"What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day;
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.
"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe :
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
"E'en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall-
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
"This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory-
And took the sting from Death!
"Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!"
OW rings each sparkling Spanish brand,
There's music in its rattle;
And gay, as for a saraband,
We gird us for the battle.
Follow, follow!
To the glorious revelry,
When the sabres bristle,
And the death-shots whistle.
Of rights for which our swords outspring,
Shall Angoulême bereave us?
We've plucked a bird of nobler wing-
The eagle could not brave us.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing-
France shall ne'er enslave us :
Tyrants shall not brave us.
Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon's flag,
White emblem of his liver,
For Spain the proud be Freedom's shroud?
Oh, never, never, never.
Follow, follow!
Follow to the fight, and sing-
Liberty for ever:
Ever, ever, ever.
Thrice welcome, hero of the hilt,
We laugh to see his standard;
Here let his miscreant blood be spilt
Where braver men's was squandered.
Follow, follow!
If the laurelled tricolor
Durst not over-flaunt us,
Shall yon lily daunt us?
No ere they quell our valour's veins,
They'll upward to their fountains
Turn back the rivers on our plains,
And trample flat our mountains.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing-
France shall ne'er enslave us :
Tyrants shall not brave us.
WAS sunset, and the "Ranz des Vaches" was sung,
And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains
flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared,
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared,
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ;
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished
green.
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds and enamelled moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were linked,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.
A Gothic church was near; the spot around Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. Amidst them one of spotless marble shoneA maiden's grave-and 'twas inscribed thereon, That young and loved she died whose dust was there :
"Yes," said my comrade, "young she died, and fair!
Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid:
Her fingers witched the chords they passed along,
And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song:
Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned
And died of love that could not be returned.
"Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines. As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide-
And still the garden whence she graced her brow,
As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now.
How oft from yonder window o'er the lake,
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland,
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,
Why had no gallant native youth the art
To win so warm-so exquisite a heart?
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