Thou, against whom the voice of blood
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood;
And in whose dreams a moan should be,
Not of the water, nor of the tree;
Haply, thine own last hour is nigh,-
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die.
There's one that pale beside thee stands,
More true than all thy mountain bands!
She will not shrink in doubt and dread,
When the balls whistle round thy head;
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye
No longer may to her's reply.
Oh! many a soft and quiet grace
Hath faded from her form and face;
And many a thought, the fitting guest
Of woman's meck religious breast,
Hath perish'd in her wanderings wide,
Through the deep forests, by thy side.
Yet, mournfully surviving all,
A flower upon a ruin's wall,
A friendless thing whose lot is cast,
Of lovely ones to be the last;
Sad, but unchanged through good and ill,
Thine is her lone devotion still.
And oh not wholly lost the heart
Where that undying love hath part;
Not worthless all, though far and long
From home estranged, and guided wrong;
Yet may its depths by heaven be stirr'd,
Its prayer for thee be pour'd and heard!
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep, Like hidden gems, in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; And the scent by the blossoming sweet-briers shed,
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.
Oh! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee!
What is remembrance or thought to thee?
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon-
What if to droop and to perish soon?
Nature hath mines of such wealth-and thou
Never wilt prize its delights as now!
For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair;
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
Into the stillness of autumn skies;
And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 'Midst the hidden things of each human heart.
Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this?
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss!
Such be thy portion!-the bliss to look,
With a reverent spirit, through nature's book;
By fount, by forest, by river's line,
To track the paths of a love divine;
To read its deep meanings-to see and hear
God in earth's garden-and not to fear!
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HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee?
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free?
With the hare thro' the copses and dingles wild?
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child?
Yes! the light fall of thy bounding feet
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat;|
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells,
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.
Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;|
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim;
These are old words, that have made each grove
A dreaming haunt for romance and love :
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.
Suggested by a picture, in which a young girl is represented as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by the spirits of her departed sisters.
SHE sleeps!-but not the free and sunny sleep That lightly on the brow of childhood lies: Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, Yet, ere it sunk upon her shadow'd eyes, Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'erswept
Her soul's meek stillness:-she had pray'd and wept.
And now in visions to her couch they come,
The early lost-the beautiful--the dead-
That unto her bequeath'd a mournful home,
Whence with their voices all sweet laughter
fled;
They rise-the sisters of her youth arise,
As from the world where no frail blossom dies.
And well the sleeper knows them not of earth
Not as they were when binding up the flowers,
Telling wild legends round the winter's hearth,
Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours;
Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore These things are past;-a spiritual gleam,
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er;
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.
Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years
In those pure aspects may no more be read,
Thence, too, hath sorrow melted, and the tears
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed,
Are all effaced; there earth hath left no sign
Save its deep love, still touching every line.
But oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more
A thought of pity, than in vanish'd days:
While hovering silently and brightly o'er
The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say,
"Yet, sister, yet we love thee, come away!"
"T will fade, the radiant dream! and will she not
Wake with more painful yearning at her
Will not her home seem yet a lovelier spot,
Her task more sad, when those bright shadows part?
And the green summer after them look dim, And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn?
But let her hope be strong, and let the dead
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still, Be their names utter'd, be their memory spread Yet round the place they never more may fill! All is not over with earth's broken tieWhere, where should sisters love, if not on high?
Thine, in its reckless and joyous way,
Like an embodied breeze at play!
Child of the sunlight!-thou winged and free!
One moment, one moment, I envied thee!
Thou art not lonely, though born to roam,
Thou hast no longings that pine for home,
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr'd:
In thy brief being, no strife of mind,
No boundless passion is deeply shrined;
While I-as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seem'd infinity!
And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flow'd not her song from a heart that wept?
-O love and song, though of heaven your
Dark is your fate in this world of ours!
Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!
Thou, that dost image the freed soul's birth,
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth,
| Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise
Round the dark chamber where genius lies!
WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB,
Near Woodstock, in the County of Kilkenny.
Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap,
The undelighting, slighted thing;
There, in the cold earth, buried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.
Mrs. Tighe's Poem on the Lily.
I STOOD where the lip of song laid low,
Where the dust had gather'd on beauty's brow;
Where stillness hung on the heart of love,
And a marble weeper kept watch above.
I stood in the silence of lonely thought,
Of deep affections that inly wrought,
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear-
-They knew themselves exiled spirits here!
Then didst thou pass me in radiance by,
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly!
Thou that dost bear on thy fairy wings,
No burden of mortal sufferings!
Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb,
Over a bright world of joy and bloom,
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine,
The all that sever'd thy life and mine.
Mine, with its inborn mysterious things,
Of love and grief its unfathom'd springs,
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth
sky,
With voices to question eternity!
PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO.
As translated from the German of Schiller, by Colonel D'Aguilar, and performed at the Theatre Royal, Dublin, December, 1832.
Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band,
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land,
Majestic strains, but not for us had sung,—
Mouldering to melody a stranger tongue.
Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of
power,
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour!
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the impassion'd lays,
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise;
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not
aught
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought,
But let the barriers of the sea give way,
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's
And let the Rhine divide high souls no more
From mingling on its old heroic shore,
Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many
To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known;
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
and Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.
And if by one, more used, on march and heath,
To the shrill bugle, than the muse's breath,
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought | Relic or treasure, giant sword of old?
And in a trusting loyalty of thought,—
So let it be received!-a Soldier's hand
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime,
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,
Hath song held empire; then if not with Fame,
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread,
Where once that harp "the soul of music shed!"
A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD.
These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long continuance; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the
Gems, bedded deep, rich veins of burning gold?
-Not so-the dead, the dead! An awe-struck
band,
In silence gathering round the silent stand,
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath,
Before the thing that, in the might of death,
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay-
A sleeper, dreaming not!-a youth with hair
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!)
O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay
Had touch'd those pale bright features-yet he
very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the hap-Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, piness of approaching him.
In his youth's flower-and she, the living, stood
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had
And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!-a wither'd leaf,
Sear'd-though for thy sake-by the blast of
grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go,
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call'd thee! With the morning light
How have I watch'd for thee!-wept, wander'd,
pray'd,
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd,
In search of thee! Bound my worn life to one,
One torturing hope! Now let me die! 'Tis gone.
Take thy betrothed!" And on his breast she
fell-
-Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love!
strong, Joining in death whom life had parted long!
-They had one grave-one lonely bridal bed-
No friend, no kinsman, there a tear to shed!
His name had ceased-her heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face-and die!
DREAMER! and wouldst thou know If Love goes with us to the viewless bourne? Wouldst thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source of woe
In thy heart's lonely urn?
What hath it been to thee,
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, Finding no place of rest:
A precious odour cast
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by;
A voice of music utter'd to the blast,
And winning no reply.
Even were such answer thine,
Wouldst thou be blest? - too sleepless, too profound,
Are thy soul's hidden springs; there is no line Their depth of love to sound.
Do not words faint and fail,
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's power?
As thine own cheek before high thoughts grows pale
In some o'erwhelming power?
Doth not thy frail form sink
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, When thy heart strives, held down by many a link Where thy beloved are not?
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, Till a vain tenderness, beyond control,
Bows down thy weary head?
And wouldst thou bear all this,
The burden and the shadow of thy life,
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss,
With earthly feelings' strife?
Not thus, not thus-oh no
Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care,
That spirit of my soul should with me go,
To breathe celestial air:
But as the sky-lark springs To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, So must love mount to Heaven!
Vainly it shall not strive There on weak words to pour a stream of fire; Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, As light might wake a lyre.
A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
The cheerful girl her labour leaves awhile,
To gaze on Heaven's and Earth's unsullied smile!
Her happy dog looks on her dimpled cheeks,
And of his joy in his own language speaks;
A gush of waters, tremulously bright,
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage :-this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall With a fond look of love? What secret spell With the heart's pictures made its image dwell? What but the spirit of the joyous child, That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled, Casting upon the common things of earth A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!
DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dash'd it out-There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip,-he touch'd the veins with ice,
And the rose faded; forth from those blue eyes
There spoke a wishful tenderness,-a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids
For ever; there had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile
So fix'd and holy from that marble brow,-
|Death gazed, and left it there ;-he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.
Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? Thou imagest my life."
DARKLY thou glidest onward,
Thou deep and hidden wave!
The laughing sunshine hath not look'd Into thy secret cave.
Thy current makes no music-
A hollow sound we hear,
A muffled voice of mystery,
And know that thou art near.
No brighter line of verdure Follows thy lonely way; No fairy moss, or lily's cup, Is freshen'd by thy play.
The halcyon doth not seek thee,
Her glorious wings to lave; Thou know'st no tint of the summer sky, Thou dark and hidden wave!
Yet once will day behold thee,
When to the mighty sea, Fresh bursting from their cavern'd veins, Leap thy lone waters free.
There wilt thou greet the sunshine
For a moment, and be lost,
With all thy melancholy sounds,
In the ocean's billowy host.
Oh! art thou not, dark river,
Like the fearful thoughts untold,
Which haply in the hush of night
O'er many a soul have roll'd?
Those earth-born strange misgivings-
Who hath not felt their power?
Yet who hath breathed them to his friend,
E'en in his fondest hour?
They hold no heart-communion, They find no voice in song, They dimly follow far from earth The grave's departed throng.
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