SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.

"Warrior! thou bear'st a haughty heart,

But I can bend its pride!

157

How should'st thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory's tide?

"It may be far from thy steel-clad bands, That I shall make thee mine;

It

may be lone on the desert sands, Where men for fountains pine!

"It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some deep Paynim hold;-

I have slow dull steps and lingering pains,
Wherewith to tame the bold!"

"Death, Death! I go

to a doom unblest,

If this indeed must be;

But the Cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee!

"Sound, clarion, sound!-for my vows are given To the cause of the holy shrine;

I bow my soul to the will of Heaven,
Oh Death!—and not to thine!"

SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.

OH! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back my own to me;

For if in thine I have no part,

Why should mine dwell with thee?*

Yet no! this mournful love of mine,
I will not from me cast;

Let me but dream 'twill win me thine,
By its deep truth at last!

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
-Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!

TO THE

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY,

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE, AND LAMENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE.

"Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
When grief's full heart is fed by fame."

BYRON.

THOU should'st have slept beneath the stately pines,
And with the ancestral trophies of thy race;
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place!
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread,
Thou bright young stranger 'midst the mighty dead!

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given,

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave,

* The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the German.

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven,

Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave: And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, With all that sanctifies the inspiring air.

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Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep,
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone
Thy childhood dwells-whose thoughts a record
keep

Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone;
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth-
A vernal promise, faded now from earth!

But a bright memory claims a proud regret

A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet,

Whose soul can number with love's holy things, A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot, A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

I AM free! I have burst through my galling chain,
The life of young eagles is mine again;

I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea,
I may rove where the wind roves-my path is free!

The streams dash in joy down the summer hill,
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will,
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,—
And is not my spirit as one of these?

Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, Lighting the valleys-all, all are mire!

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, The wings of the morning shall lend him speed; may meet the storm in its rushing glee

'I

Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!

Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain?
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main ?
Yes there thy spirit may proudly soar,

But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?

The bird when he pineth, may hush his song,
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong;
But thou canst thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep, 'midst thy brethren?-no, not for pride.

May the fiery word from thy lip find way,
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to
day?

May the care that sits in thy weary breast
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest?

No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn;
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free!

THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.

No! thou art chain'd till thy race is run,
By the power of all in the soul of one;

On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be-
Dreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?

161

THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.

"La voilà telle que la mort nous l'a faite."
BOSSUET.

[Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment.. Curiosities of Literature.]

'TWAS a dream of olden days,

That Art, by some strange power
The visionary form could raise

From the ashes of a flower.

That a shadow of the rose,

By its own meek beauty bow'd,
Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose,
Like pictures in a cloud.

Or the hyacinth, to grace,
As a second rainbow, Spring;
Of Summer's path a dreary trace,
A fair, yet mournful thing!

VOL. VI.

L