O Ye Voices!

O ye voices round my own hearth singing, As the winds of May to memory sweet! Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet, Once again?

Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted Oft since then your fond farewell was said; O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed, Oft again!

Or if still around my heart ye linger, Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come: Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer, Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home Ne’er again!

I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I dream of all things free! Of a gallant, gallant bark That sweeps through storm and sea, Like an arrow to its mark! Of a stag that o’er the hills Goes bounding in his glee; Of a thousand flashing rills-- Of all things glad and free.

I dream of some proud bird, A bright-eyed mountain-king! In my visions I have heard The rushing of his wing. I follow some wild river, On whose breast no sail may be; Dark woods around it shiver-- I dream of all things free!

Of a happy forest child, With the fawns and flowers at play; Of an Indian midst the wild, With the stars to guide his way; Of a chief his warriors leading, Of an archer’s greenwood tree-- My heart in chains is bleeding, And I dream of all things free!

FAR O’ER THE SEA.

Where are the vintage songs Wandering in glee? Where dance the peasant bands Joyous and free? Under a kind blue sky, Where doth my birthplace lie? --Far o’er the sea.

Where floats the myrtle-scent O’er vale and lea, When evening calls the dove Homewards to flee! Where doth the orange gleam Soft on my native stream? --Far o’er the sea!

Where are sweet eyes of love Watching for me? Where o’er the cabin roof Waves the green tree? Where speaks the vesper-chime Still of a holy time? --Far o’er the sea.

Dance on, ye vintage bands! Fearless and free; Still fresh and greenly wave, My father’s tree! Still smile, ye kind, blue skies! Though your son pines and dies Far o’er the sea!

THE INVOCATION.

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love? My only love! Or smiling in a brighter home, Far, far above?

Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love? Thy light step gone? And art thou not, in earth or heaven, Still, still my own?

I see thee with thy gleaming hair, In midnight dreams! But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, Thy soft eye seems.

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love! Dwelt on thy brow; But something mournfully divine There shineth now!

And silent ever is thy lip, And pale thy cheek;-- Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s? Speak to me, speak!

THE SONG OF HOPE.

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain-- We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain; A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea, A ransom approaches--we yet shall be free! Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps, Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps; Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam, Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam.

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met, Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet! Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea-- Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking signs, Which ne’er might be repeated.” Byron.

The vesper-bell, from church and tower, Had sent its dying sound; And the household, in the hush of eve, Were met their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power-- “We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s gathering-hour: There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell. Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”

Then the father gave his son the sword Which a hundred fights had seen-- “Away! and bear it back, my boy! All that it still hath been!

“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land? Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast, With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”

Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears That o’er his dark locks fell: “I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er, Yet I stay thee not--Farewell!”

“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word! It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d. Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight, To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might.

And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard, Though deep, yet brief and low: “In the vigil, in the conflict, love! My prayer shall with thee go!”

“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst! So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed. The night is pass’d, the silence o’er--on all our hills we rise: We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”

There were sad hearts in a darken’d home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour.

MIGNON’S SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.]

“Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?”

Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. Know’st thou it well? There, there, with thee, O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise, Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes To say--“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?” Know’st thou it well? There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee!

Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung, Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way; There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray. Know’st thou it well? With thee, with thee, There lies my path, O father! let us flee!