In barrenness and ruin—where
The secret of his power lies bare-
His rocks in nakedness arise:
His desolation mocks the skies.

THE

BIRTH OF A POET.

а

On a blue summer night,

While the stars were asleep,

Like gems of the deep, In their own drowsy light;

While the newly mown hay

On the green earth lay,
And all that came near it went scented away;

From a lone woody place,
There looked out a face,

With large blue eyes,
Like the wet warm skies,

Brimful of water and light;
A profusion of hair
Flashing out on the air,

And å forehead alarmingly bright:
'Twas the head of a poet!

He grew As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow,

In the dropping of natural dew,

Unheeded-alone

Till his heart had blown As the sweet strange flowers of the wilde ness blow; Till every thought wore a changeable stain Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:

A proud and passionate boy was he,

Like all the children of Poesy;
With a haughty look and a haughty tread,
And something awful about his head;

With wonderful eyes

Full of wo and surprise,
Like the eyes of them that can see the dead,

Looking about,
For a moment or two, he stood
On the shore of the mighty wood;

Then ventured out,
With a bounding step and a joyful shout,

The brave sky bending o'er him!
The broad sea all before him!

AMBITION.

. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,

And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when-flaming high-
I saw our starry banners fly,
As challenging the haughty sky,

They went like battle o'er my soul:
For I was so ambitious then,
I burn'd to be the slave-of men.

I stood and saw the morning light,

A standard swaying far and free;
And loved it like the conqu’ring flight
Of angels floating wide and bright
Above the stars, above the fight

Where nations warr'd for liberty.
And thought I heard the battle cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep:

And shouted to the eaglet soaring ;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh, my very soul would leap

To hear the gallant waters roaring;
For every sound and shape of strife
To me, was but the breath of life.

But, I am strangely alter'd now

I love no more the bugle voice-
The rushing wave—the plunging prow-
The mountain with his clouded brow-
The thunder when his blue skies bow,

And all the sons of God rejoice-
I love to dream of tears and sighs
And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes.

THE SLEEPER.

WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF BYRON.

I STOOD above the sea. I heard the roar
Of waters far below me. On the shore

A warrior-ship, with all her banners torn,
Her broad sails flying loose, lay overborne
By tumbling surges. She had swept the main,
Braved the loud thunder-stood the hurricane;
To be, when all her danger was o’erpast,
Upon her native shore, in wreck and ruin cast.

I thought of Greece—the proud one dead;

Struck—with his heart in flower ;
Wreck’d—with his bright wings all outspread,

In his descent,
From that forbidden firmament,

O'er which he went,
Like some Archangel in his power :

The everlasting ocean lay

Below my weary eyes;
While overhead there rolld away

The everlasting skies :

A thousand birds around me flew,
Emerging from the distant blue,

Like spirits from the summer deep,—
Then, wheeling slowly, one by one,
All disappearing in the sun,

They left me--and I fell asleep:

But soon a loud, strong trumpet blew,

And by, an armed angel flew, With tresses all on fire, and wings of color'd flame :

And then the thunder broke

About me, and I woke-
And heard a voice above proclaim

The warrior-poet's name !
The island bard! that came

Far from his home, to die
In martyrdom to Liberty:

I started—wonder'd—where was I?-
Above me rollid a Grecian sky;
Around me Grecian isles were spread,
O’erpeopled with great shadowy dead,
Assembled there to celebrate

Some awful rite:
Again the iron trump was blown

9*

VOL. III.

With overpowering might; And lo! upon a rocky throne,

Appear'd a dead man that I knew; His hair unbound, his forehead wet with dew;

And then the angel, standing o'er him, said This incantation, with her wings outspread.

INCANTATION.

Bard of the ocean, wake!
The midnight skies

Of solid blue,
That roll away above thee, shed
O'er thy unshelter'd head

A most untimely dew!
Wake, Sleeper, wake!

Arise!
And from thy marble forehead shake
The shadow of the dead!

Arise! Arise!
Thou last of all the Giants ! Tear

Thy silken robes away-
Shake off the wine-dew from thy hair
The crush'd and faded roses there,

And let it play,
A glittering shadow on the air,-
Like the

young Spartan's when he set
His foot-and met
The Persian in array:

Byron, awake!
Stand

up

and take
Thy natural shape upon thee! bare
Thy bosom to the winds that blow-

Not over bowers,
Heavy with scented flowers,

But over drifted snow;
Not o'er the perfumed earth,

Sweltering in moonlight rain,
Where even

the blossoms that have birth, Breathe on the heavens a stain

But o'er the rude,
Cold Grecian solitude :

Up, Byron, up! with eyes.
Dark as Egyptian skies

Where men may read their destinies ! Up! in thy golden panoply complete Transfigured-all prepared to meet

The Moslem foe!

What! still unmoved, thou Sleeper! still
Untroubled by the sounds that fill
Thy agitated air !

Thy forehead set-
Thy bosom wet-
Still undisturbed !
Thy proud lip curb'd
The death-dew on thy hair !

Awake thee, Byron! Thou art call’d,
Thou man of

power! to break
The thraldom of the nations—wake!

Arise !
The heathen are upon thee! Lo, they come
Without a fute, or bell, or drum,

Silent as death,
Holding their breath;

Appall'd—
Like them of old, that crept

On the shorn Samson, while he slept,
In their barbarian power afraid
Of one—a woman had betray'd !

Or, like the pirate-band that stole

The sleeping God of wine ;
Each, as he came, through all his soul;.

Thrilling with awe divine,–
An armed multitude, to take

A giant by surprise :

Awake, anointed one, awake!

The awful sky
Is full of lamentation all the air

With sweet, remote,
Low sounds, afloat-
And solemn trumpeting and prayer.,

And lo!
The waters of the mountain lake
O’ershadow'd by the flowery wood,

Tremble and shake-
And change their hue
Of quiet blue,