Gorgeous, yet full of gloom!-In such an hour,, The vesper-melody of dying bells Wanders through Spain, from each gray convent's tower O'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive-dells, By every peasant heard, and muleteer, And hamlet, round my home :-and I am here, In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was spoken, And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart-yet unbroken! In such an hour are told the hermit's beads; At eve ?—oh !—through all hours!—from dark dreams oft Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft, And low, my loved one! on the breast of night: I look forth on the stars-the shadowy sleep Of forests-and the lake, whose gloomy deep Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies' light. A lonely world!-ev'n fearful to man's thought, But for his presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought. THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. SING them upon the sunny hills, Sing them along the misty moor, Where ancient hunters roved, And swell them through the torrent's roar The songs our fathers loved! The songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall, And each proud note made lance and spear The songs that through our vallies Sent on from age to age, green, Like his own river's voice, have been The peasant's heritage. The reaper sings them when the vale The woodman, by the, starlight pale Cheer'd homeward through the leaves: A joyous measure keep, Where the dark rocks that crest our shores So let it be a light they shed Teach them your children round the hearth, So shall each unforgotten word, The green woods of their native land The voices of their household band FAIR Wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams' Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers! Where, as they pass'd, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things! Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Along the mountains!-but thy golden day And ever, through thy shades, And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, And the transparent sky Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain And dim remembrances, that still draw birth And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale They of the sword, whose praise, On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, Their echoes 'midst the mountains!-and become They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied; Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought And left the world their high mysterious dreams, But they, of whose abode 'Midst her green vallies earth retain'd no trace, In some sweet home;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees! The peasant, at his door Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast No genile breathings from thy distant sky Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of nature to decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou, Thou hadst no home, green land! Like the spring's wakening!—but that light was past- Not where thy soft winds play'd, Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove, For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice Around their steps !—till silently they die, And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. IN sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth. He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone; He listen'd-and his heart beat high- The rapture of a conqueror's mood Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Night came with stars :-across his soul No more than this!-what seem'd it now A thousand streams of lovelier flow They call'd him back to many a glade, Where brightly through the beechen shade They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his fathers' hills and graves. |