Let me not perish, while o'er land and lea
With silent step the lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone,
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow,
I am content to die-but oh! not now!
Summer is past, and autumn's soberer hues, Tint the ripe fruit, and gild the yellow corn, The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo-and winds the eager horn. Spare me awhile, to wander forth, and gaze
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream, To watch in silence, while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam: Cooler the breezes play around my brow,
I am content to die-but oh! not now!
The bleak wind whistles, snow showers far and near
Drift without echo to the whitening ground:
Autumn hath passed away, and cold, and drear
Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends-oh laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home fire blazes, broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices light and loud.
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die! but oh! not now!
The spring hath come again, the joyful spring, Again the banks with clustering flowers are The wild bird dips upon the wanton wing, [spread, The child of earth is numbered with the dead.
Thee, never more the sunshine shall awake, Streaming all redly through the lattice pane; The step of friends thy slumber may not break, Nor fond familiar voice arouse again :
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow, Why didst thou linger? thou art happier now.'
The Graves of a Household.
They grew in beauty, side by side
They filled one home with glee ;-
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each fo'ded flower in sight,—
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid,-
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,-
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,-
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond the earth!
The Lady of Provence.
The war-note of the Saracen
Was on the winds of France,
It had still'd the harp of the Troubadour,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.
The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotilde as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,
On the old Provencal shore.
Many a Chatillon beneath,
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath,
His shroud of armour wore;
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came Through the clouds like bursts of a dying flame, Gave quivering life to the slumber pale
Of stern forms couched in their marble mail,
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,
The silent throng of that burial place.
They were imaged there with helm and spear,
As leaders in many a bold career,
And haughty their stillness looked and high,
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory.
But meekly the voice of the lady rose
Through the trophies of their proud repose;
Meekly, yet fervently. calling down aid,
Under their banners of battle she pray'd,
With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of love
Upraised to the Virgin's pourtray'd above,
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave
Of a Chatillon, with its gleamy wave;
And her fragile frame at every blast,
That full of the savage war-horn pass'd,
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart,
When it vainly strives from its cage to part,
So knelt she in her woe;
A weeper alone with the tearless dead-
Oh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed
Or the dust had stirr❜d below!
Hark! a swift step! she has caught its tone, Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan:
Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands?
No! a breathless vassal before her stands !
"Hast thou been on the field? Art thou come from the host?"
"From the slaughter, lady! all, all is lost!" Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, Our spearmen chased by the Paymin foe;
And thy lord," his voice took a sadder soundThy lord-he is not on the bloody ground! There are those who tell that that the leader's plume Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom."
A change o'er her mien and her spirit pass'd:
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,
She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye,
With a glance as of sudden royalty;
The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow,
Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow,
And her young voice rose till the peasant shook
At the thrilling tone and the falcon look:
"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead
And fear not to say that their son hath fled.
Away! he is lying by lance and shield,-
Point me the path to his battle-field!"'
The shadows of the forest
Are about the lady now;
She is hurrying through the midnight on
Beneath the dark pine-bough.
There's a murmur of omens in every leaf,
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief,
The branches that rock to the tempest strife
Are groaning like things of troubled life;
The wind from the battle seems rushing by
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky;
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,
But her frame in the daring of love is strong,
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne
And girded all fearful things to scorn-
And fearful things were around her spread,
When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead;
There lay the noble, the valiant, low-
Ay! but one word speaks of deeper woe;
There lay the loved-on each fallen head
Mother's vain blessings and tears had shed;
Sisters were watching in many a home
For the fetter'd footsteps, no more to come;
|