Zorzico.[409]

Chains on the cities! gloom in the air! Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there. Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers! Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.

Come from the Darro!--changed is its tone; Come where the streams no bondage have known; Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, Singing of freedom from steep to steep.

Come from Alhambra!--garden and grove Now may not shelter beauty or love. Blood on the waters! death midst the flowers! --Only the spear and the rock are ours.

The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singularly antique Moorish melody.

THE SONG OF MINA’S SOLDIERS.

We heard thy name, O Mina! Far through our hills it rang; A sound more strong than tempests, More keen than armour’s clang.

The peasant left his vintage, The shepherd grasp’d the spear-- We heard thy name, O Mina! --The mountain-bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring, As torrents to the sea, From every dark sierra So rush’d our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner, Thine eye our beacon-sign, Thy name our trumpet, Mina! --The mountain-bands are thine.

MOTHER! OH, SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

Mother! oh, sing me to rest As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress’d.

Lay this tired head on thy breast! Flowers from the night-dew are closing, Pilgrims and mourners reposing: Mother! oh, sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest! Weary is young life when blighted, Heavy this love unrequited; --Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, There are echoes on Biscay’s wild shore; There are murmurs--but not of the torrent, Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest’s roar.

’Tis a day of the spear and the banner, Of armings and hurried farewells; Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards! Or start from your old battle-dells.

There are streams of unconquer’d Asturias That have roll’d with your father’s free blood: Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty Proud marks where their children have stood!

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription--“Et in Arcadia ego.”]

They have wander’d in their glee With the butterfly and bee; They have climb’d o’er heathery swells, They have wound through forest dells; Mountain-moss hath felt their tread, Woodland streams their way have led; Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, Unto them have yielded up Fragrant bell and starry cup: Chaplets are on every brow-- What hath staid the wanderers now? Lo! a gray and rustic tomb, Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

There is many a summer sound That pale sepulchre around; Through the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing; Glimpses of blue festal skies Pouring in when soft winds rise; Violets o’er the turf below Shedding out their warmest glow; Yet a spirit not its own O’er the greenwood now is thrown! Something of an under-note Through its music seems to float, Something of a stillness gray Creeps across the laughing day: Something dimly from those old words felt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

Was some gentle kindred maid In that grave with dirges laid? Some fair creature, with the tone Of whose voice a joy is gone, Leaving melody and mirth Poorer on this alter’d earth? Is it thus? that so they stand, Dropping flowers from every hand-- Flowers, and lyres, and gather’d store Of red wild-fruit prized no more? --No! from that bright band of morn Not one link hath yet been torn: ’Tis the shadow of the tomb Falling o’er the summer-bloom-- O’er the flush of love and life Passing with a sudden strife; ’Tis the low prophetic breath Murmuring from that house of death, Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

THE WANDERING WIND.

The Wind, the wandering Wind Of the golden summer eves-- Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones among the leaves? Oh! is it from the waters, Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The Wind, the wandering Wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Nor the fir-trees whispering low;

They are not of the waters, Nor of the cavern’d hill: ’Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill. They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind!