Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs in my first-born's grave!
And leave me !-I have conquered-
I have slain my work is done!
Whom have I slain? Ye answer not-
Thou too art mute, my son !"
And thus his wild lament was poured
Through the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sighed ;
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank-
Humbly the conqueror died.
"If there be but one spot on thy name,
One eye thou fearest to meet, one human voice
Whose tones thou shrinkest from-Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head-and die!"
THOU see'st her pictured with her shining hair,
(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,)
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving
Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's; on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
These may be dreams—but how shall woman tell
Of woman's shame, and not with tears? She fell!
That mother left that child!-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply not without a sigh,
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene
But no! it could not thus have been,
For she went on!-forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonoured thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.
Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife.
He recked no more of glory: grief and shame
Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls
Crept year by year: the minstrel passed their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute. Meantime the child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have lingered; flushed her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
Even to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days;-
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair;
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light-
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child's-and oh! the brow above
So pale and pure! so formed for holy love
To gaze upon in silence! But she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that called on heaven
To bless the young Isaure.
With alms before her castle-gate she stood,
Midst peasant groups: when, breathless and o'erworn,
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid,
With her sweet voice and proffered hand of aid,
Turned to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers-a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart's urn; and with her white lips pressed
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out-" O undefiled!
I am thy mother. Spurn me not, my child!"
Isaure had prayed for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stained memory, while the happy slept
In the hushed midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weighed her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the altered guise,
Awhile o'erpowered her? From the weeper's touch
She shrank-'twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all-humbled one: its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more-
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.
Her child bent o'er her-called her: 'twas too lateDead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bardHow didst thou fall, O bright-haired Ermengarde !
["IT is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, Madam,' said he, I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,' said he emphatically, she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard."-Percy Anecdotes.]
"Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye
The lights and shadows come and go too fast;
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate
For peace on earth: oh, therefore, child of song!
'Tis well thou shouldst depart."
A SOUND of music from amidst the hills
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail.
And sank in mournfulness.
Again it rose,
There sat a bard
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset's light
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair,
And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash,
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