Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,—
Thy step that lake's green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is passed,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light:
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies

To which the ancient rocks gave birth?
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves,

The emerald waves !-they take their hue
And image from that sunbright shore ;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,-
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,

And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray

Of joyous waters in their play!

But woe to him who sees them burst

With their bright spray-showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,

For ever pouring through his dreams
The gush of those untasted streams!

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lips shall burn,
Parched with the fever's agony !
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

1 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American mis.

sionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded to in a former note.

E'en thus our hunters came of yore

Back from their long and weary quest ;-
Had they not seen the untrodden shore?
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!

They lay beside our glittering rills
With visions in their darkened eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly:
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.

They bent no more the forest bow,

They armed not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow-
They left us for the spirits' land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.

Son of the stranger! if at eve

Silence be 'midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave

The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile-
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

gers

THE BENDED BOW.

[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messen in different directions through the land, each bearing a bended bow; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight. See the Cambrian Antiquities.]

THERE was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was poured on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.

"Heard you not the battle-horn?—
Reaper! leave thy golden corn:
Leave it for the birds of heaven-
Swords must flash and spears be riven !
Leave it for the winds to shed-
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red."

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son ;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Hunter! leave the mountain-chase,
Take the falchion from its place;
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey;
Let the deer ungalled sweep by—

Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!"

And the hunter armed ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Chieftain! quit the joyous feast-
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall."

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown ;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Prince! thy father's deeds are told
In the bower and in the hold,
Where the gotherd's lay is snug,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea-

Give our bards a tale of thee!"

And the prince came armed, like a leader's son:
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Mother! stay thou not thy boy,
He must learn the battle's joy:
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer :
Maiden! bid thy lover part:

Britain calls the strong in heart!"

And the bended brow and the voice passed on,
And the bards made song for a battle won.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. ]

THE bark that held a prince went down,

The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown

To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain;

Why comes not death to those who mourn?

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,

The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave?

Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair-
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,

He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!

COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.]

TORCHES were blazing clear,

Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.

Banners of battle o'er him hung,

And warriors slept beneath;

And light, as noon's broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death

A strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath,

Yet it fell still brightest there:

As if each deeply furrowed trace
Of earthly years to show.

Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests round him that slept
Sang mass for the parted soul:

And solemn were the strains they poured

Through the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;

And the holy chant was hushed awhile,
As, by the torch's flame,

A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,

An eagle-glance and clear;

But his proud heart through its breastplate shook
When he stood beside the bier!

He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasped hands o'er it raised;

For his father lay before him low-
It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast;
But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppressed!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,—
Men held their breath in awe;

For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he recked not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead—
And sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.

He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;

Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.

"O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again:
I weep-behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire !-
Were but this work undone,

I would give England's crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.

"Speak to me ! Mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirred !
Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!
Hushed, hushed-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus ?-Woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!