Oh! then what spirit haunts the hill, the glade,
And breathes around its mellow serenade ?
Is it the harp's wild burst, the timbrel's swell,
The lyre's rich chime, or breath of wreathed shell ?-
Nor harp, nor lyre, nor tones unearthly, fill
Yon ancient wood, that crowns the distant hill;
Some torrent's music, soft, yet wildly clear,
By distance mello wed, breaks upon the ear-
Fancy, wild fancy! haunts the boundless air,
Breathes in each wind, each sound that wanders there;
Her viewless presence, her mysterious wand,
Fill with enchantment air and sea and land!
With solemn tread men pass, where rose of yore
The minstrel's song,-where song may breathe no more,
With awe they linger, where the mystic tune
Hath filled the cloister's cell at night's still noon;
And, as soft light streams through the pictured pane,
Cowled heads seem bending o'er each ruined fane;
As the long grass waves o'er each shattered wall,
The pale, meek nuns, at Fancy's magic call,
Haunt the grey arch, the rudely-sculptured pile,
The broken shrine, and dim sepulchral aisle.
Oft bends the traveller, when the curfew's chime
Tolls from yon spire the silent lapse of time,
Where the green turf upheaves its billowy ridge,
To trace some rampart's sweep, some time-worn bridge,
Or the rude marks which shaft and columns bear,
Grey! with the dust which years have scattered there;
Fancy then paints those scenes, when stormy song
And ringing trumpets roused the mailed throng;
When yon reft stones in ponderous grandeur frowned,
And each dark turret sent defiance round;
When serf and chieftain swept the wintry main
To meet their foe, in war's wild hurricane!
He tracks their course, and hears their clarion's bray
O'er the black waves that thunder round their way,
Hears their loud music o'er the waters wide,
And their free shout float hoarsely o'er the tide;
Then, too, he marks their red-cross banners wave
O'er Syrian hills,—each hill a pagan's grave
While loud and far the heavy weapons ring
As each stern chief, and England's fiery king,
Sweep o'er the plain, or fill with glittering mail
The almond woods, in Syria's quiet vale!
All times are thine! When Spring's first music breaks
Through the pale woods, and o'er the tranquil lakes-
When Summer's voice rings gaily o'er the lea,
And dancers throng the merry greenwood-tree-
When Autumn's brow is wreathed with harvest grain,
And Autumn fruits lie mellowing on the plain-
When hoary winter stirs the fallen leaves,
And sighs along the hills like one that grieves,
Then Fancy reigns; when buds first bend the vine,
Or at the year's calm close,-all times are thine!
ANOTHER VISION IN VERSE.*
"T was the eve of a balmy summer's day,
The sun was throwing his latest ray,
The swallow was winging his homeward flight,
And the fire-fly trimming his tiny light,
The earth beneath, the heavens above,
Were breathing peace, and joy, and love,
As we sat in the glow of that western sky,
While music's voice was waking nigh.
That western sky, that western sky,
Its splendors still enchant mine eye;
And, oh that music's melting strain,
It falls upon mine ear again.
*See "The Atlantic Magazine," vol. i. pp. 278-280.
Are the visions of prized and parted joys,.
As thou wak'st them, enchantress Memory.
She sung of Hope-that sister twin,
With brighter eye and gayer mien,
And the sun's last beam, as it faded away,
To kindle again the dawning day;
Oh! it seemed as if meant for type and pledge, Sweet Hope! of thy new and cheering ray.
She sung of Love-and nature all
Proclaimed the hour Love's festival,
That hour of hours which awakens the sigh,
And starts the tear in the maiden's eye,
As she thinks how with him who is far away,
She has looked in her love on that western sky.
She sung of Home-and the tearful eye
Turned to its better home on high,
And deemed that line of golden light,
Which poured its glories on the sight,
Was a beam from that world, whose cloudless day No sin can stain, no death can blight.
Such, as that glowing western sky
Beamed in its beauty upon mine eye,
Such as that melting music broke
On my charmed ear, the thoughts it woke,
Till it seemed, as we sat on that verdant hill,
That each discordant note was still,
KNEELING UPON HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE IN TEARS, WHILE HIS PLAY-FELLOWS
WERE SPORTING AMONG THE MONUMENTS OF THE DEAD.
"O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair."
CHILD! dost thou mourn o'er the narrow bed.
Of a mother, laid to rest?
Hark! 't is the voice of the dear one dead; "Sweet are the tears by affection shed,
Green be the grave-turf drest.
"Come at the hour when the night-dews weep,
Come with the breaking light,
Come at the hour when the moonbeams sleep,
Come when the winds of autumn sweep
O'er the chords of the solemn night.
*The gentle reader will thank me for recalling to his mind a beautiful passage in our gifted Halleck's "fairy creature of the elements," his charming "Fanny." Is there not an allusion also to something, je ne sçais quoi, of Moore's?
"Here is the field where the mighty lie,
In the pride of glory bowed;
And deep is the breath of the mourner's sigh,
And dimmed is the light of beauty's eye,
At thought of the chilly shroud.
"The lovely, too, with the crested worm
Here in silence rests her now;
Gone is the grace of her angel-form,
Gone-like the gleam of the lightning-storm,
The fire of her passioned brow."
Why, 'mid the tears of the green grave's flowers,
Is the voice of the trifler gay?
Ah! it is youth in his festive hours,
Like fawns in the shade of spring's gay bowers, On the turf of the dead at play!
Youth! from the tomb hear the spirit's moan, Like the zephyr-tones of even :"Leave me, leave me, ye triflers, alone, "Till the mourner kneels at the sculptured stone, And reads of the bliss of Heaven."
Life, in its morn, hath a joy-lit eye,
And gay are its bright wreaths spread; When the infant of days and the hoary die, A tear 's at their hearse and a pitying sigh
But mirth o'er the buried dead!
New Haven, January, 1826,
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