Then welcome Grütli's free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay

There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light e'en now,
Look o'er the poet's lovely grave,
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers, o'er Posilippo's brow,

May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,

Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's tomb.

Thy place is void; oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,

Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung

On the green stem which once was thine;
When shall another strain be sung

Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ?

THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.

YES, it is ours!-the field is won,

A dark and evil field!

Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!

Let me not hear your trumpets ring,

Swell not the battle-horn!

Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!-in the name

There is too much of woe!

Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame-
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!-from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink erelong—I had but him—but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires

The hearths will soon be cold,

With me must die the beacon-fires

That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold.

And let them fade, since this must be,

My lovely and my brave!

Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me, And is there but for stately youth a grave?

Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?

Thou wert so full of life and joy,

I had not dreamt of this-that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;

How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die,

With all thy young renown!

-Ye saw his falchion's flash on high,

In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be your march! the field is won!

A dark and evil field!

Lift from the ground my noble son,

And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!

A FRAGMENT.

REST on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o'er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave-
We call you back no more!

Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,
An agony, a wild farewell;-

But that hath long been o'er!

Rest with your still and solemn fame;
The hills keep record of your name,
And never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.

But we on changeful days are cast,
When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory past,
We cannot mourn you now.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,

With fearful power the noonday reigns,

And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,

Unfelt by those whose task is done! -
There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,

And far by Ganges' banks at night,

Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread,

For those that from their toils are gone;-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!

Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,-
There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deeps repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower.