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And wore a robe which their fairy hands
Had twined of light and bliss.
I linger'd in ecstacy ’mid the grove
Of corals glancing bright,
And heard the pure song of the Mermaid's love
For a star in fields of light.
The water-sprites gather'd around to hear
The song that seem'd to wail
With the harmony soft, of the shell-tones clear,
And the surface-sigbing gale.
“Oh! come” sung the mermaid, “thou beauteous star,
Come o'er the distant sea;
The bright moon has vanish'd and sail'd afar,
And thou may’st come to me.
Oh! I have watch'd on the cold, cold rock,
And rode the ocean foam,
And laugh’d at the lightning and thunder-shock
As they crush'd my sparry home;
And have wish'd I could catch on the lightning-lance
And guide it back to thee,
For the moon-beam wearies and falls askance
Far e'er it gains thy sea.
I built me a grotto of tinted shells
All glean'd from ocean's shores, And sat there uttering fondest spells
'Mid howling tempest's roars ;
And I hoped thou would'st come—but I hope not now
For coldly thou didst smile,
And I gather'd some nightshade to bind my brow,
And my heart was sad the while.
Yet I love, pretty star, on the rock to sing
And twine in wreaths thy gleam”-
The moon sank down, the dark spread his wing,
And I woke from this lovely dream.
STRIKE the harp! strike the harp! let the soft-toned lute
Be still in these halls tonight;
Its mellowing cadence shall now be mute;-
And cease to breathe on that silvery flute ;-
It gives me no more delight;
For my soul is mad with ambition and care,
And I cannot list to a plaintive air.
Strike the harp! strike the harp! let its swelling tones
Rise fyll on the midnight damp;
Strike the rage of the battle, the dying, moans,
That mingle so wild with the frighten'd groans
And shrieks of a slaughtering camp,
And sound me the guns and the clash of arms
And all the fierce horrors of war's alarms.
I hear it-I see it—the warriors in strife
Are thick in the struggling fight;
And madly they rush to the field where life
Is thrown to the wind, but where glory is rife
On its smoke and its bloody light.
And he with the white plume is snatching the wreath
From the blackening brow of his foe in death.
See, he flies to the onset; again and again;-
Hark! his shout o'er the fallen foe,
Oh! God, he has shouted, and fought in vain,
For, stretch'd by a mightier hand on the plain
He lies in his life-blood low ;-
His friends quail around him-"ye dastards fly not,
But give me the brand that his hand has forgot.”
“ Fly not, ye base cowards, come quick to the fight,"
They turn to the battle again. “ Now strike home for vengeance-spare not in your might The faithless invaders”—they're routed in flight
The red earth is strown with the slain
List, list to the shrieking—'t is fainter-all 's o'er-
The harp-tone hath ceased and the battle 's no more
THE QUEEN OF THE MIST.
BEAUTIFUL Spirit! that glidest away,
Light o'er the mountain, I pray thee stay!
Stay but a mornent, for I would know,
Whence thou hast come, and whither dost go!
Beautiful Spirit! bound by my spell!
Oh! tell, oh! tell,
Murmuring echo, too, bids thee tell.
Why didst thou sail o'er the calm blue lake
All the dark night, and at morning take
Gently thy shadowy robes and fly
Softly away to the glowing sky?
Sometimes I fancy thee bride of the Sun;
The Sun, the Sun,
Yes, echo calls thee the bride of the Sun.
Flowerets are weeping, because thou art cold,
While in thy presence they sweetly fold
Closer their beauties, so blooming bright,
Striving to keep thee, thou child of light:
When thou art vanish'd they dry their tears,
Their tears, their tears,
Echo repeats it, they dry their tears.
Oh! for a bride that would haste to me,
Lovely as thou art—in ecstacy-
Melting away in each fond embrace.
Now thou hast vanish’d, nor left a trace,
Faintly to answer my broken spell ;-
Murmuring echo, now bids farewell.
OF Portland, is a brother of Grenville Mellen, who is noticed in the preceding pages. The following pieces are all which we have at hand from his pen.
List! there is music in the air :
It is the sabbath evening bell,
Chiming the vesper hour of prayer,
O'er the mountain top and lowland dell.
And infancy and age are seen,
Slow winding o'er the church-yard green.
It is the eve of rest; the light
Still lingers on the moss-grown tower,
While to the drowsy ear of night,
Slowly it marks the evening hour.
'Tis hush'd! and all is silent there,
Save the low, fervent voice of prayer.
And now far down the quiet vale,
Sweet hymnings on the air float by;
Hushing the whip-poor-will's sad wail
With its own plaintive melody.
They breathe of peace, like the sweet strains
That swept at night o'er Bethlehem's plains.
And heads are bow'd, as the low hymn
Steals through that gray and time-worn pile;
And the altar lights burn faint and dim,
In the long and moss-grown aisle. And the distant foot-fall echoes loud, Above that hush'd and kneeling crowd. And now beneath the old elm's shade,
Where the cold moon-beams may not smile ;
Bright flowers upon the graves are laid,
And sad tears shed unseen the while.
The last sweet gift affection brings,
To deck the earth to which it clings.
How beautiful those simple flowers
Strown o'er that silent spot still sleep;
Still wet with summer's gentle showers,
As if they too could feel and weep! They fade and die; the wintry wind Shall leave no trace of them behind! The bright new moon hath set: the light
Is fading on the far blue hills;
And on the passing breeze of night,
The music of their thousand rills
Comes echoing through the twilight gray,
With the lone watch-dog's distant bay.
The crowd hath pass'd away; the prayer
And low breathed evening hymn are gone ; The cold mist only lingers there,
O'er the dark moss and mouldering stone. And the stars shine brightly o'er the glen, Where rest the quiet homes of men.
He sleeps beneath the larch tree's shade;
And kindly hands his cairn have made
Far up among the sunny hills,
Beside his own pure mountain rills ;
Whose music, when the summer day
From the deep glens had pass'd away,
And from the far down village tower
The bell tolld out the evening hour,
Would murmur round his moss-wreathed bed,
Its simple requiem o'er the dead.
It is a lonely grave—and here,
When the still summer eve draws near,
The eagle folds his dusky wing,
To list the storm's deep muttering,
Far down among the mountain vales ;
While o'er that verdant spot, the gales
Of evening stir the dark old pines;
And o'er the cloud's embattled lines,
The sun pours forth his last bright smile,
As if to bless that mouldering pile.
Long years have sped upon their flight,
And many a dark and weary night,
The cold rain-drops, with sullen dash,
Have swept the larch and mountain ash,
Since the first flow'rets bloom’d around,
The margin of that little mound.
was a summer day-the bells,
From the deep mountain gorge and dells,
Were chiming on the morning breeze;
And ’neath the dark o'erhanging trees,
The muleteer sung on his way
Chanting his blithesome roundelay.