In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.
As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'erThe golden sands of that island shore,A foot-print sparkled before his sight—'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!
Beside a fountain, one sunny day,As bending over the stream he lay,There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light,And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.
He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird,That spirit fled!—and the youth but heardSweet music, such as marks the flightOf some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.
One night, still haunted by that bright look,The boy, bewildered, his pencil took,And, guided only by memory's light,Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.
"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," criedA voice, low whispering by his side,"Now turn and see,"—here the youth's delightSealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.
"Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee,"And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light"In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"
As vanquished Erin wept besideThe Boyne's ill-fated river,She saw where Discord, in the tide,Had dropt his loaded quiver."Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts,"Where mortal eye may shun you;"Lie hid—the stain of manly hearts,"That bled for me, is on you."
But vain her wish, her weeping vain,—As Time too well hath taught her—Each year the Fiend returns again,And dives into that water;And brings, triumphant, from beneathHis shafts of desolation,And sends them, winged with worse than death,Through all her maddening nation.
Alas for her who sits and mourns,Even now, beside that river—Unwearied still the Fiend returns,And stored is still his quiver."When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"She weeping asks for ever;But only hears, from out that flood,The Demon answer, "Never!"
By the Feal's wave benighted,No star in the skies,To thy door by Love lighted,I first saw those eyes.Some voice whispered o'er me,As the threshold I crost,There was ruin before me,If I loved, I was lost.
Love came, and brought sorrowToo soon in his train;Yet so sweet, that to-morrow'Twere welcome again.Though misery's full measureMy portion should be,I would drain it with pleasure,If poured out by thee.
You, who call it dishonorTo bow to this flame,If you've eyes, look but on her,And blush while you blame.Hath the pearl less whitenessBecause of its birth?Hath the violet less brightnessFor growing near earth?
No—Man for his gloryTo ancestry flies;But Woman's bright storyIs told in her eyes.
While the Monarch but tracesThro' mortals his line,Beauty, born of the Graces,Banks next to Divine!
[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."—Leland, vol. ii.
They know not my heart, who believe there can beOne stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,I could harm what I love,—as the sun's wanton rayBut smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.
No—beaming with light as those young features are,There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:It is not that cheek—'tis the soul dawning clearThro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair,Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!
I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1]Where sinful souls their farewell takeOf this vain world, and half-way lieIn death's cold shadow, ere they die.There, there, far from thee,Deceitful world, my home should be;Where, come what might of gloom and pain,False hope should ne'er deceive again.
The lifeless sky, the mournful soundOf unseen waters falling round;The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,Like man, unquiet even when dead!These, ay, these shall weanMy soul from life's deluding scene,And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,Like willows, downward towards the tomb.
As they, who to their couch at nightWould win repose, first quench the light,So must the hopes, that keep this breastAwake, be quenched, ere it can rest.Cold, cold, this heart must grow,Unmoved by either joy or woe,Like freezing founts, where all that's thrownWithin their current turns to stone.
[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."
She sung of Love, while o'er her lyreThe rosy rays of evening fell,As if to feed with their soft fireThe soul within that trembling shell.The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,And played around those lips that sungAnd spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.
But soon the West no longer burned,Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;And, when to gaze again I turned,The minstrel's form seemed fading too.As ifherlight and heaven's were one,The glory all had left that frame;And from her glimmering lips the tone,As from a parting spirit, came.
Who ever loved, but had the thoughtThat he and all he loved must part?Filled with this fear, I flew and caughtThe fading image to my heart—And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?"Oh light of youth's resplendent day!"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,"And thus, like sunshine, die away?"
Sing—sing—Music was given,To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;Souls here, like planets in Heaven,By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,But Love from the lips his true archery wings;And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.Then sing—sing—Music was given,To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;Souls here, like planets in Heaven,By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
When Love, rocked by his mother,Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other"Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."Dreaming of music he slumbered the whileTill faint from his lip a soft melody broke,And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.Then sing—sing—Music was given,To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;Souls here, like planets in Heaven,By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.
And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwellingOf him thou regardest her favoring ray,Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.
'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominionCan turn from the path a pure conscience approves;Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.
'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,The breeze of his garden to him is more sweetThan the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.
Then, come,—if a board so untempting hath powerTo win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.
Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to meSome song of ancient days,Whose sounds, in this sad memory,Long buried dreams shall raise;—Some lay that tells of vanished fame,Whose light once round us shone;Of noble pride, now turned to shame,And hopes for ever gone.—Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;Alike our doom is cast,Both lost to all but memory,We live but in the past.
How mournfully the midnight airAmong thy chords doth sigh,As if it sought some echo thereOf voices long gone by;—Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemedThe foremost then in fame;Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,Now sleep without a name.—In vain, sad Harp, the midnight airAmong thy chords doth sigh;In vain it seeks an echo thereOf voices long gone by.
Couldst thou but call those spirits round.Who once, in bower and hall,Sat listening to thy magic sound,Now mute and mouldering all;—But, no; they would but wake to weepTheir children's slavery;Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,The dead, at least, are free!—Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,That knell of Freedom's day;Or, listening to its death-like moan,Let me, too, die away.
To-morrow, comrade, weOn the battle-plain must be,There to conquer, or both lie low!The morning star is up,—But there's wine still in the cup,And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;We'll take another quaff, ere we go.
'Tis true, in manliest eyesA passing tear will rise,When we think of the friends we leave lone;But what can wailing do?See, our goblet's weeping too!With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;With its tears we'll chase away our own.
But daylight's stealing on;—The last that o'er us shoneSaw our children around us play;The next—ah! where shall weAnd those rosy urchins be?But—no matter—grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;No matter—grasp thy sword and away!
Let those, who brook the chainOf Saxon or of Dane,Ignobly by their firesides stay;One sigh to home be given,One heartfelt prayer to heaven,Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!
What life like that of the bard can be—The wandering bard, who roams as freeAs the mountain lark that o'er him sings,And, like that lark, a music bringsWithin him, where'er he comes or goes,—A fount that for ever flows!The world's to him like some playground,Where fairies dance their moonlight round;—If dimmed the turf where late they trod,The elves but seek some greener sod;So, when less bright his scene of glee,To another away flies he!
Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,Without a bard to fix her bloom?They tell us, in the moon's bright round,Things lost in this dark world are found;So charms, on earth long past and gone,In the poet's lay live on.—Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?You've only to give them all to him.Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,Can lend them life, this life beyond,And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,—Young stars that never die!
Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,—For, tho' he hath countless airy homes,To which his wing excursive roves,Yet still, from time to time, he lovesTo light upon earth and find such cheerAs brightens our banquet here.No matter how far, how fleet he flies,You've only to light up kind young eyes,Such signal-fires as here are given,—And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,The minute such call to love or mirthProclaims he's wanting on earth!
Alone in crowds to wander on,And feel that all the charm is goneWhich voices dear and eyes belovedShed round us once, where'er we roved—This, this the doom must beOf all who've loved, and lived to seeThe few bright things they thought would stayFor ever near them, die away.
Tho' fairer forms around us throng,Their smiles to others all belong,And want that charm which dwells aloneRound those the fond heart calls its own.Where, where the sunny brow?The long-known voice—where are they now?Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,The silence answers all too plain.
Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,If all her art can not call forthOne bliss like those we felt of oldFrom lips now mute, and eyes now cold?No, no,—her spell is vain,—As soon could she bring back againThose eyes themselves from out the grave,As wake again one bliss they gave.
I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,—Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"
There, amid the deep silence of that hour,When stars can be heard in ocean dip,Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:Like him, the boy,[1] who born amongThe flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,Sits ever thus,—his only songTo earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"
[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.
They came from a land beyond the sea,And now o'er the western mainSet sail, in their good ships, gallantly,From the sunny land of Spain."Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,Our destined home or grave?"[1]Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,They swept the Atlantic wave.
And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shinesA sparkle of radiant green,As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,Whose light thro' the wave was seen."'Tis Innisfail[2]—'tis Innisfail!"Rings o'er the echoing sea;While, bending to heaven, the warriors hailThat home of the brave and free.
Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,Where now their Day-God's eyeA look of such sunny-omen gaveAs lighted up sea and sky.Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,When first on their Isle of DestinyOur great forefathers trod.
[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.—Keating.
[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.
Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,Obey the mute call and heave into motion.Then, sound notes—the gayest, the lightest,That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!Again! Again!
Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heardIn that City of Statues described by romancers,So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,And statues themselves all start into dancers!
Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,—While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?Again, that strain!—to hear it thus soundingMight set even Death's cold pulses bounding—Again! Again!
Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!
There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,And lamps from every casement shown;While voices blithe within are singing,That seem to say "Come," in every tone.Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;Nor paused to ask of graybeard ReasonShould I the syren call obey.
And, see—the lamps still livelier glitter,The syren lips more fondly sound;No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitterTo sink in your rosy bondage bound.Shall a bard, whom not the world in armsCould bend to tyranny's rude control,Thus quail at sight of woman's charmsAnd yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,The nymphs their fetters around him cast,And,—their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,—Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.
Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,How oft I dream of thee,And of those days when, by thy shore,I wandered young and free.Full many a path I've tried, since then,Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,But ne'er could find the bliss againI felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,At sunny morn I've stood,With heart as bounding as the skiffsThat danced along thy flood;Or, when the western wave grew brightWith daylight's parting wing,Have sought that Eden in its light,Which dreaming poets sing;[1]—
That Eden where the immortal braveDwell in a land serene,—Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,At sunset, oft are seen.Ah dream too full of saddening truth!Those mansions o'er the mainAre like the hopes I built in youth,—As sunny and as vain!
[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories",—Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland."
Lay his sword by his side,[1]—it hath served him too wellNot to rest near his pillow below;To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,Its point was still turned to a flying foe.Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,—That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause—for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;—Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,"Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,—"It hath victory's life in it yet!"
"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,"Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed,Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud useOf a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,—Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"
[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.
Oh, could we do with this world of oursAs thou dost with thy garden bowers,Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,What a heaven on earth we'd make it!So bright a dwelling should be our own,So warranted free from sigh or frown,That angels soon would be coming down,By the week or month to take it.
Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,And in themselves a lustre bear,A stock of light, still ready there,Whenever they wish to use it;So, in this world I'd make for thee,Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,And the flash of wit or poesyBreak forth whenever we choose it.
While every joy that glads our sphereHath still some shadow hovering near,In this new world of ours, my dear,Such shadows will all be omitted:—Unless they're like that graceful one,Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.Still near thee, leaves a charm uponEach spot where it hath flitted.
The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,Where his sword hangs idly shining.When, hark! that shoutFrom the vale without,—"Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"Every Chief starts upFrom his foaming cup,And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.
The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,And they sing such thrilling numbers,'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!Spear to buckler rang,As the minstrels sang,And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide;While remembering the yokeWhich their father's broke,"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.
Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;While onward moved, in the light of its fame,That banner of Erin, towering.With the mingling shockRung cliff and rock,While, rank on rank, the invaders die:And the shout, that last,O'er the dying past,Was "victory! victory!"—the Finian's cry.
[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.
[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.
The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er,Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore;And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.
Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned,Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?
Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread!Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gainOr died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.
From this hour the pledge is given,From this hour my soul is thine:Come what will, from earth or heaven,Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.When the proud and great stood by thee,None dared thy rights to spurn;And if now they're false and fly thee,Shall I, too, basely turn?No;—whate'er the fires that try thee,In the same this heart shall burn.
Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,Offers now no friendly shore,Light may come where all looks darkest,Hope hath life when life seems o'er.And, of those past ages dreaming,When glory decked thy brow,Oft I fondly think, tho' seemingSo fallen and clouded now,Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,—None so bright, so blest as thou!
Silence is in our festal halls,—Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;In vain on thee sad Erin calls,Her minstrel's voice responds no more;—All silent as the Eolian shellSleeps at the close of some bright day,When the sweet breeze that waked its swellAt sunny morn hath died away.
Yet at our feasts thy spirit longAwakened by music's spell shall rise;For, name so linked with deathless songPartakes its charm and never dies:And even within the holy faneWhen music wafts the soul to heaven,One thought to him whose earliest strainWas echoed there shall long be given.
But, where is now the cheerful day.The social night when by thy sideHe who now weaves this parting layHis skilless voice with thine allied;And sung those songs whose every tone,When bard and minstrel long have past,Shall still in sweetness all their ownEmbalmed by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,—Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,From thee the borrowed glory came,And at thy feet is now laid down.Enough, if Freedom still inspireHis latest song and still there be.As evening closes round his lyre,One ray upon its chords from thee.
[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.
It is Cicero, I believe, who says "naturâ, ad modes ducimur;" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of thosehalfcreatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none,—or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers,—it is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as anestrayswan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.
"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted,"I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!"Her temple was built and she now only wantedAn image of Friendship to place on the shrine.She flew to a sculptor, who set down before herA Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorerSaw plainly this was not the idol she meant.
"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining"An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;—"But yon little god, upon roses reclining,"We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him."So the bargain was struck; with the little god ladenShe joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden"Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."
Flow on, thou shining river;But ere thou reach the seaSeek Ella's bower and give herThe wreaths I fling o'er theeAnd tell her thus, if she'll be mineThe current of our lives shall be,With joys along their course to shine,Like those sweet flowers on thee.
But if in wandering thitherThou find'st she mocks my prayer,Then leave those wreaths to witherUpon the cold bank there;And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,Her lone and loveless Charms shall beThrown by upon life's weedy shore.Like those sweet flowers from thee.
All that's bright must fade,—The brightest still the fleetest;All that's sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest.Stars that shine and fall;—The flower that drops in springing;—These, alas! are types of allTo which our hearts are clinging.All that's bright must fade,—The brightest still the fleetest;All that's sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest?
Who would seek our prizeDelights that end in aching?Who would trust to tiesThat every hour are breaking?Better far to beIn utter darkness lying,Than to be blest with light and seeThat light for ever flying.All that's bright must fade,—The brightest still the fleetest;All that's sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest!
So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,—That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell.To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,—Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss;Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each otherIn smiles and in tears than that moment to this.
The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,—The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrowTo think that such happiness could not remain;While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrowWould bring back the blest hour of meeting again.
Those evening bells! those evening bells!How many a tale their music tells,Of youth and home and that sweet timeWhen last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are past away:And many a heart, that then was gay.Within the tomb now darkly dwells,And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone:That tuneful peal will still ring on,While other bards shall walk these dells,And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,Which now so sweetly thy heart employ:Should the cold world come to wake theeFrom all thy visions of youth and joy;Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banishHim who once thought thy young heart his own,All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;—
Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slightedWould come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er;Then the truant, lost and blighted,Would to his bosom be taken once more.Like that dear bird we both can remember,Who left us while summer shone round,But, when chilled by bleak December,On our threshold a welcome still found.
Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say,Went on a party of pleasure one day:Folly playedAround the maid,The bells of his cap rung merrily out;While Reason tookTo his sermon-book—Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt,Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.
Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage.Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page,Till Folly said,"Look here, sweet maid!"—The sight of his cap brought her back to herself;While Reason readHis leaves of lead,With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!No,—no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap;Had he that on, he her heart might entrap—"There it is,"Quoth Folly, "old quiz!"(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,)"Under the sunThere's no such fun,As Reason with my cap and bells on his head!""Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"
But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,That Beauty now liked him still less than before;While Folly tookOld Reason's book,And twisted the leaves in a cap of suchton,That Beauty vowed(Tho' not aloud),She liked him still better in that than his own,Yes,—liked him still better in that than his own.
Fare thee well, thou lovely one!Lovely still, but dear no more;Once his soul of truth is gone,Love's sweet life is o'er.Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell,Could scarce have thus deceived;But eyes that acted truth so wellWere sure to be believed.Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!Lovely still, but dear no more;Once his soul of truth is gone,Love's sweet life is o'er.
Yet those eyes look constant still,True as stars they keep their light;Still those cheeks their pledge fulfilOf blushing always bright.'Tis only on thy changeful heartThe blame of falsehood lies;Love lives in every other part,But there, alas! he dies.Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!Lovely still, but dear no more;Once his soul of truth is gone,Love's sweet life is o'er.
Dost thou remember that place so lonely,A place for lovers and lovers only,Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er theeIllumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee,And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes?Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart,Love bound us—never, never more to part!
And when I called thee by names the dearest[1]That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,—"My life, my only life!" among the rest;In those sweet accents that still enthral me,Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me?"Thy soul, thy soul's the name I love best;"For life soon passes,—but how blest to be"That Soul which never, never parts from thee!"
[1] The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words.
Oh, come to me when daylight sets;Sweet! then come to me,When smoothly go our gondoletsO'er the moonlight sea.When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,Beneath that glancing ray,With sound of lutes and mandolins,To steal young hearts away.Then, come to me when daylight sets;Sweet! then come to me,When smoothly go our gondoletsO'er the moonlight sea.
Oh, then's the hour for those who love,Sweet, like thee and me;When all's so calm below, above,In Heaven and o'er the sea.When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles,And Echo sings againSo sweet, that all with ears and soulsShould love and listen then.So, come to me when daylight sets;Sweet! then come to me,When smoothly go our gondoletsO'er the moonlight sea.
Oft in the stilly night,Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me;The smiles, the tears,Of boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimmed and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
When I remember allThe friends, so linked together,I've seen around me fall,Like leaves in wintry weather;I feel like one,Who treads alone,Some banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.