"One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word! It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's heart is stirr'd. Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight, To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might. And a maiden's fond adieu was heard, Though deep, yet brief and low: "In the vigil, in the conflict, love! My prayer shall with thee go!" "Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter's chain is burst! So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursed. The night is pass'd, the silence o'er-on all our hills we rise: We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries." There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour. MIGNON'S SONG. TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. [Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.] "Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?" KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? There, there, with thee, Know'st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise, Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; With that sweet light will fade Summer and mirth. "Leave us not, leave us not! Can thy heart roam? Wilt thou not pine to hear Voices from home? "Too sad our love would be "O sister! hush that thrilling lute!-oh, cease that haunting lay! Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes-yet, yet I cannot stay: [call For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper'd In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell Where the world's voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee-Fare thee well!" ["Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passionately fond of music. She has described in-perhaps the finest of her lyrics-the Requiem of Mozart' the manner in which she herself felt its thrilling influences. "It was after having listened with great delight one evening to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, composed from Sir Walter Scott's dictation, for one of the old Rhine songs, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on 'Triumphant Music;' and triumphant they really were, in the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, The Sisters,' which formed, as it was represented with extraordinary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr Lodge's music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, when the youthful performers in Milton's exquisite masque were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal personages they represented."-Recollections of Mrs Hemans, by Mrs LAWRENCE of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.] THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. [Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.] SOUND on, thou dark, unslumbering sea! 1 At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest. My spirit finds response in thee To its own ceaseless cry-" Alone, alone!" Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease: Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd, And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace? Away! my weary soul hath sought One answer to consuming thought Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea! I ask not, alien world! from thee And yet I loved that earth so well, With all its lovely things! Was it for this the death-wind fell On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings? Let them lie silent at my feet! Since, broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet Hath pour'd on desert sands its wealth away. Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, O restless deep! I come to make them thine! Give to that crown, that burning crown, Bury my anguish, my renown, Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest! Thou hast thy love, thy home; They wait thee in the quiet nest, And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come! I, with this wingèd nature fraught, This boundless love, this fiery thoughtAlone I come-oh! give me peace, dark sea! DIRGE. WHERE shall we make her grave? Oh where the wild-flowers wave |