Stanzas To The Memory Of * * *

In the full tide of melody and mirth, While joy’s bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.

Forget him not, for many a festal hour, Charm’d by those strains, for us has lightly flown: And memory’s visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart’s thrill at each familiar tone.

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays Revive life’s morning dreams, when youth is fled, And, fraught with images of other days, Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew Hope’s first illusions in their tenderest bloom-- Oh! what were life, unless such moments threw Bright gleams, “like angel visits,” o’er its gloom?

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.

Yes! thou hast met the sun’s last smile From the haunted hills of Rome; By many a bright Ægean isle Thou hast seen the billows foam.

From the silence of the Pyramid, Thou hast watch’d the solemn flow Of the Nile, that with its waters hid The ancient realm below.

Thy heart hath burn’d, as shepherds sung Some wild and warlike strain, Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung Through the pealing hills of Spain.

And o’er the lonely Grecian streams Thou hast heard the laurels moan, With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the pastoral vales Of the Alpine mountains old, If thou wouldst hear immortal tales By the wind’s deep whispers told!

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread Where man hath nobly striven, And life, like incense, hath been shed, An offering unto heaven.

For o’er the snows, and round the pines, Hath swept a noble flood; The nurture of the peasant’s vines Hath been the martyr’s blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword, And loftier than despair, Through all the heroic region pour’d, Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep Of long-enduring faith, And the sounding streams glad record keep Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant where his sires For truth and freedom bled? Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, Where lay the holy dead!

And he will tell thee, all around, On fount, and turf, and stone, Far as the chamois’ foot can bound, Their ashes have been sown!

Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard Up through the wilds to float, When the dark old woods and caves are stirr’d To gladness by the note;

When forth, along their thousand rills, The mountain people come, Join thou their worship on those hills Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends, And while the torrent’s voice, Like the swell of many an organ, blends, Then let thy soul rejoice.

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn, Through shame, through death, made strong, Before the rocks and heavens have borne Witness of God so long!

See Gilly’s Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air.

SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.

Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d By the sweet winds of my sunny land? Know’st thou the sound of its mountain pines? And hast thou rested beneath its vines?

Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, A thing of the breezes, in Spain’s blue sky, Floating away o’er hill and heath, With the myrtle’s whisper, the citron’s breath?

Then say, are there fairer vales than those Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows? Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave O’er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?

O sunshine and song! they are lying far By the streams that look to the western star; My heart is fainting to hear once more The water-voices of that sweet shore.

Many were they that have died for thee, And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free; But I call them blest--they have rent their chain-- They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain!

THE CONTADINA.

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine, Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine; And not for the rich blue heaven that showers Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers; And not for the scent of the citron trees-- Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw; And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye, Like a dark stream’s flash to the sunny sky, Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees-- Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.

But for those breathing and loving things-- For the boy’s fond arm that around thee clings, For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, In the peace of a trusting child’s repose-- For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast, Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!

TROUBADOUR SONG.

The warrior cross’d the ocean’s foam For the stormy fields of war; The maid was left in a smiling home And a sunny land afar.

His voice was heard where javelin showers Pour’d on the steel-clad line; Her step was midst the summer flowers, Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, And the red blood stain’d his crest; While she--the gentlest wind of heaven Might scarcely fan her breast!

Yet a thousand arrows pass’d him by, And again he cross’d the seas; But she had died as roses die That perish with a breeze--

As roses die, when the blast is come For all things bright and fair: There was death within the smiling home-- How had death found her there?