SONG FOR TWILIGHT. HIDE me, O twilight air! Hide me from thought, from care, From all things, foul or fair, Until to-morrow! To-night I strive no more; If I must see through dreams, So may my spirit cast Have leave to ponder! And shouldst thou 'scape control, Of all endeavor! But if earth's pains will rise, THE HUNTER'S SONG. RISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn; Hark, hark! Who calleth the maiden Morn The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn. The merry bld voice of the hunter's horn. Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good What's the gully deep or the roaring flood? Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. Oh! what delight can a mortal lack, When he once is firm on his horse's back, With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, And the blast of the horn for his morning sung? Hark, harn! Now, home! and dream till morn, Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn! The horn, the horn! Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn! THE RECALL. COME again! Come again 1 Come thou--for whom tears were falling, Like the sunshine after rain! THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. FAREWELL Old England's shores! I've lived--I've sought-I've seen-- I go; what matter where? Dreams not of alien skies: From the land he loves too wellFrom thoughts that smite his heart: So, England! long farewell! Farewell! O'er lands and the lonely main, I go; but time nor tide, So, farewell! Old England! fare thee well. THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. OH, there never was yet so fair a thing, By racing river or bubbling spring, Nothing that ever so gayly grew Up from the ground when the skies were blue, Nothing so prave, nothing so free As thou, my wild wild Cherry-tree! Jove! how it danced in the gusty breeze! Never at rest, like one that's young Back I fly to the days gone by, THE LITTLE VOICE. ONCE there was a little Voice, Merry as the month of May, That did cry "Rejoice! rejoice!" Now 'tis flown away! Sweet it was, and very clear, have pondered all night long, I would give a mine of gold, ON A MOTHER AND CHILD SLEEPING. NIGHT gaze, but send no sound! Fond heart, thy fondness keep! Heaven's stars bright silence keep: All's still; they sleep, they sleep! O Life! O Night! O Time! Thus ever round them creep! E'er guard them, gentle Sleep! DARK-EYED BEAUTY OF THE SOUTH. DARK-EYED beauty of the South! We, who awell on Northern earth, BIE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE. Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; No lover's thought her cheek did touch; No poet's dream was 'round her thrown; Now she hath flown! We miss her when the morning calls, Is checked 'ere to its blossom grown; No solid good, nor hope defined, Is marred now she hath sunk in night; Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Might cast the great Sun from his throne; A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. And the maiden May returns Then, how merry are the times! The Summer times the Spring times! Now, from off the ashy stone The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown, And our dream of pleasure dieth; And the frozen rivers sigh, Now, how solemn are the times! Yet, be merry; all around Is through one vast change resolving; Even Night, who lately frowned, Is in paler dawn dissolving; All things in the world will change, Sing then, hopeful are all times! THE QUADROON. SAY they that all beauty lies In the paler maiden's hue? Say they that all softness flies, Save from eyes of April blue? Come all dark and bright, as skies Tell them-Beauty (born above) And both upon thine aspect lie- IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA. Let no angry wind arise, Nor a wave with whitened crest; Bear him (as the breeze above CONSTANCY. I WOULD I were the bold March-wind, Yet-no! No slight to thee! I would I were the soft West-wind, Love-Love-for aye to thee! THE MISTLETOE. WHEN winter nights grow long, And winds without blow cold, We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire, And listen to stories old! And we try to look grave (as maids should be), The Poets have laurels-and why not we? How pleasant, when night falls down, And hides the wintry sun, To see them come in to the blazing fire, While many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme, O the Holly, the bright green Holly, It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly! Sometimes-in our grave-house, Observe, this happeneth not; But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs And then what then? why, the men laugh low, Oh, brave is ine Laurei! and brave is the Holly! A BACCHANALIAN SONG. SING!-Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? The VINE, boys, the VINE! A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company, To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah, who is this maid of thine? The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she, Than vine can be, And very, very good company! Dream!-Who dreams Of the God who governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine? 'Tis WINE, boys, 'tis WINE! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O better is he Than grape or tree, And the best of all good company! THE NIGHTS. OH! the Summer Night Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne; From the bud to the rose o'er-blown! But the Autumn Night Like the wrath of the Thunder, And the Winter Night Is all cold and white, And she singeth a song of pain; When she dies in a dream of rain! Oh, the Night, the Night! It bringeth sleep To the forests deep, And that balm to the weary-Rest! THE STORMY PETREL. A THOUSAND miles from land are we, The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, Up and down! Up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amid the flashing and feathery foam The Stormy Petrel finds a home A home, if such a place may be, For her who lives on the wide wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young, and to teach them spring O'er the Deep! O'er the Deep! Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep, Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard! SONG OF THE SOLDIER TO HIS SWORD My Sword! My friend! My noble friend! Whom my fathers without end In their thousand battles drew Come! Let me bare thee to the light! Let me clutch thee in my hand! Oh! how keen, how blue, how bright, Is my noble, noble brand! Thou wast plucked from su me base mine Once we called and thou didst come Straight from out thy sleep didst start, Thou wast like the lightning, driven Hark! again the trumpets bray! I am here to lead the way; Servant of my fathers-Come! TO A NIGHTINGALE, AT MIDDAY. And yet, methinks, 't should flow unseen, Like hidden rivers that we hear Singing among the forests green. Delay, delay! till downy Eve Into her twilight woods hath flown: Too soon, musician, dost thou grieve; Love bloometh best (like thought)—alone. Cease, coase awhile! Thy holy strain Should be among the silence born; Thy heart may then unfold its pain, Leaning upon its bridal thorn. The insect noise, the human folly, Disturb thy grave thoughts with their din; Then, cease awhile, bird Melancholy, And when the fond Night hears-begin! HURRAH FOR MERRY ENGLAND. HURRAH for the Land of England! Firm-set in the subject sea; Where the women are fair, And the men (like air) Are all lovers of liberty! Hurrah! for merry England! Long life, without strife, for England! Hurrah, for the Spirit of England! Who stretcheth his hand, With a king's command, All over the circling sea! Hurrah for merry England! Long life, without strife, for England! Let tyrants rush forth on the nations, But do thou stand fast, From the first to the last, For "THE RIGHT"-wherever it be! Hurrah, for William of England! Who casteth aside Man's useless pride, And leans on his people free! Hurrah! for the King of England! Her King is the boast of England! But her beauty lies In her women's eyes, And her strength in her People free! So, three cheers for merry England! THE WOOD-THRUSH. WHITHER hath the Wood-thrush flown, Bid him come! for on his wings, Lover-like the creature waits, Tow'rd the dawn he poureth. Sweet one, why art thou not heard Laughing thoughts, delightful songs, "Tis enough that thou shouldst sing COUNT BALTHAZAR. "A famous man is Robin Hood: But each land' hath a thief as good; Then let us chant a passing stave In honor of the Hero brave!" • WORDSWORTH'S ROB ROY. COUNT BALTHAZAR reigns in his strong stone tower, Girt round by his iron men; And his strength, like the terrible Tempest's power, Sweeps through each Alpine glen ! A hunter he is, though a monarch grim He seems on his mountain throne; But he hunts not the stag, nor the ermine slim, He breedeth no cattle, he traineth no vine, He hath naught that is bought or sold: Yet his cellars are bursting with brave bright wine, He calls to his armed band; And they hunt through the valleys, from night till morn, So he drinks and he revels, till daylight gleams : For a Demon e'er watches his blood-red dreams, As the depths of sleep,) And scares him to life again! So Balthazar lives, and so must he die, However the seasons roll: The visions of guilt must haunt his eye, He arose, like a pillar of fire, whose head So down with the tower, the old stone tower! Let's summon our hearts, and unfetter our power, Where lieth their strength? In a vague false fame. Where based? On our fear alone. Then let us build a phantom, and forge us a name, In a foundery of our own! THE NIGHT IS CLOSING ROUND, MOTHER. All round me they cling, like an iron ring, Ah, Heaven! thy hand, thy hand, Mother! They have smitten my brain with a piercing pain: I could sleep a long long sleep, Mother! You may lay me low, in the virgin snow, I would lie in the wild wild woods, Mother! No lovers there witch the air, Mother! One may live and be gay, like a summer day, MIDNIGHT RHYMES. OH! 'tis merry when the stars are bright Of the things that are dreamt by night, With figures that shine like dreams, Oh! merry are Christmas times, "Tis night when the usurers feel By scores to the sleeping maid; Oh! merry are Christmas times, de. At night, both the sick and the lame And the creature that droops with shame The boy on the raging deep Laughs loud that the skies are clear; Oh! merry are Christmas times, &c. At night, all wrongs are right, And all perils of life grow smooth; All hearts, 'tween the earth and the moon, Ah-'tis pity so sweet a tune Should ever be jarred by pain! Yet-merry are Christmas times, fa |