And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous | There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters-they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers! But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring! Like a shooting meteor was every spire; I passed through the streets; there were throngs on throngs Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain! Gallant and true were the hearts that fell- moan, For the many brave to their slumbers gone? I saw not the face of a weeper there- Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd art, What wak'st thou in the heart? Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well Gush for the faces we no more may see! Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Vain longings for the dead!-why come they back blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there! THE ILLUMINATED CITY. THE hills are glowed with a festive light, For the royal city rejoiced by night: The music of victory was all too loud! Turn then away from life's pageants, turn, The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; THE SPELLS OF HOME. There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joys visits when most brief. Bernard Barton. By the soft green light in the woody glade, Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep A fire hath touched the beacon-steep, A softening thought of human cares, Is not yon speck a bark, which bears The loved of many a hearth? Bright are the floating clouds above, The glittering seas below; THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? -"We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. "We have swept o'er cities in song renowned— Silent they lie, with the deserts round! We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled All dark with the warrior-blood of old; "A change we have found there--and many a change! Faces and footsteps and all things strange! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!" Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, MOZART'S REQUIEM. A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstances as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment. These birds of Paradise but long to flee Prophecy of Dante. A REQUIEM!--and for whom? For valour fallen-a broken rose or sword? With pomp of stately grief, Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored? Not so, it is not so! That warning voice I know, From other worlds a strange mysterious tone; A solemn funeral air It called me to prepare, And my heart answered secretly-my own! One more then, one more strain, Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral! And let me breathe my dower Full into that deep lay-the last of all! The last!—and I must go From this bright world below, This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! Must leave its festal skies, With all their melodies, That ever in my breast glad echoes found! Yet have I known it long Too restless and too strong Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame; Swift thoughts, that came and went, Like torrents o'er me sent, Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. Like perfumes on the wind, Which none may stay or bind, The beautiful comes floating through my soul; Of the deep harmonies that past me roll! Therefore disturbing dreams Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; Than may on earth be mine, Shall I then fear the tone That breathes from worlds unknown?Surely these feverish aspirations there Shall grasp their full desire, Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. One more then, one more strain, A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! I With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. A strange dark fate o'ertook you, Yet better than to part! On ashes here impressed, Thou wert the only treasure, child! And where it trusted, nought remained Far better then to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassioned grasp. Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, Love, human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust! Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holinessIt must, it must be so! THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* THOU thing of years departed! What ages have gone by, Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony! Temple and tower have mouldered, Empires from earth have passed, And woman's heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast! And childhood's fragile image Babel wert thou brightly slumbering Shut round each gentle guest? The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasp ed to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. FAIRY FAVOURS. -Give me but Something whereunto I may bind my heart; Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp Affection's tendrils round. WOULDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom? With balm from the gardens of Genii brought; Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, And would not fear, at my coming then, Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, Say then what boon of my power shall be Oh! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, A PARTING SONG. "Oh! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelqefois mes vers; mon ame y est empreinte."—Corinne. WHEN will ye think of me, my friends? When will ye think of me? When the last red light, the farewell of day, When will ye think of me, kind friends? Then let it be! BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day, And the white veil o'er thee streaming, Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride! |