How mournfully the midnight air Couldst thou but call those spirits round, Now mute and mould'ring all;- Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, WHAT life like that of the bard can be, The world's to him like some play-ground, Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? And fix them high, in Poesy's sky, - Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes, - This, this the doom must be Of all who've lov'd, and liv'd to see The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away. Tho' fairer forms around us throng, Their smiles to others all belong, And want that charm which dwells alone Where, where the sunny brow? The long-known voice - where are they now? Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, As soon could she bring back again I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE. I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Where summer's wave unmurm'ring dies, Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!” There, amid the deep silence of that hour, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus, his only song To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!” Or, when the western wave grew bright With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light Which dreaming poets sing;' That Eden where th' immortal brave Dwell in a land serene,Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen. Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth! Are like the hopes I built in youth,— LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. LAY his sword by his side, it hath serv'd him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Yet pause-for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains; Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "O leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,"It hath victory's life in it yet! "Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman scal'd, "Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. "But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use "Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,"Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, "Leap forth from thy dark sheath again! 1 "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories."- Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland. 2 It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them. THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS. THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore; And ev❜n of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd? Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread! Ah, better thou ne'er had'st liv'd that summit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane. FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN. FROM this hour the pledge is given, From this hour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth or heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. 1 The name given to the banner of the Irish. 2 It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.2 SILENCE is in our festal halls, Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel's voice responds no more;All silent as th' Eolian shell Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that wak'd its swell At sunny morn, hath died away. Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, Awak'd by music's spell, shall rise; For, name so link'd with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies: And ev'n within the holy fane, When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echoed there, shall long be given. But, where is now the cheerful day, The social night, when, by thy side, He, who now weaves this parting lay, His skilless voice with thine allied; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own, Embalm'd by fame, undying last? Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre, One ray upon its chords from thee. lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson. |