But thou art swelling on, thou deep! Thou liftest up thy solemn voice And all our earth's green shores rejoice It fills the noontide's calm profound, And the still midnight hears the sound, Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where sceptred cities rose! Thou speakest of One who doth not change- THE CHILD AND DOVE. SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA russell. THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Thou art a thing to recall the hours When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove. Are they gone? can we think it while thou art there, Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? Is it not spring that indeed breathes free And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee? No! never more may we smile as thou To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have lingered before thee, and turned, and borne They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, In Roncesvalles' dell, With England's blood, the southern vineyards laving— Forget not how they fell! Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be poured! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, HAUNTED GROUND. "And slight, withal, may be the things which bring A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound." YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene, Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, Have I not, under these whispering leaves, Must I not hear what thou hearest not, Song hath been here, with its flow of thought; Are there no phantoms, but such as come BYRON. By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb? But I may not linger amidst them here! And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. Away, away!-that my soul may soar The chain by those spirits brought back from the past. Doubt it not-smile not-but go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew— Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh, Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground. THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS. WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER. Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust? They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race, With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won- For thou art mingling with the city's throng, E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. But will this be? and canst thou here find rest? Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear From the savannah-land, the land of streams? Hearest thou not murmurs which none else may hear? Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again. Hear them not! hear them not !-thou canst not find In the far wilderness what once was thine! Thou hast quaffed knowledge from the founts of mind, And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine, Thou knowest the soaring thought, the immortal strain— Seek not the deserts and the woods again! STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF IN the full tide of melody and mirth, While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die. Forget him not, for many a festal hour, Charmed by those strains for us has lightly flown: And memory's visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone. Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays And, fraught with images of other days, Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. His the dear art whose spells awhile renew THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS. YES! thou hast met the sun's last smile By many a bright Ægean isle Thou hast seen the billows foam. From the silence of the Pyramid, Thou hast watched the solemn flow Thy heart hath burned, as shepherds sung Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung And o'er the lonely Grecian streams With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams But go thou to the pastoral vales Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread For o'er the snows, and round the pines, A spirit, stronger than the sword, Through all the heroic region poured, A memory clings to every steep Of long-enduring faith, And the sounding streams glad record keep Ask of the peasant where his sires For truth and freedom bled? Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, Where lay the holy dead! And he will tell thee, all around, Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 1 Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard 1 Up through the wilds to float, When the dark old woods and caves are stirred 1 See GILLY'S Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air, |