But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below. Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Th' invader comes; your banners raise anew, Oh! thou devoted land! that canst not rear Are these infatuate too? Oh! who hath known Well hath it marked him—and ordained the hour Are we not creatures of one hand divine? THE MEETING OF THE BARDS. WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDST Held in London, May 22d, 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 Gersedd, 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 Elegies of Llyware Hen. WHERE met our bards of old?-the glorious They of the mountain and the battle-song? They met-where woods made moan o'er war- And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light, Well might their lays be lofty !-soaring thought Which startled eagles from their lone domains, Whence came the echoes to those numbers high? breast; And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn. ↑ Cromlech, a Druidical monument, or altar. The word means a stone of covenant. The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.-See Pennant. On all her hills awakening to rejoice, Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean wave, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts be- Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light! THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Where's the coward that would not dare The stately Homes of England, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The Cottage Homes of England! As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall, And bright the flowery sod, THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. -I have dreamt thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness; afar Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, THE champions had come from their fields of war, They had brought back the spoils of a hundred Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars. They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured, And the swan glides past them with the sound And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England! Around their hearths by night, There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath-hours! The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme, But the swell was gone from the quivering string, Lonely she stood:-in her mournful eyes 'Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine. And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, Stately she stood-though her fragile frame And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze, She had been torn from her home away, They bade her sing of her distant land— Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow, As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong. " They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee! It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home, And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their cloudless dome, And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore, And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no more. "And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who may dream or tell, Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves, And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves; The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath, And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath. "And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day, Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away! They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas, They mingle with the orange-scents that load the sleepy breeze; Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;-it were a bliss to die, Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn-As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Si ful-sounding sea? Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?-in silence let me die, In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy pure deep sapphire sky; How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth? Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north? "Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit shall awake, And through the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake! That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light, And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight! Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my I cily! may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no! Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so! My flecting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main, And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again. Its passion deepens-it prevails!-1 break my chain-I come To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet air, my home!" And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre "There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence! A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall; but oh! their glorious blue! Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue! She had poured out her soul with her song's last tone; The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone! IVAN THE CZAR. "Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assiégoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que Le deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL. With a robe of ermine for its bed, Was laid that form of clay, Where the light a stormy sunset shed, Through the rich tent made way: And a sad and solemn beauty Schiller. On the pallid face came down, Low tones at last of wo and fear How then the proud man spoke! Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burdened with agony. "There is no crimson on thy cheek, I call thee, and dost thou not speak- For the honour of thy father's name, Look up, look up, my son! CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast, Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! "Tis well thou shouldst depart. A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, Whose clusters drooped above. His head was bowed, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song; With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sear leaf's trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. ⚫ Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." But thou art sent For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind's low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily And the woods-but they hear not thee! Long have I striven With my deep foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There's a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreath,Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier," Touched solemnly by death! Fair art thou Morna! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful roundBut soon it must be still! Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie, Make not the strength of love thy trust, A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow That my hand for thee hath tried, Young art thou, Morna! A spirit hath been shed! And the glance is thine which sees Through nature's awful heart— But bright things go with the summer-breeze, And thou too, must depart! Yet shall I weep? I know that in thy breast There swells a fount of song too deep, Too powerful for thy rest! And the bitterness I know, And the chill of this world's breathGo, all undimmed, in thy glory go! Young and crowned bride of death! Take hence to heaven Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track, This parting should not be! But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee! |