And made the land's green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.1

So the rejoicing earth

Took from her vines again the blood she gave, And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth From the free soil, thus hallow'd to the brave.

We have the battle-fields,

The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, We have the founts the purple vintage yields; -When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A VOICE from Scio's isleA voice of song, a voice of old Swept far as cloud or billow roll'd, And earth was hush'd the while

The souls of nations woke ! Where lies the land whose hills among That voice of victory hath not rung, As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore,

Of those whose blood on Ilion's plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.

Still by our sun-bright deep, With all the fame that fiery lay Threw round them, in its rushing way, The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown'd! And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio's isle, A voice as deep hath risen again; As far shall peal its thrilling strain, Where'er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire !
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given
To mortal song or lyre!

1 For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Plata, see POTTER'S Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389.

Know ye not whence it comes? -From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes, From kindred blood on yon red plains, From desolated homes!

'Tis with us through the night! "Tis on our hills, 'tis in our skyHear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high O'er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS' MARCH.2

["The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ⚫ Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders. The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur."-CAMPBELL, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.]

'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dress'd the vines;
Sunlight was on Citharon's rills,
Arcadia's rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander'd by,

When a sound arose from Sparta's towers
Of solemn harmony.

Was it the hunters' choral strain

To the woodland-goddess pour'd? Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane

Strike the full-sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain-echoes of the land

Swell'd through the deep blue sky; While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die.

They march'd not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;

And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd,
Rang with no battle-shout!

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire

Their souls with an impulse high; But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre For the sons of liberty!

2 Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the Ocean Isle !

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep

Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,

With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade ;-

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,

And far by Ganges' banks at night
Is heard the tiger's roar ;-

But let the sound roll on !
It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone,-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The Western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England's dead !

The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;-

But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won,There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose "Tis a dark and dreadful hour,

When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lower;

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,— Even there sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deepFree, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.-See OWEN's Translation of the Heroic Elegics of Llywarch Hen.]

WHERE met our bards of old? - the glorious throng,

They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met-oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash'd bright from
rocky caves;
[graves,

They met where woods made moan o'er warriors'
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,' on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;

1 Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech1 frown'd, And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.

There throng'd th' inspired of yore !-on plain or height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty !-soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom's soul pervade the strains
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
"Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain's
breast;

And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever'd by cloud and storm from all below;
And the turf-mounds,2 once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
-Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.

For us, not ours the festival to hold, Midst the stone circles hallow'd thus of old; Not where great Nature's majesty and might First broke all glorious on our infant sight; Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave, Not by the mountain-llyn,3 the ocean-wave, In these late days we meet-dark Mona's shore, Eryri's cliffs resound with harps no more!

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn, From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,

Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! [belong, To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!

1 Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

2 The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.-Pennant.

Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness, [height,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!

THE VOICE OF SPRING.5

I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long—
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ;-
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have look'd on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! [lay,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous
Come forth to the sunshine-I may not stay.

3 Llyn, a lake or pool.

4 Eryri, Snowdon.

5 Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.