« السابقةمتابعة »
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,
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;
And thou may'st come to me.
Oh! I have watch'd on the cold, cold rock,
And rode the ocean foam,
As they crush'd my sparry home;
And have wish'd I could catch on the lightning-lance
And guide it back to thee,
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 my heart was sad the while.
Yet I love, pretty star, on the rock to sing
And twine in wreaths thy gleam”-
And I woke from this lovely dream.
THE HARP OF THE BATTLE.
STRIKE the harp! strike the harp! let the soft-toned lute
Be still in these halls tonight;
It gives me no more delight;
Strike the harp! strike the harp! let its swelling tones
Rise fyll on the midnight damp;
And shrieks of a slaughtering camp,
I hear it-I see it—the warriors in strife
Are thick in the struggling fight;
On its smoke and its bloody light.
See, he flies to the onset; again and again;
Hark! his shout o'er the fallen foe,
He lies in his life-blood low ;-
“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-
THE QUEEN OF THE MIST.
Oh! tell, oh! tell,
The Sun, the Sun,
Their tears, their tears,
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.
the church-yard green. It is the eve of rest; the light
Still lingers on the moss-grown tower,
Slowly it marks the evening hour.
Sweet hymnings on the air float by ;
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.
Strown o'er that silent spot still sleep;
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;
The music of their thousand rills
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.
THE HERDSMAN'S GRAVE.
He sleeps beneath the larch tree's shade;
It is a lonely grave—and here,
It was a summer day—the bells,