Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who prayed with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land—
The voices of thy kindred band-

Oh! 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!

TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.1

THEY haunt me still-those calm, pure, holy eyes! Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams: The soul of music that within them lies,

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams :
Life-spirit life, immortal and divine,

Is there and yet how dark a death was thine!
Could it-oh! could it be-meek child of song?
The might of gentleness on that fair brow-
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong?
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast,

Might brave their strife-a flute-note hush the blast?

Are there not deep sad oracles to read

In the clear stillness of that radiant face?

Yes, even like thee must gifted spirits bleed,

Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!
Bright exiled birds that visit alien skies,
Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies.

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast,

Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows; Vain dream! the love whose precious balms might save, Still, still denied-they struggle to the grave. Yet my heart shall not sink!-another doom, Victim! hath set its promise in thine eye; A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, Bright earnest of a nobler destiny; Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, To the deep souls that find no echo here.

COME HOME!

COME home! there is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went,

And the early flower-scents wander by,
With mournful memories blent.

1 That of Rizzio, at Holyrood House.

The tones in every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep,

And the sweet word-brother-wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.

O ye beloved! come home!-the hour
Of many a greeting tone,

The time of hearth-light and of song
Returns-and ye are gone!

And darkly, heavily it falls

On the forsaken room,

Burdening the heart with tenderness,
That deepens 'midst the gloom.
Where finds it you, ye wandering ones?
With all your boyhood's glee
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea?
By stormy hills of battles old?

Or where dark rivers foam?

Oh! life is dim where ye are not-
Back, ye beloved, come home!

Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds, o'er the main!
Our love is grown too sorrowful—
Bring us its youth again!

Bring the glad tones to music back!

Still, still your home is fair,

The spirit of your sunny life

Alone is wanting there!

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

"Implora pace!"1

ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep.

To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,

And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep

In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;

And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave-
One draught of that sweet wave!

Yet, mortal, pause!-within thy mind is laid

Wealth, gathered long and slowly; thoughts divine
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine;

Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear

A pyramid so fair?

1 Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, "When I die, I could wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave,- - Implora pace."

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory's pride amassed,
So it but swept along the torrent's trace,
And fill the hollow channels of the past;
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf
Raise the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more! All, all thy soul hath known,
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade!
Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made?
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall?
Think-wouldst thou part with all?

Fill with forgetfulness !—there are, there are
Voices whose music I have loved too well;
Eyes of deep gentleness-but they are far-
Never! oh-never, in my home to dwell!
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul-
Fill high the oblivious bowl!

Yet pause again! With memory wilt thou cast
The undying hope away, of memory born?
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last,

No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight
That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!

-Yet stay-

'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land

Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul's friends be wreathed in one bright band. Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill

I must remember still.

For their sake, for the dead-whose image nought
May dim within the temple of my breast-

For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me as a spirit—yet
I ask not to forget.

HARP of the mountain-land! sound forth again
As when the foaming Hirlas horn was crowned,
And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain,

And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round :
Wake with the spirit and the power of yore!
Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more!

Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came
Ö'er the blue waters with his thousand oars :
Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame;
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores :
All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-
Ring out, thou harp! he could not silence thee.
Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon passed,
His banners floated on Eryri's gales;

But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast,

E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales! Thine was the voice that cheered the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. Those were dark years!-They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's board,

The hearth left lonely in the ruined hall

Yet power was thine-a gift in every chord !

Call back that spirit to the days of peace,

Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!

DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.

By the dread and viewless powers
Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle's1 mystic bowers,
Romans! o'er the deep away!

1 Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island-an ancient name for Anglesey.

Think ye, 'tis but nature's gloom
O'er our shadowy coast which broods?
By the altar and the tomb,

Shun these haunted solitudes!

Know ye Mona's awful spells?
She the rolling orbs can stay!
She the mighty grave compels
Back to yield its fettered prey!
Fear ye not the lightning-stroke?
Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence !-around our central oak
Gods are gathering-Romans, fly!

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.1

WHERE are they, those green fairy islands, reposing
In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast?
What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing,
Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest?
Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages,

The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith;
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages,
For the guide to those realms of the blessed is death.

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory,
Who steered for those distant green spots on the wave?
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story,

In the fields of their country they found not a grave.
Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers
From the flowers of each vale immortality's breath;
But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their fathers-
For the guide to those realms of the blessed is death.

THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.2

WATCH ye well! The moon is shrouded
On her bright throne ;

Storms are gathering, stars are clouded,
Waves make wild moan.

1 The "Green Islands of Ocean," or "Green Spots of the Floods," called in the Triads "Gwerddonan Llion," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.-Vide W. O. PUGHES' Cambrian Biography; also Cambro-Briton, vol. i. p. 124.

2 See note to the "Green Isles of Ocean."