"The founts, the many gushing founts, which to the wild ye gave, Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave; And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim's way, Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day. "The very walls your bounty reared, for the stranger's homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, lute and cittern rung, where And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst its young. "It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees, I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and to the breeze! I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair, And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs, are there!" A dim and deeply-bosomed grove The darkness of the chestnut bough And bore a music all subdued, And led a silvery sheen, For something viewlessly around While sending forth a quiet gleam Across the wood's repose, And o'er the twilight of the stream, A lowly chapel rose. A pathway to that still retreat For on a brilliant bed of flowers, Even at the threshold made, To sleep?-oh! ne'er on childhood's eye, Yet still a tender crimson glow Its cheek's pure marble dyed- I stooped-the smooth round arm was chill, "Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing! Thou hast wrung bitter tears, But then a voice came sweet and low- And in her still, clear, matron face, A shadowed image I could trace Of that young slumberer's mien. "I am here, with my heavy chain! And I look on a torrent sweeping by, And an eagle rushing to the sky, And a host, to its battle-plain! Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still! "Must I pine in my fetters here? With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, THE KAISER'S FEAST. Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire, (in the 12th century,) that unfortunate Prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. "After his decease, his mother, Matilda, privately invited his children to return to Germany; and by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened."-Miss Benger's Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia. ` THE Kaiser feasted in his hall, The red wine mantled high; Banners were trembling on the wall, To the peals of minstrelsy: And many a gleam and sparkle came From the armour hung around, As it caught the glance of the torch's flame, Or the hearth with pine boughs crowned. Why fell there silence on the chord Beneath the harper's hand? The strings were hushed-the knights made way Two fair-haired boys she led. She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, Flushed the proud warrior-blood: "Well may a mourning vest be mine, And the tall spears glancing on my sight, "They are gone! they have all passed by! They in whose wars I had borne my part, They that I loved with a brother's heart, They have left me here to die! Sound again, clarion! Clarion pour thy blast! Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past." And where is he, thy brother, where? He, in thy home that grew, And smiling, with his sunny hair, Ever to greet thee flew? How would his arms thy neck entwine, His fond lips press thy brow! My son! oh, call these orphans thineThou hast no brother now! "What! from their gentle eyes doth nought Speak of thy childhood's hours, And smite thee with a tender thought Of thy dead father's towers? Kind was thy boyish heart and true, When reared together there, Through the old woods like fawns ye flewWhere is thy brother-where? "Well didst thou love him then, and he Still at thy side was seen! As though they ne'er had been? Now must the tears of grief and shame "And let them, let them there be poured! Thine own wrung heart, to love restored, Oh! death is mighty to make peace; So many an inward strife shall cease- His eye was dimmed-the strong man shook Up in his arms the boys he took, And strained them to his breast. And a shout from all in the royal hall Burst forth to hail the sight; And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met At the Kaiser's feast that night. "T was Ulla's voice-alone she stood In the Iceland summer night, For gazing o'er a glassy flood, "I know thou hast thy bed Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee: The storm sweeps o'er thy head, But the depths are hushed around thee. What wind shall point the way To the chambers where thou 'rt lying? Come to me thence, and say If thou thought'st on me in dying? I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek Come to me from the ocean's dead!-thou 'rt surely of them-speak!" She listened-'t was the wind's low moan, 'T was the wakening ospray's cry alone, "I know each fearful spell Of the ancient Runic lay, By magic sign or song, By love, the deep, the strong! By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her sighs, Come to me from the ocean's dead by the vows we pledged-arise!" Again she gazed with an eager glance, She saw but the sparkling waters dance "By the slow and struggling death Of despair on youth's high heart; By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear, Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, appear!" Was it her yearning spirit's dream, Or did a pale form rise, And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam, With bright, still, mournful eyes? A still, sad life was thine!-long years Vigils of anxious thought; WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom By the stained window shed; Have faded from the stone, A banner, from its flashing spear On for the holy shrine; A haughty heart and a kingly glanceChief! were not these things thine: A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council-board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was poured Woman! whose sculptured form at rest THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. And slight, withal, may be the things which bring A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring- THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery ?-Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way? The sudden images of vanished things, That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by, A rippling wave-the dashing of an oarA flower scent floating past our parents' door; A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance, Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus? 't is mystery all! Darkly we move-we press upon the brink Hapy of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think, Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfuly, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on, but undismayed! Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel Her way amidst these marvels of the mind; Yet undismayed-for do they not reveal Th' immortal being with our dust entwined? So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. THE PALM-TREE.* Ir waved not through an Eastern sky, It was not fanned by southern breeze But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew Strange looked it there!—the willow streamed To murmur by the Desert's Tree, And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours- But one, a lone one, midst the throng, And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, To him, to him, its rustling spoke, His mother's cabin home, that lay Oh! scorn him not!-the strength, whereby These have one fountain deep and clear- BREATHINGS OF SPRING. Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs;-bring back The love that I have lost! WHAT wak'st thou, Spring?-sweet voices in the And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee of "Les Jardins." Ev'n as our hearts may be. |