Page images

III. 1.

Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
Even whisper to the idle air;

Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed.
Shivered by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,15 And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: While murky Night sails round on raven wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar; Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below.

III. 2.

Lo! steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!

The red-cross squadrons madly rage,"


And mow through infancy and age;
Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.

Veiling from the eye of day,

Penance dreams her life away;

In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs,

While from each shrine still, small responses rise.
Hear, with what heartfelt beat the midnight bell
Swings its slow summons through the hollow pile!
The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell,
To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ;
With choral chantings vainly to aspire

Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.

III. 3.

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
Hence with the rack and reeking wheel.
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball!
While gleams of glory open round,
And circling choirs of angels call,
Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned,
Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Destined to shine when suns are dark?
Thy triumphs cease! through every land,
Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease!
Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Benignly points to piety and peace.
Flushed with youth, her looks impart

Each fine feeling as it flows;
Her voice the echo of a heart
Pure as the mountain snows:
Celestial transports round her play,
And softly, sweetly die away.

She smiles! and where is now the cloud
That blackened o'er thy baleful reign?

Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,
Shrinking from her glance in vain.

Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And, lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.



THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colors mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he sees the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'erarch the golden tide,

But, lo! at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

'Tis she, 't is she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled;
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.


MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.


DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade ;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.


THE sunbeams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,

And chase the roebuck through the snow.

« PreviousContinue »