The sky is blue above the lake,
Green are its grassy sides,
And gracefully the little skiff
Upon its bosom rides.

And there in calmest innocence,

An oar in either hand,

Is seen the gentle maid of Brence,
The pearl of Oberland.

And evermore she plies the oar,
And oft in sportive glee,

Her notes awake the mountain lake

With simple melody.

"I would not be a city belle,

Or dame of high degree,
My little bark is my domain
An ample one for me.

"The lark shall rouse me at the dawn
Upsoaring through the sky;
The ripple of my own dear lake

Shall be my lullaby.

I covet not a prouder lot,

A maiden fancy-free,

I reign within my own domain,

A little bark for me."

46*

THE FIFTH OF MAY.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF MANZONI.

[Boston Miscellany, November, 1842.]

I.

He too reposes from his toil:
The giant mind has fled;
And motionless the mortal coil
Upon the earth is laid.
Methinks, that, at a blow so rude,
Earth's self a moment must have stood,

As motionless and mute;

Reflecting on the fatal hour

Of him who sway'd so vast a power,

And doubting if the foot

Of one so great would ever place
Its track again upon her face.

Nor meanly mock'd his adverse fate:
But o'er his funeral urn

I come to chant a mournful song,
On which, perhaps, the curious throng
A passing glance may turn,
When future centuries shall cast
Their eyes on the recorded Past.

III.

From Egypt's flood to St. Bernard,
From Madrid to the Don,

His crashing thunderbolts were heard,
His lightning terrors shone.

From North to South, from sea to sea, His very name was victory.

Was this the true renown?

Let other times the question scan!
We humbly bow before the plan
Of that Most Holy One,

Who deign'd so copiously to shower
Upon his head the gift of power.

IV.

The joy of wild Ambition's dream,
Its inly-gnawing care

Were his; and his the last extreme
Of good and ill to share:
Success, by danger made more sweet,
Dominion, glory, base defeat,

The palace and the jail :

Twice master of the subject world,
And twice in fury headlong hurl'd
From that proud pinnacle

By fortune's whelming thundergust,
To grovel in the common dust.

V.

Two worlds, the men of Yesterday

And of To-morrow, stood,

-

Engag'd for years in furious fray,

Drench'd in each other's blood.

He wav'd his hand, and all was peace;

He bade the stern contention cease,
And then he pass'd away :
But still in ruin always great,

The mark of boundless love and hate

And reverence and dismay

How oft;

VI.

as some poor shipwreck'd man,

Mid ocean's raging swell,

With straining eyeballs tries to scan

The life-preserving sail ;

He trac'd in vain that rock-bound coast,
And when he knew that all was lost,
What shades of black despair

In horror o'er his spirit fell!
How oft in Memory's bitter well
He strove to drown his care,
And still at every fresh design
Left incomplete the attempted line!

VII.

How often, as with downcast eyes
And folded arms he stood,

When sunset stain'd with golden dyes

The vast Atlantic flood:

Before his thought would Fancy raise
A dream of other glorious days,

Of tents extending fair,

The flashing steel, the countless host,
The glittering banners, wildly tost

Upon the troubled air,

The vollied charge,

the maddening cry

Of onset and of victory!

VIII.

Ah! then he felt his fatal lapse
From that resplendent show
To his rock-prison, and, perhaps,

Had sunk beneath the blow:
But from above into his soul
A gracious voice of comfort stole,
And told him of the bliss

Of other worlds, by Heaven design'd
To welcome the Immortal Mind,

That takes its leave of this;

Bright worlds, beside whose beaming face Our glories are but nothingness.

IX.

Faith, ― saving Faith, the ever-blest,
Upon the record-roll

Of her achievements then impress'd

The noblest of the whole :

For never yet did prouder knee,
Before the Man of Cavalry

In homage touch the sod.

Then breathe not o'er his lowly tomb
A lisp of hate or wrath to come,
But leave him to his God,

Who deign'd a holy calm to shed
Upon the soldier's dying bed,