Page images
PDF
EPUB

-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the

chain;

They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,

Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!

[blocks in formation]

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn;

For me I depart to a brighter shore,

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's,-fare ye well,
farewell!

MISS LANDON.

BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.

I LOOK'D upon his brow,-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,

He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er Despair

He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that Death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,

He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now;
Around he looked with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh;

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many dint, that told Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,
The headsman by his side,

The plume, the helm, the charger gone ;
The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near :
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than did his now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,
A nation's funeral cry,
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot and her latest one.

EXTRACTS FROM THE IMPROVISATRICE.

FAREWELL, my lute !-and would that I

Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh,

And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute?
I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above,

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love,

But it was love that taught me song.

[blocks in formation]

He spoke not when the others spoke,
His heart was all too full for praise;

But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine
Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Mine sank-but yet I felt the thrill
Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no word that others said-

Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
My hand kept wandering on my lute,
In music, but unconsciously;

My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high,
A flush of dizzy ecstacy

Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears
Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet,
My wild heart's most bewildering beat,
Consciousness, without hopes or fears,

Of a new power within me waking,
Like light before the morn's full breaking.

*

I loved him as young Genius loves,

When its own wild and radiant heaven
Of starry thought burns with the light,
The love, the life, by passion given.
I loved him, too, as woman loves-
Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn:
Life had no evil destiny

That, with him, I could not have borne! I had been nurst in palaces;

Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
That I should not have thought a home
In Paradise, had he been near!
How sweet it would have been to dwell,
Apart from all, in some green dell
Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers;
And nestling birds to sing the hours!
Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade,
But of the woven branches made:
Our vesper hymn, the low lone wail
The rose hears from the nightingale ;
And waked at morning by the call
Of music from a waterfall.

But not alone in dreams like this,
Breathed in the very hope of bliss,
I loved my love had been the same
In hushed despair, in open shame.
I would have rather been a slave,

:

In tears, in bondage, by his side, Than shared in all, if wanting him, This world had power to give beside!

« PreviousContinue »