ΙΟ The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowers 20 Old Thallinos sat mute In solitary sadness. The strange tale (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole) Echion had related, whom no force Could ever make look back upon the oaks. The father said, "Echion! thou must weigh, Carefully, and with steady hand, enough (Although no longer comes the store as once!) Of wax to burn all day and night upon That hollow stone where milk and honey lie: So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd!" Thallinos bore it thither in the morn, And lighted it and left it. And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trust. "May never we The father of the youth Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart, 49 Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks, Nor shunn'd to look upon the hollow stone That held the milk and honey, nor to lay His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid Opposite hers, when finger playfully Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side. He did not think of this, as she would do If she were there alone. The day was hot; The moss invited him; it cool'd his cheek, It cool'd his hands; he thrust them into it And sank to slumber. Never was there dream Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad. She took him by the arm and led him on 80 Along a valley, where profusely grew 90 The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks, Nothing was there delightful. At this change 100 "Weak youth! what brought Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt, My life-long residence? this bank, where first I sate with him the faithful (now I know Too late!) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home; Be happy, if thou canst; but come no more Where those whom death alone could sever, died." He started up: the moss whereon he slept III Was dried and withered: deadlier paleness spread Over his cheek; he sickened: and the sire Had land enough; it held his only son. ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptred race, A night of memories and of sighs A FIESOLAN IDYL Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, 30 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, 39 Of harder wing were working their way thro' Whether for me to look at or to take I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Commanding fires of death to light By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow, 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 8 12 16 20 24 28 There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 8 Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours, 14 Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? 23 They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, 347 And as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn, Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland - and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, "O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death, - the watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, 371 And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew: Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;- Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air- Oh! righteous Heaven; ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword omnipotent to save? rod, |