And the fire-fly's glance thro' the darkening shades, And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall- The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast! Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth! The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, The wings flitting home thro' the crimson glow To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell, They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell, They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, And waken my youth in its hour of prime. The white foam dashes high-away, away! Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray ! It is there!-down the mountains I see the sweep With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear, And the light pouring thro' them in tender gleams, To the hills of my youth where the myrtles blow, To the rocks that resound with the water's play I hear the sweet laugh of my fount--give way! Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more. THE EFFIGIES. Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann : GOETHE. WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb, With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone, Yet, thro' a cloud of years I trace What thou hast been and done. A banner, from its flashing spear Flung out o'er many a fight, A war-cry ringing far and clear, And strong to turn the flight; An arm that bravely bore the lance A haughty heart and a kingly glance-- A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council-board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was pour'd ; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard ; Surely these things were all thine own, So hadst thou thy reward. Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest By the armed knight is laid, With meek hands folded o'er a breast In matron robes array'd; What was thy tale?-Oh! gentle mate Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate, What bard hath sung of thee? He wooed a bright and burning star-- The straining eye that follow'd far His fast receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang-but when did Fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these? |