike host in fierce array,
With wild acclaim emerging into day;
Forth flew the blood-red flag, with border'd gold,
And barbarous mottoes wrought on every fold;
Up rose each mast-loose flutter'd every sail,
Th' impatient cordage rustled in the gale.
Nor had the echoes of Red Eric's song
Yet died away the hollow cliffs among,
Ere that dark band were tossing on the sea,
Wild with the hopes of wealth, wassaile, and victory!
* The Scandinavian God of War.
Written for and Sung at the first Meeting of the
Tynemouth Amateur Musical Society.
When first this bright and beauteous Earth
From the dark womb of Chaos sprang,
The spirit, Melody, had birth,
And Nature's hymn primeval sang.
She spake, and wide from sea to sky
The seraph strain aloft was hurl'd;
Till listening angels heard with joy,
The Anthem of the infant World!
Wake! then, a measure, glad and free,
And strike the harp to Melody!
And still she doth the notes prolong,
Still flows, as flow'd the strain of yore;
Smooth rolls the Music, deep and strong,
And echoes round from shore to shore.
In rushing streams and cavern'd seas,
In rustling groves by Zephyrs stirr'd,
In winds and woodland minstrelsies,
That wild and varied Hymn is heard.
But from the heart that owns her spell,
Her most harmonious accents roll;
Her's is the Spirit's raptur'd swell,
The genuine language of the Soul.
She fills the Warrior's heart with fire,
As wild, he rushes on the foe;
She wakes the soul of young desire,
And soothes the pangs of mortal woe.
Wake! then, &c.
And when, as now, a social band
Combines to chaunt the cheerful lay,
She bids each breast to joy expand,
And sweeps the cares of life away.
The electric touch from heart to heart,
Keen thrills with more than magic power;
Th' envenom'd Passions all depart,
And Friendship rules the raptur'd hour!
Wake! then, a measure, glad and free,
And strike the harp to Melody!
ON RETURNING FROM AN INLAND RAMBLE.
Hark! 'tis the Ocean's solemn voice
That falls upon my ear;
Majestic, stern, still rolling on,
In the same wild and welcome tone
So well I lov'd to hear,
While wandering all her rocks upon,
In many a by-gone year!
Ere yet I grasp my father's hand,
Or kiss my sister's cheek,
I must behold the stretching strand,
Where, foaming o'er the the silver sand,
The bounding billows break!
All hail to thee! thou mighty Sea!
That solemn shout of thine
Sounds like a welcoming to my home, Since from my wanderings I have come, From many a ruin'd shrine.
From many an olden castle grey,
In ivy mantle clad,
Where once the gallant and the gay
Their bowers of pleasure had.
From many a lofty mountain height,
From many a sad and joyous sight
Of stream and tower and tree;
From scenes where glad my spirit dwelt,
From ancient altars where I've knelt
What though their glories all were gone,
Their priests beneath the sculptur'd stone,
Their faith the scorn of men;
The mem'ry of devotion past
Was o'er my willing spirit cast-
And thus, in many a glen;
On many a lonely mountain steep,
By many a river broad and deep,
By many a ruin'd shrine,
"At this old altar,” have I said,
"Here holy men in silence pray'd
Unto their God and mine!
Here let me also kneel and own
Omnipotence Divine."
From scenes like these, thou mighty Sea!
Have I return'd again to thee;
Much do I joy to hear once more
The welcome music of thy roar.
Thy ample bosom now I see
Beneath the moonlight fair,
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