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And waterfall, and streams that down the hills
Melodious rush, and voices of the rills.
He, as he hears of birds the summer mirth
And all the impassioned poetry of earth,
Looks at the bright, blue dawn-a dawn like this,
Feels at each lightsome step increasing bliss ;
And as he winds his flower-fringed path along,
Delighted wakes his own full-hearted song.
What are his joys to mine? The groves are green,
And fair the flowers; and there are ever seen
By him the mountain's breast, the hills, the woods,
Grass waving fields, and bright and wandering floods ;
The lays of birds are ever on his ear,
Music and sylvan beauty crown his year ;-
But if to him the rural reign have power
To fill with joy the swift-revolving hour,
What rapture must be mine, so seldom given,
To feel the beam and drink the gale of heaven!
For O! I love thee, Nature; and
Has felt “ the witchery of the soft, blue sky;"
Bear witness, glowing Summer, how I love
Thy green world here, thy azure arch above !
But seldom comes the hour that snaps my chain,
'To me thou art all beautiful in vain !
Bird, bee, and butterfly, are on the wing,
Songs shake the woods, and streams are murmuring;
But far from them - the world's unwilling slave,
My aching brow no genial breezes lave ;
Few are the gladsome hours that come to cheer
With flowers and songs my dull, unvarying year:
Yet when they come, as now,—from loathed night
The bird upsprings to hail the welcome light
With soul less buoyant than I turn to thee,
Prized for thy absence, sylvan Liberty !
"My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! they 've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell.”— ’T was thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, “ The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue
water To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget; That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pur as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the
well, Oh what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.
" My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere -
That changeful inind unchanging gems are not befitting well
Thus will he think—and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
“ He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He 'll think, a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He 'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in, - and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll
say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh! luckless, luckless well, For what to say to Muça, alas ! I cannot tell.
“ I 'll tell the truth to Muça, and hope he will believe -
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well !"
The trumpet's voice hath roused the land,
Light up the beacon-pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire !
A hundred banners to the breeze
folds have cast,
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past !
The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth!
The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye ;-
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side ;
E’en for the marriage altar crowned,
The lover quits his bride!
And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead ?
How idly by yon ruined Mill,
A silent stream, a voiceless rill,
The scanty currents steal ;
And yet those broad embankments show
What weight of waves once dashed below,
To turn its shattered wheel.
Conducted by the hand of man,
Blue, dark, and deep, of old they ran :
What envious chance their course has led
Back to their useless native bed ?
And why, too, moulders to decay
Yon arch, where wandering lichens stray,
Through which the waters seem
In pride to bear their own away,
And claim their borrowed stream?
Is it for bard or painter's eyes
That here romantic nature tries
To spurn at art's restraint?
Inviting me to moralize,
Or Hobbima to paint?
Yes; paint it in the sun's broad beam,
Come here to moralize by day,
But shun to muse beside that stream,
Or paint it in the moon's pale ray.
Yes; dark and swift those waters glide,
Below the pool is still.
No stream can wash, no depth can hide,
The guilt that mingles with the tide
That laves the haunted Mill.
Time was when yonder wheel went round,
With mirth and music in its sound,
To wealth and beauty's ear;
For scarcely Olmutz walls contained
A wealthier man than him who reigned
Lord and possessor here!
And not Moravia's circle wide
Could shew the rival fair who vied
With Ebba's charms. How oft he smiled
Complacent on that only child;
Bade some assenting neighbour trace
Her mother's beauty in that face;
Told how that dark Sclavonic eye
Recalled his wife to memory,
And how the heiress of the charms,
Which once had blessed his youthful arms,
Should be, when he too was no more,
The heiress of his worldly store.
They say that spirits haunt the gloom
Of that deserted roofless room-
They say that spirits make their moan
At midnight, round the old hearth-stone,
Where once the father and his child
The length of wintry nights beguiled.
I can believe the sinful dead
May haunt it now; but they had fled
From Ebba's voice of old, when there
She raised the hymn of evening prayer.
They were a goodly sight—the sire
And that fair child, when round the fire
The circle closed; but oft was found
A third in that domestic round,
And oft in that affecting rite
Another voice was raised
Another by that ruddy light
On Ebba's beauty gazed.