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, Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of power, But let the barriers of the sea give way, Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many an age Have made the Poet's own free heritage! To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, TO GIULIO REGONDI.- O YE HOURS. 271 So let it be received!- a soldier's hand TO GIULIO REGONDI, THE BOY GUITARIST. BLESSING and love be round thee still, fair boy! Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may'st thou ne'er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought! For in the light of those confiding eyes, And on the ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies, A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, oh, gentle child, Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undefiled! O YE HOURS. O YE hours! ye sunny hours! Are ye come with birds and flowers, Odours and blue sky? 66 Yes, we come, again we come, Through the wood-paths free; Bringing many a wanderer home, With the bird and bee." O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Doth wild music stream in showers, "Yes, the nightingale is there O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Ye are mighty, mighty powers! Bring ye bliss or woe? "Ask not this-oh! seek not this! Yield your hearts awhile To the soft wind's balmy kiss, And the heavens' bright smile. "Throw not shades of anxious thought O'er the glowing flowers! We are come with sunshine fraught, Question not the hours!" THE FREED BIRD. 273 THE FREED BIRD. RETURN, return, my bird! I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 'Tis lovely as a violet bank In the heart of forest bowers. "I am free, I am free-I return no more! "The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, Alas, alas! my bird! Why seek'st thou to be free? Wert thou not bless'd in thy little bower, "Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee? "From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best, Sigh'd for wild-flowers and a leafy nest." Was it with thee thus, my bird? Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright; "It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race, With the soul of the wild wood, my native place! With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar— Woo me not back-I return no more! "My home is high, amidst rocking trees, Farewell-farewell, then, bird! I have call'd on spirits gone, And it may be they joy'd, like thee, to partLike thee, that wert all my own! "If they were captives, and pined like me, "Call me not back when the chain is riven, |