Have been as we may be no more-
Kind sister, let me weep!
I leave thee father! Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,
With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune,
Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child,
Lay tones of love so deep,
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled-
I leave thee! let me weep!
Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast,
Pouring out joy and wo;
I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless—yet I go!
Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain,
Eyes that have watch'd my sleep!
Will earth give love like yours again!
Sweet mother! let me weep!
And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring
That works its way, through the torrent's foam,
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home!
It is well-the cloud on her soul that lay,
Hath melted in glittering drops away.
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre!
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire.
Mother! on earth it must still be so,
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go!
They are moving onward, the bridal throng,
Ye may track their way by the swells of song;
Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes' gleam, Like a swan 'midst the reeds of a shadowy stream.
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread
Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed;
They have light leaves around them, blue skies above,
An arch for the triumph of youth and love!
Still and sweet was the home that stood
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood,
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread,
As if from the glow of an emerald shed,
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high,
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky,
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow'd,
Making a gleam round the lone abode ;
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river
THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd,
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound;
And brightly before it a fountain's play
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay,
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain,
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane.
And thither Ianthis had brought his bride
And the guests were met by that fountain-side;
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face,
It smiled out softly in pensive grace,
With lips of love, and a brow serene,
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene.—
Bring wine, bring odors!-the board is spread.-
Bring roses! a chaplet for every head!
The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd
On the young and fair from the world embower'd;
The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade,
The winds amid scented boughs were laid;
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree,
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea.
Hush! be still!-was that no more
Than the murmur from the shore ?
Silence !-did thick rain-drops beat
On the grass like trampling feet?-
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword!
The groves are fill'd with a pirate horde!
Through the dim olives their sabres shine!
Now must the red blood stream for wine!
The youths from the banquet to battle sprang,
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang;
Under the golden-fruited boughs
There were flashing poniards and dark'ning brows-
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled,
And the dying soon on a greensward bed.
-Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!-
She saw but Ianthis before her lie,
With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow,
Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe,
And a gathering film in his lifted eye,
That sought his young bride out mournfully.
She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound
Like tendrils his drooping neck around,
As if the passion of that fond grasp,
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.
But they tore her thence in her wild despair
The sea's fierce rovers they left him there;
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein,
And on the wet violets a pile of slain,
And a hush of fear through the summer grove----
So closed the triumph of youth and love!
Gloomy lay the shore that night,
When the moon with sleeping light,
Bathed each purple Sciote hill-
Gloomy lay the shore, and still.
O'er the wave no gay guitar
Sent its floating music far;
No glad sound of dancing feet
Woke the starry hours to greet.
But a voice of mortal woe,
In its changes wild or low,
Through the midnight's blue repose,
From the sea-beat rocks arose,
As Eudora's mother stood
With a fix'd and straining eye-
Oh! was the spoilers' vessel nigh?
Yes! there, becalm'd in silent sleep,
Dark and alone on a breathless deep,
On a sea of molten silver, dark
Brooding it frown'd that evil bark!
There its broad pennon a shadow cast,
Moveless and black from the tall still mast;
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail
Idly and vainly woo'd the gale.
Hush'd was all else:-Had ocean's breast
Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest?
To rest-?-the waves tremble!-what piercing cry
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high?
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire,
Shoots from the deck up? Fire! 'tis fire!
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro,
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ;
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call,
And the dashing of water-but fruitless all!
Man may
not fetter, nor ocean tame
The might and wrath of the rushing flame!
It hath twin'd the mast like a glittering snake,
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake;
It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls
Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls;
It hath taken the flag's high place in the air,
And redden' the stars with its wavy glare;
And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee,
To a burning mount 'midst the moonlight sea.
The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow-
Eudora Eudora! where, where art thou?
The slave and his master alike are gone.-
Mother! who stands on the deck alone?
The child of thy bosom !-and lo! a brand
Blazing up high in her lifted hand!
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare;
And her fragile form to its loftiest height
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might;
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught-
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes! 'twas her deed!-by that haughty smile
It was hers-she hath kindled her funeral pile!
Never might shame on that bright head be,
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free!
Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride,
On the pyre with the holy dead beside
But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear,
As the flames to her marriage robe drew near,
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain
To the form they must never infold again.
-One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd—
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'd-
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd,
And her last look raised through the smoke's dim shroud,
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move ;—
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love!
[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of Grütli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of a heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.]
"Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen druckt,
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten."
Willholm Tell.
Ir was the time when children bound to meet
Their father's homeward step from field or hill,
And when the herd's returning bells are sweet
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still,
And the last note of that wild horn swells by,
Which haunts the exile's heart with melody.
And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home,
Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour,
Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam,
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower, But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, Then first look'd mournful in its green repose.
For Werner sat beneath the linden tree,
That sent its lulling whispers through his door, Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be
With some deep care, and thus can find no more Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, Gathering a household with her quiet wings. His wife stood hush'd before him-sad, yet mild In her beseeching mien ;-he mark'd it not. The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd spot, But seem'd unheard; until at last the boy Raised from his heap'd up flowers a glance of joy, And met his father's face; but then a change Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, And a quick sense of something dimly strange Brought him from play to stand beside the knee So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook; But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look
Through tears half- quivering, o'er him bent and said, "What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?
"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!
Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now! Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care.”
He look'd up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosen'd from his soul; its inmost place
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand.
Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high
The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky:
"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills
And their free torrents; for the days are come
When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills,
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fearKeep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.
"The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been Upon my heritage. I sit to-night
|