The reaper sings them when the vale Is fill'd with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale
Cheer'd homeward through the leaves: And unto them the glancing oars
A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.
So let it be !-a light they shed O'er each old fount and grove; A memory of the gentle dead, A spell of lingering love: Murmuring the names of mighty men, They bid our streains roll on, And link high thoughts to every glen Where valiant deeds were done.
Teach them your children round the hearth, When evening-fires burn clear, And in the fields of harvest mirth, And on the hills of deer! So shall each unforgotten word,
When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts that once it stirr'd, To childhood's holy home.
The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band Shall sweetly speak again; The heathery heights in vision rise Where like the stag they roved- Sing to your sons those melodies, The songs your fathers loved.
FAIR wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams' Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers! Where, as they pass'd, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!
Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains!-but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay.
And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer's breezy sigh!
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!
And the transparent sky
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewildering music of the earth.
And who, with silent tread,
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? Who, call'd and sever'd from the countless dead, Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell, And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale?
They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine at nation's feasts, went round! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found
Their echoes 'midst the mountains!—and become In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!
They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied;
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought The soul's far birth-place-but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died,
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.
But they, of whose abode
'Midst her green vallies earth retain'd no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A void and silent place
In some sweet home;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head, Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years, As in the ashes of an urn compress'd; —He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"
Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of nature to decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before its mother lay; E'en so to pass away,
With its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou, To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?
Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life's first flowers just opening in her hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone
Like the spring's wakening!—but that light was past- -Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast?
Not where thy soft winds play'd, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!- Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade! From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!
For the most loved are they,
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice In regal halls!-the shades o'erhang their way, The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps!-till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.
And the world knows not then,
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, that on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember'd dead!
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- -Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel!
THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.
IN sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt's awful flood;
The cradle of that mighty birth,
So long a hidden thing to earth.
He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone;
A music sought, but never found
By kings and warriors gone;
He listen'd-and his heart beat high- That was the song of victory!
The rapture of a conqueror's mood Rush'd burning through his frame, The depths of that green solitude Its torrents could not tame,
Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Round those calm fountains of the Nile.
Night came with stars :-across his soul There swept a sudden change, Even at the pilgrim's glorious goal, A shadow dark and strange, Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall O'er triumph's hour-And is this all?
No more than this!-what seem'd it now First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain land! Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, Their wild sweet voices call'd him back.
They call'd him back to many a glade, His childhood's haunt of play,
Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away;
They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his fathers' hills and graves.
But darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene,
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught With all that lay between;
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, The whirling sands, the red simoom!
Where was the glow of power and pride? The spirit born to roam? His weary heart within him died With yearnings for his home; All vainly struggling to repress That gush of painful tenderness.
He wept-the stars of Afric's heaven Beheld his bursting tears,
Even on that spot where fate had given The meed of toiling years.
-Oh happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!
The flames roll'd on-he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud—“Say, father, say If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, Father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!"
Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder,
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