One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,

That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,

Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,

Is murmur'd to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.

I come alone, and faint I come,

To nature's arms I flee;

The green woods take their wanderer home,
But Thou, O Father? may I turn to thee?
The earliest odor of the flower,

The bird's first song is thine;

Father in heaven! my day pring's hour
Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;

Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?
It is, it is-but Thou art gone,
Or if the trembling shade

Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd.

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NATIONAL LYRICS.

THE THEMES OF SONG.

"Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, And melancholy fear subdued by faith."--Wordsworth

WHERE shall the minstrel find a theme?

-Where'er, for freedom shed,

Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream,
Amidst the mountains, red,

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove,

Bears record to the faith
Of love-deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor o'er fear and death.

Where'er a chieftain's crested brow
Too soon hath been struck down,
Or a bright virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth's first crown.

RHINE SONG.

Where'er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling, that all around have striven
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer.
Where'er a blessed home hath been,
That now is home no more:
A place of ivy, darkly green,
Where laughter's light is o'er.
Where'er, by some forsaken grave,
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing a wild-flower wave,
A star its vigil keep.

Or where a yearning heart of old,
A dream of shepherd men,

With forms of more than early mould

Hath peopled grot or glen.

There may the bard's high themes be found,

We die, we pass away:

But faith, love, pity-these are bound

To earth without decay.

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,
The tear from hidden springs,

The thorn and glory of the rose

These are undying things.

Wave after wave of mighty stream

To the deep sea hath gone:

Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream,
The exhaustless flood rolls on.

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RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER

VICTORY.

66
TO THE AIR AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN."

"I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his !-the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. At the first gleam of the river,' he said, they all burst forth into the national chant, Am Rhein! Am Rhein !' They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time-for each band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossacks, with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy warmusic, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, Am Rhein ! Am Rhein ! "—Manuscript Letter.]

SINGLE VOICE.

It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving,

I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood shine!

Sing on the march, with every banner waving

Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine! Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine'

CHORUS.

The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river!
Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track!

We left thy shores, to die or to deliver

We bear thee freedom back, we bear thee freedom back!

SINGLE VOICE.

Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water,

[strong!

Even as my mother's song; even as my mother's song; That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, And heart and arm grew strong! And heart and arm grew

CHORUS.

Roll proudly on !-brave blood is with thee sweeping,
Pour'd out by sons of thine, pour'd out by sons of thine,
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping,

Like thee, victorious Rhine! Like thee, victorious Rhine!

SINGLE VOICE.

Home!-home!-thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,
Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home:
Even now my children count the hours till meeting,
O ransom❜d ones, I come! O ransom'd ones, I come!

CHORUS.

Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never,

[shrine! Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by hearth and Sing through the hill that thou art free for everLift up thy voice, O Rhine! Lift up thy voice, O Rhine.

A SONG OF DELOS.

[The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.]

"Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature,

Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;

L'air est si parfume! la lumiere est si pure!

Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau !”—Lamartine.

A SONG was heard of old-a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos; from that isle,
The sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!-but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,

And of soft Grecian skies-oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flesh'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Color'd with loving light-she gazed her last,

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward-as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved.
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O'er dancing waves:-" Oh! linger yet," she cried,
"Oh! linger, linger on the oar,

Oh! pause upon the deep!

That I may gaze yet once, once more, Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep; Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore, -Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!

"I see the laurels fling back showers Of soft light still on many a shrine; I see the path to haunts of flowers Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line; I hear a sound of flutes-a swell of songMine is too low to reach that joyous throng! "Oh linger, linger on the oar

Beneath my native sky!

Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson-gazing let me die!
Thou bark glide slowly!-slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.

"A fatal gift hath been thy dower,

Lord of the Lyre! to me;

With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.

"Now, wasted by the inborn fire,
1 sink to early rest;

The ray that lit the incense-pyre,

Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.

-O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go,
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!

"Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep
A tone of my farewell,

One tender accent, low and deep,

371

Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell. Might my last breath send music to thy shore !

-Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!"

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

"Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,

Our virgins dance beneath the shade."-Byron.

Io! they come, they come!

Garlands for every shrine !

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Strike lyres to greet them home!
Bring roses, pour ye wine!
Swell, swell the Dorian flute

Through the blue, triumphant sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
The sons of victory.

With the offering of bright blood
They have ransom'd hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;-
Io! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave-
Sing, sing the land is free!

Mark ye the flashing oars,

And the spears that light the deep!
How the festal sunshine pours

Where the lords of battle sweep!

Each hath brought back his shield ;—
Maid greet thy lover home.
Mother, from that proud field,
lo! thy son is come!

Who murmur'd of the dead?

Hush, boding voice! We know

That many a shining head

Lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day!

They shall have their praise erelong,

And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song

But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine-
Io! they come, they come !

NAPLES.

A SONG OF THE SYREN.

"Then gentle winds arose,
With many a mingled close

Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odor keen

Where the clear Baian ocean

Welters with air-like motion

Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.' -- Shelley

STILL is the Syren warbling on thy shore,
Bright city of the waves!-her magic song