HeINRICHandLeONORE; 
 
 An Alpine Story 
 
 M,J. BAnRY. 
 
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 At^/Hl ^l^f 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 4079.B18H4 
 Heinrich and Leonore an Alpine ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 3 1924 013 211 770 
 
PR 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE, 
 
 AN ALPINE STORY. 
 
 CORREGGIO: 
 
 AND SOME 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. 
 
 =i@5::<JiS^:?5>!= 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 HODGES, FIGGIS, & CO., GRAFTON-STREET, 
 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
 LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 
 
 1886. 
 
A .\-A'^"i<^\ 
 
INSCRIBED 
 
 Xn tbe MsxaavTj of iw^ dear Wife, 
 
 ANNE MARCEULA BARRY. 
 
 One sun fills all our world with light, 
 And, setting, leaves it wrapped in night. 
 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 321 1 770 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 A FEW simple flowers of song, prized because 
 they were a solace to the being whom the 
 Writer valued above all else on earth, in hours when 
 solace was sadly needed, and gathered only that they 
 may be laid, with reverential tenderness, on her 
 grave, need nothing in the way of preface or intro- 
 duction. But, in connexion with some literary dis- 
 cussion of very recent date, it might interest the 
 reader to be told a few facts concerning the little 
 opening story ' Heinrich and Leonore', which, there- 
 fore, shall be mentioned here. 
 
 The story was written and printed, almost verbatim 
 as it now appears, just ten years ago, in the spring 
 of 1876. It originated in a paragraph of some forty 
 or fifty lines, which, many years before, the author 
 pame across in a newspaper, and was struck by it as 
 one that would make the basis of a pretty rhyming 
 tale. At long intervals he made three or four attempts 
 to carry out his idea, but failed to make any progress 
 in the task- One day, in 1876, he took up his pen 
 to make another trial, and it occurred to him that 
 blank verse — of which he had never written a line — 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 was better adapted for the purpose than rhyme. He 
 accordingly tried, and found the narrative to run on in 
 that metre with a facility that surprised him. In 
 fact he wrote the entire little story, as it stands, in 
 the leisure hours of a month of otherwise by no 
 means unoccupied time. An opportunity offered for 
 getting it into type, of which he availed, and he was 
 thus enabled to circulate some copies of it amongst 
 such friends as he desired, and to obtain the critical 
 judgment on it of some leading literary men, whose 
 opinions, he may say, were very encouraging. But 
 he did not venture on the experiment of making it 
 public. And it has lain by till, for the reasons above 
 assigned, he brought out the present little volume. 
 
 ' Sebastopol is Won!' and the 'Requiem', in this 
 volume, are reprinted from the 'Lays of the War', 
 published in 1855, which went through four editions 
 within six months after their appearance. The author 
 trusts it is a pardonable vanity now, for the first time 
 in thirty years, to make public the following letter, 
 received by him from Lord Macaulay, in acknowledg- 
 ing a presentation copy : — 
 
 'Albany, London, 
 
 ^ December i, 1855. 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' I AM much obliged to you for sending me your little volume. 
 I have read it with interest. Your verses are among the best and 
 the most spirited that have been called forth by the events of the 
 last eighteen months. 
 
 ' I have the honour to be, Sir, 
 
 ' Your obedient servant, 
 
 'T. B. Macaulay.' 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 HEINRTCH &= LEONORE : An Alpine Stofy, . . 3 
 
 CORREGGIO : A Dramatic Sketch, . . . S9 
 
 FROM 'LAYS OF THE WAR' : 
 
 Sebastopol is Won, . . . . . 5S 
 
 A Requiem for the Brave, . . 60 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 Lucretia Borgia, .69 
 
 The Suitor, . . ^ 11 
 
 To A Lady, . . . .73 
 
 To M.«cenas, TU 
 
 A Reflection, ... .75 
 
 The Garret, . . .16 
 
 Bob Goodcheer, ... .78 
 
 The Four-Leaved Shamrock, . . .80 
 
 The Warrior's Vow, 81 
 
 Near the Beloved, . . .82 
 
 A World of Love, . . 83 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES— continued. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Epitaph, . . . . . . 8U 
 
 Black and Blue Eyes, 85 
 
 Anacreon, . . . . 86 
 
 Rosette, . . 81 
 
 The Song of the Cossack, . . . . 89 
 
 The Irish Harp, ... . .91 
 
 Stanzas, . . . . . . . 9B 
 
 The Sword, . . . .93 
 
 --?**;iar^Se«St..*^Kr-- 
 
HEINRICH & LEO MORE 
 
 Alpine Storg. 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 J.tt ;|.lptoe Starg:. 
 
 A DREAM of summer beauty realized ! 
 A hamlet sleeping on the greenest slope 
 That ever shamed the emerald ; o'erhung 
 With richest chestnut foliage. Dark brown roofs, 
 Weighted with boulder-stones, to hold them firm 
 When winter's ternpest thunders through the gorge ; 
 With broad eaves shading-spacious galleries ; 
 And wooden porches, carved with quaint device 
 Or moralising sentence. Higher up, 
 Somewhat apart, and all below in shade, 
 The village chapel, with its slender spire 
 Resplendent, flashing the clear moonlight back, 
 From roofs that glitter like the silver scales 
 That fill the fisher's net on harvest nights. 
 A torrent foaming o'er the precipice 
 That makes the rugged foreground of the scene, 
 And tumbling madly downwards, till it falls 
 Into the vale, a thousand feet below ; 
 Through which the eye may trace it, winding far, 
 'Mid smihng villages and tranquil fields. 
 
 B 2 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORB : 
 
 Behind the hamlet and the chestnut-wood, 
 
 Rocks rising heavenward, 'till their summits make 
 
 The base of mighty snow-fields, stretching on, 
 
 In dazzling and untrodden solitude. 
 
 Into the regions of eternal winter. 
 
 While high above the snow-peaks, beautiful 
 
 As when she kissed Endymion's sleeping brow. 
 
 The Queen of night moves through the cloudless heaven, 
 
 The faint stars paling in her purer light ; 
 
 Even the bright jewels in Orion's belt 
 
 But feebly glimmering in the opal sky ! 
 
 Blest hamlet ! tranquil home of tranquil hearts ! 
 Where, far removed from the harsh struggling world. 
 Nightly repose, well earned by daily toil, 
 Makes peaceful pillows for the young and old. 
 And slumber needs no wooing ! Few the cares. 
 And light, that enter into those calm dwellings ; 
 And of the dwellers in them who should be 
 Happier to-night than Leonore and Heinrich ; 
 Of whose past story a few words suffice ? 
 
 The orphan daughter of a villager, 
 And doubly orphaned by her mother's death. 
 Ere her fifth year of childhood was complete, 
 Was Leonore ; for whom a maiden aunt, 
 Good Gretchen, lovingly had filled the place, 
 Thenceforthj of both her parents ; watching her 
 With mother tenderness, long well repaid. 
 By the kind 'tendance of the grateiful girl. 
 Whose quick, deft fingers, cheerfully employed. 
 Supplied the unexacting wants of both. 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 
 
 Fair from her childhood, seventeen summers left 
 To the young maiden, each, some parting gift 
 Of added grace or beauty, as it passed ; 
 While the pure freshness of a joyous nature. 
 The generous warmth of a confiding heart. 
 Rich in all woman's sympathies, surpassed 
 Her gifts of grace or beauty. 
 
 In their village 
 Young Heinrich 'mong the youth had foremost place. 
 No truer foot had ever tracked the wild goat ; 
 No truer aim had e'er brought down the red-deer ; 
 No bolder heart e'er dared the Alpine passes, 
 In honest traffic, or for hunter's sport ; 
 And, at the latest Schwingfest of the valley, 
 He won the wrestler's prize from the great champion, 
 The blacksmith Caspar, who for five long years 
 Had held it 'gainst all comers, — iron Caspar, 
 Whose mighty thews and sinews twenty years 
 Of sledge and anvil work had turned to steel ; 
 While Heinrich had but two-and-twenty summers 
 Of life to reckon. Nor were manly feats 
 His only merit. In the carver's art 
 He was not skilless ; and when winter brought 
 The long, dark evenings, when all outdoor tasks 
 Must be relinquished, he found pleasant work 
 In shaping figures of the stag or goat. 
 And other denizens of Alpine land ; 
 With various specimens of handicraft. 
 Sculptured with leaves of the wild strawberry, 
 The rhododendron, or the mountain fern ; 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE : 
 
 And won the hearts of village little ones 
 With toys, for which they paid him back in kisses ; 
 Pattering to meet him, when, with smiling face, 
 He came in sight, and lisping words of welcome. 
 
 Heinrich and Leonore loved one another, 
 With the strong, simple love of simple natures ; 
 Wherefore they knew not, never sought to know. 
 She was to him all that he knew as best, 
 A woman, young, and beautiful, and good. 
 Worthy all love, and trust, and guardianship. 
 He could not fancy aught more lovable 
 Or excellent. Who can 1 The poet's dream. 
 In its most rapt embodiment of beauty. 
 Can shape none else. The painter's magic pencil. 
 When genius and religion both inspire 
 The soul that guides it, to divinest effort, 
 Can trace but woman's pictured form and face 
 Upon his canvas. 'Tis the one ideal 
 That man possesses of celestial charms, 
 Whether of nature the untutored child, 
 Or with the wealth of Art's sublimest culture. 
 And Leonore loved Heinrich, as a man, 
 Rich in true manhood's qualities — not perfect. 
 But fearless, frank, and with the tenderness 
 That strongest natures cherish towards the weak, 
 Who need protection. — 'Twas the old, old story. 
 The clinging of the vine around the maple. 
 Giving in beauty what it gains in strength. 
 
 What was their wooing ? 'Tis not much to tell ; 
 Slight kindnesses from him, done timidly. 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 
 
 Perchance with something 'kin to awkwardness : 
 Paid back with conscious blushes, downcast eyes. 
 And words half tremulous with tenderness ; 
 Embarrassing, and yet emboldening him 
 To further marks of love ; until at length 
 The pent-up passion in his heart found voice', 
 And won the sweet response he thirsted for. 
 
 And now they are betrothed : five days more 
 Will give to him the happy title husband, 
 And make his Leonore a wife. Even now, 
 The moment has arrived for him to start 
 On that fond journey, whose chief object is 
 To buy the ring that is to make them one ; 
 And, underneath the shadow of the roof 
 That shelters her, he stands to say farewell. 
 For the brief hours that are to sunder them. 
 
 One close embrace, in which two love-tuned hearts 
 Make music to each other. ' Heinrich ! ' — 
 ' My Leonore ! ' — ^And the full soul looks forth, 
 With speechless longing, from the eyes of both ! 
 For, while the shallow brook runs babbling on. 
 The ocean's depths are silent. ' Morn is nigh, 
 And we must part, but for a little while. 
 My Leonore, I've come to say "Good-bye"! 
 Till our next meeting ; when I've bought the ring, 
 And some poor gifts my darling shall make rich 
 By wearing them.' ' Oh, Heinrich ! would it not 
 Be well to wait a little ? No one yet 
 Has tried the pass this season. One short week 
 Will make secure what may be doubtful now. 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE : 
 
 Do wait till then.' ' What ! wait till some one tries 
 
 The pass before me ! Leonore, the man 
 
 That you would take for husband must not be 
 
 Second to any in his proper calling ; 
 
 And to the mountaineer the mountain dangers 
 
 Are but the daily chances of his life. 
 
 There's scarce a nook among these Alpine summits 
 
 My foot is not familiar with ; and who 
 
 Should venture on them earlier than I ? 
 
 Kiss me, and pray for me till I return.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, my Heinrich, I shall weary God 
 
 With prayers to guard and bring you safely back 
 
 To my poor heart. I would not have you prove 
 
 A. coward ; or say aught to check the daring 
 
 Of your bold spirit. If my \*oman's nature 
 
 Prompted such word, foigive me.' ' Little one, 
 
 I know you would not. May all blessed things 
 
 Keep watch around you ! — One more kiss I — Good-bye ! 
 
 For the three days that are to sever us.' 
 
 One more strong, close embrace — one loving smile — 
 And the youth's step is on the upward slope 
 That stretches towards the mountains. What a look 
 Of love goes after him, till, where the path 
 Makes a sharp angle with the village street. 
 And strikes into the chestnut-wood, he stops, 
 Wafting one last fond blessing to his darling, 
 Then turns upon his way. While Leonore 
 Kneels in the shadow of the porch, and breathes 
 The deep outpourings of her heart to Heaven, 
 Imploring blessings on her Heinrich's head ; 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 
 
 Then, with a bosom calmed but sorrowful, 
 Enters the humble precincts of her home. 
 
 Meanwhile young Heinrich takes his zig-zag path, 
 Under the chestnuts, thro' whose foliage plays 
 The glory of the moonlight, — striding on, 
 Though not at rapid pace, but with the step. 
 Measured and slow, of one who knows full well 
 A long day's toil awaits him, and who feels 
 That prudence bids him husband well his strength. 
 Nor waste it at the outset. Still his step, 
 Though slow, is firm, keeping its steady time 
 To the strong quiet pulses of his heart. 
 Which throbs with its accustomed beat, without 
 Its owner's consciousness ; scarce quickening aught 
 From the steep, up-hill movement of the youth. 
 And now, emerging from the chestnut-wood. 
 He treads the open pasture, where the rock. 
 Rent by some fierce convulsion of the earth, 
 Stands towering heavenward ; its, giant wall 
 Erect and verdureless, save where, midway 
 Its barren height, some seeming wild weeds fringe 
 A fissure on its face. — Not wild weeds they, 
 In truth, but mighty pine-trees, anchored fast 
 In the huge cleft, whose limbs have braved the storms 
 Of full a hundred winters. Looking forth. 
 Upon the landscape : far beneath him lies 
 The village, its dark roofs, and glittering spire ; 
 Which, for the first time makes him pause, to take 
 One loving look at it, before he crosses 
 The mountain torrent, on the two stout pines 
 
10 HEINRICH AND LEONORE : 
 
 That bridge it over, — near to where it curves 
 
 In glassy smoothness, o'er the precipice, — 
 
 And strikes still higher, towards the sombre skirt 
 
 Of the pine-forest. But, before 'tis reached, 
 
 Peak after peak of mighty altitude. 
 
 And grandest outline, rises to his eye. 
 
 Through the deep mountain gorge upon his right ; 
 
 The moonlight fading from their snowy crests, 
 
 III the soft morning twilight ; — weird and wondrous, 
 
 In their immensity. But, as he Iboks, 
 
 One haughty summit flashes into day, — 
 
 Another, then another, till the scene 
 
 Is crowned with pinnacles of living fire, 
 
 Sending the God of Light sublime salute, 
 
 From the eternal watch-towers of the world ! 
 
 There is a magic spell in such a scene 
 That custom cannot weaken. Heinrich stops, 
 And gazes on the grandeur all around, 
 Of which he stands the only human witness, — 
 O'ermastered by its wild magnificence ; 
 Albeit the glories of these Alpine realms 
 Have been to him familiar from a boy. — 
 Not long his pause — his pathway still lies upward, — 
 Thro' the dark pines, among which now he moves 
 Still steadily, but with more swinging step. 
 And freer breathing, as the exercise 
 And mountain air brace him for stronger effort. 
 The quick, sharp, zig-zags, 'mid the pine-roots, make 
 No easy track for unaccustomed feet ; 
 But Heinrich heeds them little. Soon his way 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 11 
 
 Draws to the outlet, and at last he treads 
 
 On the broad Alpine pasture, with its wealth 
 
 Of shrub and wild-flower, — with its dancing streams. 
 
 Its bees and butterflies, its shaggy goats. 
 
 Its herds of cattle, with their tinkling bells, 
 
 And thousand varied shapes of life and beauty. 
 
 The watchful marmot, with his whistle shrill. 
 
 Steals thro' the rustling leaves as he draws nigh ; 
 
 The browsing herds, in the broad pastures, lift 
 
 Their heads, and, quiet wonder in their eyes. 
 
 Low him a lazy welcome ; friendlier, 
 
 The bearded goats approach him, and pursue 
 
 The footsteps of the wanderer; while on high 
 
 The keen-eyed vulture, poised on moveless wing, 
 
 Surveys the bold intruder on his heights. 
 
 How beautiful the scene through which he moves ! 
 How rich a carpet lies beneath his feet, 
 Glowing with all the brightest tints of Summer ! 
 The myriad, many-hued anemones ; 
 The blushing petals of the alpenrose ; 
 The modest gentianella's bright blue flowers. 
 Fringing the white robe of the eternal snow, 
 Are spread in wild profusion all around. 
 But the youth rests not ; he has far to go. 
 Ere rosy evening heralds in the dark, 
 And many a peril in his pathway lies. 
 That needs the daylight to encounter it. 
 Before him rises dark the broad moraine, 
 Skirting the mighty glacier he must cross ; 
 Threading his way thro' its ice pinnacles. 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 And yawning chasms, whose sapphire walls seem dyed 
 
 In the deep azure of the sky o'erhead, 
 
 With his stout alpenstock — a sapling larch, 
 
 Of upright growth, well shod with trusty steel. — 
 
 Lightly he springs o'er torrent or crevasse ; 
 
 Making his foot-hold good, on ledge or crag 
 
 On which the chamois' hoof had hardly found 
 
 Safe resting-place, from which to bound again. 
 
 The crisp snow crackles at his airy step, 
 
 And scarce receives the impress of his foot ; 
 
 While, as he drinks, in every deep-drawn breath. 
 
 The pure, clear, current of that upper air, 
 
 Lighter and more elastic grows his tread, 
 
 Manlier his gait, more resolute his glance ; 
 
 The warm blood mantling on his youthful cheek, 
 
 In the keen breeze that o'er the glacier sweeps. 
 
 Higher, still higher, mounts the gallant youth : 
 No toppling pines o'erhang his pathway now ; 
 No tuft of verdure shows amid the rocks ; 
 No smallest leaflet struggles thro' the snow. 
 The tinted carpet of the Alpine slopes. 
 Whose beauties wooed his eye, at early dawn. 
 Lies far beneath him now ; the highest pines 
 Darken the crags a thousand yards below. 
 The storm-swept summits of the giant rocks, 
 The dazzling whiteness of their ermined robe, 
 Are all he sees around him ; each proud peak. 
 Kingly, though crownless, still confronting Heaven, 
 Daring its lightnings, hurling back its storms, 
 Like rebel spirits, chained but unsubdued ! 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 
 
 Such is the scene around him ; grand, but yet 
 
 More grand, and wakening a sense of awe 
 
 In his brave heart, is the wide solitude, 
 
 The utter loneHness, the o'erwhelming silence : 
 
 As if the stillness of ten thousand years 
 
 Had settled, ice-bound, on those heights sublime. 
 
 Across the glacier Heinrich's journey lies. 
 Striking obliquely downwards, towards a ledge 
 Of bold, precipitous rocks, which he must climb. 
 By toilsome effort of both feet and hands. 
 To reach a deep ravine, whose melting snows 
 Feed a wild torrent, that, with raging waters, 
 Chafed into foam by myriad obstacles. 
 Still rushes madly onward, gathering up 
 The tribute of a thousand mountain streams. 
 To make a swollen river, in the plain, 
 Whither he bends his steps. Unfaltering, 
 And strong in youth and manly self-reliance. 
 He makes his downward progress. The hot sun 
 Now lends a slippery smoothness to the ice ; 
 But Heinrich's practised foot may trust itself. 
 With slight assistance from his alpenstock. 
 To hold its pace securely. His descent 
 Is, like his upward journey, cool and careful ; 
 But, as he nears the glacier's further edge, 
 Lying in shadow, where a thicker mass 
 Of snow is resting, he improves his speed 
 By trusting to the swift glissade, and soon, 
 Leaving the ice, begins his arduous climb. 
 Strong hand, and certain foot, and steady nerve 
 
U HEINRICH AND LEONORB: 
 
 It needs to scale the precipice ; but none 
 Fail the stout climber : and its slippery height 
 Is mastered like the rest. And now the youth 
 Pauses a little, for the slight repast 
 That Leonore has daintily prepared, 
 And made him carry in his hunter's net ; 
 Flesh of the chamois, bread and gruy^re cheese, 
 And wine of better vintage than is called for 
 By village bibbers. For his earlier meal , 
 A crust suflBced ; nor did he stay his foot 
 To make it. But to this he sits him down. 
 On the rock summit, looking o'er the gorge 
 Thro' which he is to thread his evening path. 
 
 ' My Leonore,' he fondly thinks aloud, 
 ' How good a little wife you'll make to me. 
 And what a happy time 'twill be for both. 
 When God's priest at the altar makes us one ! 
 Wedded to you my happiness is sure. 
 As are the joys that wait the blest in Heaven : 
 And I am bold enough, I own, to think 
 That I can bring a gladness to your life. 
 My pretty one ! For, if I know myself, 
 There are not many, in our mountain home. 
 Better endowed than I am with the gifts 
 That make a husband whom a wife may trust, 
 And pass a lifetime with, without repining. 
 Whate'er my faults, they are not those that strew 
 Thorns in a woman's pathway. Heaven above 
 Knows I am conscious of no selfishness ; 
 But would, with cheerful heart, take up the burthen 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 15 
 
 That weighed too heavily on weaker shoulders, 
 And bear it, while I could. I am not hasty 
 In temper ; and can laugh away the cares 
 Of life as well as most men. And if God 
 Shall send us, as I trust and pray He will. 
 That dearest solace of a poor man's home — 
 Children — to light it with their happy looks, 
 I think it will be strange if Heinrich's heart 
 Will not have love enough for all of them : 
 Heinrich, who never sees a little face 
 Whose owner cannot play the tyrant to him. 
 But what a silly boaster I must be 1 
 Why all this while I have been sitting here. 
 Telling myself, in pleasant confidence. 
 What rare good qualities I have ! If Leonore 
 Had only heard me bragging, as I have been, 
 She might have come to think it was myself, 
 Not her, I was in love with ! — What a fool ! 
 I'm but a simple fellow, at the best. 
 Across whose pathway Heaven has sent an angel. 
 And I have but to try to make myself 
 As worthy of her as I can. God bless her ! 
 And, Master Heinrich, now 'tis time to start ; 
 For you have some rough work before you yet. 
 Although the worst is over for to-day. 
 And the sun's sinking southward.* 
 
 With the words. 
 He grasps his alpenstock — springs to his feet. 
 And once again resumes his downward way. 
 Rugged it is, and with deep snow-drifts, resting 
 
16 HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 Between the crags, that call for cautious movement ; 
 
 But an hour's patient effort, and his footsteps 
 
 Are once again upori the open Alp ; 
 
 Descending in the main, but yet not seldom, 
 
 At foot of a steep slope, again compelled 
 
 To breast a sharp ascent : yet steadily 
 
 Nearing the smiling plain outstretched below, 
 
 Upon whose every feature Nature stamps 
 
 The unrivalled charm which tells the gazer's eye 
 
 It looks on Italy. The mountains stand 
 
 Sublime, as those that towered above his path, 
 
 When sunrise lighted the awakening world ; 
 
 But with a grandeur softened by the veil 
 
 That the warm summer haze hangs over them ; 
 
 Like haughty natures, whose severer traits 
 
 Are mellowed by the hallowing spell of love ! 
 
 A richer foliage clothes their giant sides ; 
 
 A richer warmth pervades their marble crags ; 
 
 And, as the rose-hues of the evening hour 
 
 Tinge their soft, snowy summits, peak on peak. 
 
 Dazzling with amethyst and gold, reflects 
 
 The glorious splendour of the setting sun ! 
 
 Through the enchanted region Heinrich moves : 
 
 Walnut, and mulberry, and trellised vine. 
 
 The luscious fig, with its dark breadth of leaf. 
 
 The lighter foliage of the acacia. 
 
 The myrtle, and the laurel, shed their charm 
 
 Round the youth's pathway, thro' the fruitful vale ; 
 
 While the white belfries rise among the leaves, 
 
 Waking soft echoes with their tuneful peals, 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 17 
 
 At the sweet vesper hour ; when all the land 
 Hymns its low music to the Queen of Heaven, 
 Amid the incense of an atmosphere 
 Fragrant with balmiest odours. Every sense 
 Bathes in delight ; — and, as the sun goes down, 
 And his last glories fade from snow and sky. 
 The sable dome of the clear southern Heaven, 
 Ablaze with starry jewels of the night. 
 Sheds a new beauty on the enchanting scene ; 
 Till wearied, yet delighted, Heinrich stands. 
 At last, amid the white arcaded streets 
 Of the good town that with the mountaineers 
 Is famous for its stores of merchandize, 
 Velvets, and silks, and costly ornaments. 
 Wrought in pure silver, things to buy but once, 
 In a long lifetime, for one's wedding day ; 
 So much their price is held extravagant : 
 And here we leave the lover to his rest. 
 
 The sun has reached the zenith of his path. 
 Ere Heinrich starts upon his homeward way. 
 With the few simple gifts for his young bride, 
 A present for the worthy village pastor. 
 And some Small purchases he had been asked 
 To make for others — best of all the ring 
 Whose golden circlet shall henceforward make 
 The orbit of his being. Leaving thus, 
 And trusting to the moonlight, he may reach 
 The higher Alpine chalets, and repose 
 A few brief hours, before the early dawn, 
 With paly lustre, lights the snow-capped heights, 
 
 c 
 
18 HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 And calls him to more arduous emprise. 
 With what exultant thrill he turns him homeward, 
 And with how light a tread he moves along, 
 Buoyed with fond hope and blest anticipation ! 
 No need is there to trace his upward path ; 
 Remounting his descent of yesterday. 
 The daylight wanes, and as the sun goes down. 
 In one broad blaze of splendour, to the West, 
 And the white belfries chime the evening hour, 
 Their far faint music, in the vale below, 
 Scarce reaches the young climber high above. 
 Then giant shadows darken the broad Alp ; 
 While, close above the mountain-tops, the stars 
 Reveal their dazzling glories ; till, at length, 
 The highest chalets are attained ; and here. 
 On his rude couch of straw, young Heinrich sleeps, 
 And dreams of Leonore. Ah, happy dreams. 
 Worth all the bright realities of life, 
 To the young dreamer ! Who shall say that Fate 
 Deals hardly with us, when, with magic loom, 
 Night weaves, of airy nothingness, a web 
 Glowing with more than Fancy's vivid touch 
 Can trace, on painter's canvas, poet's page ; 
 Bidding us live, in one brief hour of slumber, 
 Through days of purest and most perfect bliss ! 
 
 So long his rapturous vision, that, at last — 
 Abruptly waking to the consciousness 
 That he has slept — he scarce can trust his sight. 
 Which tells him that the earliest gleam of dawn 
 Is bathing in its pearly light the world. 
 
AN ALPINE STOR Y. i9 
 
 Yet is it time his journey to resume, 
 
 Which, ere the sunset, blissful, he shall close,. 
 
 Kind Heaven propitious, in his lov'd one's arms ! 
 
 Leaving the chalet, upward mounts the youth, 
 And, by the hour the mid-day sun looks, down 
 Upon the gorgeous panorama, moves 
 Far downward, on the steep descent towards home ; 
 Each step, that brings him nearer to his love. 
 Making his pulses beat less steadily. 
 Albeit with no misgiving in his heart. 
 Yet is he conscious that there is a spot 
 Not without peril that he has to pass ; 
 For he had marked it on his upward way ; — 
 Where a long slope of nev6 from the heights. 
 Reaches the margin of a wall of rock. 
 Receding from the glacier ; which a breath 
 Of ruder air might set in fearful motion. 
 Bringing the mighty field of snow beyond. 
 In fatal movement, right across his path. 
 The treacherous spot is reached. Bold as he is, 
 And fearless, 'tis a moment when the bravest 
 Might feel a natural qualm : as heroes do. 
 When two opposing armies stand, at last. 
 Marshalled in arms, upon the deadly iield. 
 That must decide between them ; face to face, 
 And wait the stern beginning of the strife. 
 
 With lightest tread, as though a careless step 
 Might rouse a sleeping lion in his path. 
 And almost breathless, Heinrich ventures on ; 
 His quick eye glancing to the looked-for rock, 
 c 2 
 
HEtNRICH AND LBONORE: 
 
 Piled on whose very verge the dazzling mass 
 
 Lies, in its soft and virgin loveliness, 
 
 Calmly as infant innocence asleep. 
 
 Piled high indeed above the crag ; but none 
 
 Save practised eyes could dream it menaced danger. 
 
 On steals the youth, his clear gaze fixed upon 
 
 The fleecy mass. O God ! — A shudder runs 
 
 Thro' his strong frame ; a gasping chokes his breath ! 
 
 Softly, without a sound, and beautiful, 
 
 In its bright purity, one gliding wave 
 
 Of snow descends the precipice's face, 
 
 And, e'er the startled youth recovers breath. 
 
 The soft tide, sweeping swiftly down the slope, 
 
 Is close on him. One helpless look to Heaven — 
 
 ' O God, protect her, till we meet on high 1 ' 
 
 And the broad glacier shows his form no more. 
 
 In wild, terrific, eddying whirl, the snow 
 
 Fills the wide gorge ; and in its deadly wake 
 
 The roaring tempest rushes ! Giant pines 
 
 Are flung like feathers on the raging gale. 
 
 Huge fragments from the mountain's rocky sides 
 
 Are rent, and hurled into the upper air. 
 
 To strike the earth, and make their next rebound 
 
 A thousand feet below ! The broad ravine 
 
 Seems one wild chaos of the elements. 
 
 Loosed by the mighty death-throes of the world ! 
 
 A hundred echoes, wakened by the storm. 
 
 With thunder voices, join the dreadful rout. 
 
 And send its tidings thro' the silent realms. 
 
 Of icy solitude ! Yet, 'mid the crash, 
 
AN ALPINE STOR Y. Bl 
 
 And mad confusion of the fearful scene, 
 
 The dazzling brightness of the noon-day sun, 
 
 From the blue depths of the o'erarching Heaven, 
 
 Lights up the havoc, with serenest radiance, 
 
 In beauteous contrast to its awfulness. 
 
 But — the wild whirlwind has already past ; 
 
 The far-off echoes of its thunders die 
 
 In distant murmurings — all is hushed once more : 
 
 Was it a dream ? a phantasy ? — The air, 
 
 A moment since one tempest voice, is still 
 
 As death and desolation ! Not a breath 
 
 Stirs the light leaf of the least summer flower 
 
 That, high upon the mountain side, escaped 
 
 The elemental strife ! Unruflaed silence 
 
 Once more descends upon the storm-swept scene ! 
 
 Alas ! for Leonore ; the bride who waits 
 A bridegroom who shall never see her more ! 
 Had she no presage of the fearful doom 
 Of the young lover, whom but three brief hours 
 Of life had given her circling arms to clasp ? 
 Ah, yes ! the blast sent rushing in the van 
 Of the fierce lauwine, whirling mighty trees 
 A mile before it, snapped like feeble twigs, 
 Down through the gorge's narrow outlet, told 
 Too truly, to the vale below, the wreck 
 That ruin wrought above. And many a heart 
 Beat anxiously at thought of him, whose way, 
 'Twas known, lay that day thro' the fatal pass. 
 What then is her wild terror } as she feels 
 That he, who was her very breath of life. 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE : 
 
 Might- But, great Providence ! — it could not be, 
 
 A fate so dread, and Paradise so near ! 
 
 Oh ! What avails it to count days and hours. 
 Minutes and seconds ; when the hour, to one 
 An age, fleets like a minute for another ? 
 For Time, who halts at every step with Grief, 
 Bears Happiness along on lightning wing ; 
 Marking the moments with a sand so fine. 
 That, as it passes thro' his magic glass, 
 No eye can note its running 1 That bright eve, 
 With its soft summer loveliness, appears 
 To Leonore, stretched on the rack of pain, 
 An endless torture. Kindly women come 
 To bear the maiden company ; but Woe 
 Has no companionship ; she sits alone. 
 Upon her throne of suffering. A brave group 
 Of stalwart mountaineers, meanwhile, ascend 
 The pass, to learn what havoc has been made 
 By the dread avalanche ; with faint hope to find 
 That Heinrich had escaped the awful fate 
 That fear, too truly, boded for the youth. 
 Bravely they climb the path, and reach, at length, 
 The scene of desolation, but too late 
 To dare a passage thro' the fearful chaos, 
 'Till morning lighted it ; and seeking out 
 Such shelter as they might, await the dawn. 
 For further progress. Oh ! that summer night. 
 So brief and calm, what words could tell its length, 
 To her who waits their coming back, to learn 
 Her lover's dOom, — should they find clue to it. 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. n 
 
 An hour ere sunrise sees them once again 
 On their bold journey ; and, with gravest risk, 
 They cross, at length, the desolated track 
 Made by the avalanche, and plainly mark 
 The print of footsteps, on its further side. 
 Telling that one had made his safe descent, 
 Down to the verge of its chaotic path ; 
 Beyond which none can trace the footprints more. 
 Too little need is there for further search ; 
 Too clear that all of Heinrich now on earth 
 Lies buried 'neath the mighty mass of ruin. 
 That traverses the pass ! The grieving band 
 Retrace their steps ; and Leonore learns all 1 
 
 Why dwell upon what follows ? Who can tell 
 The desolation of a loving heart, 
 In one brief moment robbed of all it loves, 
 When hope looked brightest, happiness most sure ? 
 If pen or tongue could tell it, wherefore wring 
 The hearts of others with the harrowing tale ? 
 O'er some dark days of suffering let the veil 
 Of silence fall. Enough the brave young heart. 
 Bleeding and crushed, finds strength to meet once more 
 The duties of existence. Leonore 
 Sits once again within the village church, 
 Filled with deep piety and steadfast faith ; 
 Where one, who knew her from her cradle, now 
 Ascends the pulpit : one whose well-loved voice 
 Has poured into her wounds the first pure balm 
 That checked their bleeding ; and essays to speak : 
 Taking for text the sentence — ' In the midst 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE : 
 
 Of life we are in death !' and thus proceeds : — 
 
 ' Dear friends and brethren, so we know too well ! 
 Daily and hourly, unto all of us 
 This solemn truth is made full manifest. 
 Yet is it rendered more impressive, when 
 Some great catastrophe, that mars our lives, 
 Snatching away what seemed to give to them 
 All they possessed of worth and loveliness. 
 Proves by how slight a tenure we enjoy 
 Existence here. But " God will give the back 
 Strength to support the burthen", we are told : — 
 Yet not so always, and the weight, at times, 
 Is more than weak humanity can bear. 
 For He who ruleth us abides no law. 
 But is unto Himself a law, and doeth 
 What, in His own high Providence He wills ; 
 For some great purpose that we cannot scan. 
 And dare not question. He has taught us, too, 
 That suffering purifies ; and if we seek 
 That bliss He has prepared beyond this life. 
 We have to bear our trials patiently. 
 How great soe'er they seem. If we but knew 
 The truth, they may not be so. Those high Alps 
 That tower above us, measured by our eye. 
 Are giant masses ; yet they hardly make 
 Much more than atoms in the realms of space ; 
 And so the suffering seeming vast to us. 
 Knew we but how to measure it, may be 
 Of utter insignificance. Our duty 
 Is to accept whate'er our Father sends 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. ?5 
 
 As best, whether we find it sweet or bitter. 
 
 The bitter kernel oft has sweetest fruit, 
 
 And we may gather, in some future day, 
 
 That which will pay us back, with interest, 
 
 Our present griefs. — But, coming, once again, 
 
 To this deep-meaning sentence : " In the midst 
 
 Of life we are in death ! " — What is this death. 
 
 That we should dread its coming, and yet feel 
 
 That come it must to all of us, some day } 
 
 Is it, in truth, some dread calamity. 
 
 That we would shun ourselves, had we the power. 
 
 Or that we would avert from those we love 1 
 
 Taking this world we live in as it is. 
 
 Would we desire, for them, or for ourselves. 
 
 To live as live the happiest on this earth, 
 
 For ever, subject to the common cares. 
 
 And troubles, incident to human life .'' 
 
 Granted that, in the early flush of youth. 
 
 Or the full vigour of maturity. 
 
 Such cares and troubles sit but lightly on us ; 
 
 Which of us, marking man's advancing years, 
 
 Would live for ever, with the wasted frame. 
 
 The tottering gait, the wearied helplessness. 
 
 That some day must attend upon old age .'' 
 
 No one amongst us would. We would remain. 
 
 Not subject to the ills of human life ; 
 
 But in enjoyment of perpetual youth, 
 
 And all that earth can yield it to enjoy ! 
 
 But God has formed for us a brighter world. 
 
 Where youth shall be perpetual, and where joy 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 Shall never lose its freshness — never pall — 
 
 Joy beyond all our mortal sense can dream of — 
 
 And made the guardian of its portal Death ; 
 
 At whose cold feet we lay our burthen down, 
 
 To take it up no more. Death lifts for us 
 
 The veil that shuts Hereafter from our view ; 
 
 While we each pass into that unknown life. 
 
 That lies beyond, as we have entered this. 
 
 Alone, but guided by the hand of God, 
 
 To whatsoever end we may attain ; 
 
 Rather, indeed, to no end whatsoever. 
 
 But that eternal movement which alone 
 
 Can be Eternity, and hath no end. 
 
 But dwell we not on this, for such things pass 
 
 Our finite comprehension ; nor can we 
 
 Embrace that which embraces us — Infinity. 
 
 Let us bow down, in trust and reverence. 
 
 To the great Power that rules the Universe, 
 
 Nor seek to fathom the unfathomable ; 
 
 Content that there is that in each of us 
 
 That shall endure for ever, and outlast 
 
 The shock of systems and the crash of worlds ; 
 
 Too subtle and too vast to be confined 
 
 Within the limits of a life like this. 
 
 And needing an Eternity, to give 
 
 Scope for its boundless capabilities. 
 
 To work their own sublime development. 
 
 We each have the high consciousness of this : 
 
 Man, — while he feels that, in his daily life, 
 
 A thousand forces greater than his own. 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 
 
 Storm, torrent, lightning, earthquake, avalanche, 
 
 Might crush to atoms his mere earthly frame, 
 
 Or shrivel it to cinder, — has a soul 
 
 To meet them all undaunted ; never doubting 
 
 Its sovereign indestructibility, 
 
 That can defy all forces, and all powers ! 
 
 What then is there for us to fear from Death ? 
 
 He Cometh as a friend, and not a foe. 
 
 And ever finds anticipative welcome ; 
 
 Strange as it seems to say. For every birth 
 
 Is hailed with fervent joy ; and every birth 
 
 Is but a death deferred, for some brief space. 
 
 It may be years, or months, or days, or hours, 
 
 Minutes or seconds ; still a death deferred. 
 
 For, whosoe'er is born will die at last, 
 
 And, when we welcome the new-born to life. 
 
 We welcome him to death. And in one web 
 
 Fate weaves the baby-smock and winding-sheet ! 
 
 Now, if we all must meet this common doom, 
 
 How little does it matter when or how. 
 
 So that no shame attends our close of life .'' 
 
 Nothing to us, indeed. But other hearts 
 
 Than those that cease to beat are stricken oft. 
 
 By the same shaft that stilled them ; and for these 
 
 Where shall the balm of healing be procured } 
 
 In trustful resignation to His will 
 
 Who has ordained their sorrow for the best, 
 
 As He has surely done ; and, after this. 
 
 In the high task of soothing other's sorrow, , 
 
 As self-appointed ministers to Him 
 
HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 Who heals all sorrows, in His own good time. 
 
 Each drop of balm they pour in other hearts 
 
 Will bring a ten-fold blessing to their own. 
 
 And, though there may be hours when natural grief 
 
 Will have its human mastery, and wring 
 
 The mourner's heart, life, spent in kindly duties, 
 
 Will win a hallowing solace at its close, 
 
 That will repay the good it has bestowed, 
 
 In its calm passage to a brighter world. 
 
 So be it, God, and grant the sorrowing Peace ! 
 
 Simple the thoughts, in simplest words expressed ; 
 Yet did they sink into one bleeding heart, 
 With healing balm ; for from the heart they came. 
 In tones that thrilled with human sympathy. 
 Mingling its weakness with strong faith in God ; 
 And had no ring of pulpit common-place. 
 The flock that gathered round the village pastor 
 Found in him benefactor, friend, and father ; 
 Not one who stood apart, at stated times. 
 In stilted phrase, to use his influence 
 With Heaven on their behalf. But one who shared 
 Their labours, sorrows, joys, and simple sports. 
 A hardy mountaineer, his foot could scale 
 A precipice with most ; and his good aim 
 Bring down the wild-goat from his lofty crag ; 
 And Heinrich's younger arm had stayed him oft, 
 In perilous straits ; while unto Leonore 
 His fond paternal care had proved itself. 
 From her first infancy, and she had looked. 
 Through life, upon him as a parent ; so 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. , W 
 
 His words sank deep into her spirit. Forth 
 
 She goes — into a lonely world indeed, 
 
 But goes, with strengthened soul, as one who feels 
 
 That human life can never be all blank. 
 
 For those who do not fail in human duties. 
 
 Long years there are before her : years wherein 
 Her deeds, if something in the sight of Heaven, 
 Leave little to be told on page like this. 
 The stories of such lives as Leonore's 
 Are only written upon human hearts. 
 In that small Alpine hamlet, where her lot 
 Is cast, did such soft tablets but reveal 
 What they bear record of, we might, perchance. 
 Know why so many love her, young and old, 
 Now that the autumn of her quiet life 
 Is changing into winter. But enough 
 To say that one lov'd memory is still 
 Green in her soul, and that her heart is true. 
 As in her first bright womanhood, to him 
 Who sleeps beneath his ponderous toftib of ice, 
 With the eternal hills for monument. 
 
 No day has passed, thro' all those lonely years. 
 Without fond thought of him ; no morning broken 
 The slumbers of a night that has not brought 
 Her Heinrich's image back to her in dreams : 
 Now standing as he waved his last farewell ; 
 Now sleeping calmly on his couch of snow ; 
 But ever with the same young form and face. 
 And ever with the same bright, beaming smile. 
 
 Year follows year, till, on one beauteous day 
 
30 IIEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 Of summer, some bold tourists in the Alps 
 
 Approach the hamlet, by that very pass. 
 
 In which young Heinrich perished. Time has wrought 
 
 Changes, since then, in glacier and in rock, 
 
 As in more changeful things. Gigantic boulders, 
 
 Resting upon the glacier's face, have moved 
 
 Far further down the icy slope ; but few 
 
 Such things have noted, for, from year to year, 
 
 The movement is too slight to cause remark ; 
 
 But, as the strangers make their downward way. 
 
 With a brave dog of the St. Bernard breed. 
 
 They rilark him, by a sudden impulse, stop, 
 
 And sniff the breeze,— then rush some paces off, 
 
 And with his fore-paws scrape amid the snow ; 
 
 And following, see the creature bring to light 
 
 What looks like human raiment. Still he scrapes, 
 
 And, coming near, they find it is, in truth. 
 
 The body of a man. Chancing to have 
 
 Some stout ice-hatchets with them ; with their guides 
 
 They dig it shortly from its frozen bed. 
 
 Uninjured, and as if it lay in sleep, 
 
 So calm the features. But the sleep is death ! 
 
 Tho' as they gaze upon the fresh young face, 
 
 'Tis hard to deem it such. Beside the form 
 
 There lies an alpenstock. The left hand clasps 
 
 A wedding ring ; and in the knapsack, strapped 
 
 Upon the back, they find some little trinkets, 
 
 A card, with date of many years before. 
 
 And some few articles of trifling worth ; 
 
 But neither name, nor clue, of other kind, 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. 31 
 
 To tell who lies in icy coldness there. 
 
 None know the features — though the guides belong 
 To the adjoining village. But, at last, 
 One of them says, as from a reverie, 
 ' It surely cannot be the youth that lost 
 His life, so many years since, in the pass — 
 Heinrich, the lover of poor Leonore.' 
 
 None deem this possible. Dead many years I 
 That fair young form ; it surely cannot be. 
 But whosoe'er it is, their present task 
 Is to remove, with care, the poor remains 
 Down to the village, there to find their rest 
 In the calm burial-place, where lie its dead, 
 And where no stranger's presence will disturb 
 The sleep of those who lie there. On a bier, 
 Of rude pine branches, soon the form is placed. 
 And the stout bearers lift it from the earth, 
 And pass upon their funeral journey down. 
 
 Evening approaches as they reach the village, 
 But, at their entrance, they encounter one 
 Who recognises soon their lifeless burthen, — 
 The village pastor, — though he scarce can trust 
 The fact his eyes bear witness to, that there 
 Lies he, the long-lost Heinrich. Yet no doubt 
 Can rest of it ; for, could he be deceived, 
 In features so familiar, the sure proofs 
 Are in the tokens found with the remains. 
 At the good pastor's instance, then, they bear 
 Their burthen to the church ; and lay the bier 
 There, in the little aisle, until the rnorrow ; 
 
3g HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 While he shall break to Leonora the news, 
 And give her strength, if kindly counsel may. 
 To look on him she never dreamed to see, 
 Save in her dreams, upon the earth again ! 
 
 Another day has dawned upon the world. 
 And Heinrich lies upon his lowly bier. 
 Within the little, quiet, village church ; 
 Before that altar where he was to take. 
 On this day forty years ago, his bride. 
 And now he waits her coming. Forty years ! 
 Where are their traces ? He who sleepeth there 
 On this day forty years to have been bridegroom 1 
 The three-and-twentieth summer has not set 
 Its soft seal on his brow. The chestnut curls. 
 That twine above it wear the sunny gloss 
 Of earliest manhood. Has he slept entranced. 
 Like the fair Princess of the fairy-tale. 
 Who kept her beauty and her youth unspoiled, 
 Through the long slumber of a century. 
 And woke to the first thrilling kiss of love } 
 Yes ! slept entranced he has, in truth, for Death, 
 That sealed his icy slumbers, has not robbed 
 His form or face of one least mark of youth, 
 Or suffered time to harm him. Beautiful, 
 In tjie strong beauty of young manhood, there 
 He sleeps, as on the mountain, side he stood. 
 To wave his last adieu to Leonore ! 
 How all is changed but he. Grave matrons come. 
 Bringing their little ones to gaze on him 
 Who made them toys when little ones themselves. 
 
AN A LPINE STOR Y. S3 
 
 But scarce recall him to their memory 
 After so many years. Strong stalwart men. 
 Who heard the story at their mother's knee, 
 How Leonore's young lover had been lost, 
 On that dread morning of the avalanche. 
 Now gaze upon his features. Poor old Caspar, 
 From whom he bore the wrestler's prize away, 
 His grandson holding up, with manly strength, 
 His tottering frame, looks sadly on the youth. 
 The big tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks. 
 None seem to think that he they gaze upon, 
 So little changed, has known the greatest change 
 Of all, the wondrous change from life to death ; 
 So much the outward aspect, in our thoughts, 
 Makes up the strange and complex being — man. 
 
 But one there is, from whose fond memory 
 No lineament of that dear face has past, 
 Or, for a moment, lost its perfect clearness ; 
 And she is coming. At the little portal 
 She enters now, her trembling form sustained, 
 By the good village pastor. On his arm 
 Leans Leonore, the bride that should have wed. 
 Four decades since, with him who now lies there 
 Awaiting her. Her tottering limbs scarce lend 
 Force, even with aid of that strong friendly arm. 
 To bear her fragile frame along the aisle, 
 To where the lover of her youth lies dead. 
 If change has come to others, in the; years 
 That lapsed since last she saw him, what has been 
 The change in her .'' Where are the lithe young form, 
 D 
 
Si HEINRICH AND LEONORE: 
 
 The bounding step, the full, fresh cheek and lip, 
 Of forty years ago ? — Where, sadder thought, . 
 The fresh young heart, the joyous soul that shone 
 Thro' the clear azure of her cloudless eyes ? 
 The sunny locks, that flung their radiant wealth, 
 In youthful sport to every summer breeze. 
 Would make strange contrast with the thin grey hairs, 
 That fringe that time-worn brow. The pallid face 
 Tells of long suffering even more than age ; 
 Suffering with gentlest resignation borne, 
 Truly, but clouding even her sunniest hours 
 With tearful memories of a happier time. 
 At her approach, the group around the bier — 
 Touched by the deep, instinctive reverence, 
 Due to such sacred sorrow — quietly, 
 With sympathetic looks, 'neath downcast lids, 
 ' At the lone mourner ; — save where childhood's gaze, 
 From fearless, upturned eyes looks full upon her,— 
 Draw back, and leave the space around it clear. 
 How the poor heart beats, in that stifling breast, 
 As it would burst its prison : till, at last, 
 With one great effort, she withdraws her arm 
 From his who so far had supported her, — 
 Then stops a moment's space, and calling up 
 All that she has of strength and fortitude, 
 Makes two steps forward. Oh I that one quick glance 
 Leaves nothing more to learn. 'Tis he — her own I 
 Dead, but unchanged ; — as last she looked on him I 
 That one brief glance has blotted forty years 
 Of sorrows out of life for her. Her form 
 
AN ALPINE STORY. S5 
 
 Loses the look of age ;— her pallid cheek 
 
 Glows with a youthful flush ; — ^the long-dimmed eyes 
 
 Grow luminous with ecstasy ; — she looks 
 
 Like one transfigured ; while the impassioned words 
 
 ' Heinrich I 'Tis he ! O God I This is no dream I ' 
 
 Gush from her heart, as, tottering to embrace 
 
 Him who had never left her thought, she sinks 
 
 Unconscious at his feet. 
 
 The kindly priest 
 And gentle women haste to lift a form 
 From which the spirit has for ever fled ; 
 And Leonora and Heinrich wed in death 1 
 
CORREGGIO 
 
 33ramattc Sftetclj* 
 
CORREGGIO ! 
 
 ^ BraiBatic ibetcb, 
 
 Scene — An apartment in the Palace o/Count Fredolini. 
 
 Enter Giacomo, Steward to the Count. 
 
 Giacomo, Vour Excellency, young Antonio, 
 The painter, waits without. He brings the picture 
 You honoured him by ordering. 
 
 Count, Bid him enter. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Ha ! 80 you come already } 'Tis quick work. 
 Let's see what sort of job you've made of it. 
 
 (Antonio sets it in light and uncovers.') 
 Well, on my life, 'tis fairly executed. 
 For one so young. In truth, displaying promise. 
 But with its faults, my friend. That arm 
 Is not foreshortened properly. There's something 
 About this drapery that I like not also : 
 A stiffness in the folds — a rigidness 
 That is not graceful. But 'tis hardly fair 
 To criticise a youthful work too closely. 
 
Ifi CORREGGIO : 
 
 We must remember that the multitude, 
 Who lack our training, judge more leniently. 
 What think you of the picture, Giacomo ? 
 
 \Turning to the old Steward. 
 Your Excellency, 'tis miraculous ! 
 I cannot think those cherubs painted, sir ; 
 They seem to float before me thro' the air 
 Like living creatures ; — they are wonderful ! 
 
 Count {turning to Correggio). 
 Ha ! hear'st thou, friend ? This is the sort of critic 
 Best suited to pronounce upon thy art. 
 'Tis pleasant to find people who can speak 
 With such enthusiasm about one's work. 
 Good Giacomo, in his simplicity, 
 Is full of childish wonder at your picture. 
 And, in his lack of culture, fails to see 
 'Tis but a piece of canvas, daubed with pigments — 
 As we, "whose eyes are educated, do. 
 But 'tis a fairish piece of handicraft. 
 And does you credit, painter. Truly, 
 I am not sorry to have patronized you. 
 You have the trick of laying colour on, 
 And with long practice may achieve a name : 
 Nay, better, 'faith, make money, too. It pays. 
 This painting ; — ^tho' you cannot often 
 Expect such prices as I give for this. 
 Per Bacco ! 'tis no trifle — thirty crowns ! 
 'Twould be a good round sum for solid work ; 
 And you have earned it by a few days' idling 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. U 
 
 Over your easel. This is the result 
 
 Of having rich men in the world, who choose 
 
 To give encouragement to clever paupers. 
 
 Nay, don't grow red, my friend. I did not mean 
 
 To hurt your feelings. Some men must be poor. 
 
 Some rich : so Heaven ordains ; and I protest 
 
 I see no crime, no shame, in poverty. 
 
 But, then, poor folk should not be over-quick 
 
 To take offence, because one calls them poor. 
 
 Beware of pride, friend ; 'tis a sorry help 
 
 To one who has to earn his bread by others. 
 
 I give this counsel to thee honestly ; 
 
 For I will frankly say you interest me. 
 
 Correggio. My lord, I thank you. 
 
 Count. Nay, I do believe 
 
 That you are clever and deserving, and 
 I shall be glad to give you commendation 
 Amongst my friends. So now, farewell ! You, Giacomo, 
 Will see this youth is paid his thirty crowns. 
 'Tis right he gets his money. Friend, good-day, 
 And mind what I have hinted about pride. 
 
 Correggio. Good-day, Signor. I have no doubt your 
 counsel 
 Is kindly meant. \_Exit. 
 
 Pride ! If 'tis pride to wince — 
 To wince, — may writhe under the stinging words 
 Of rich vulgarity, which sting the more 
 Because their brutal coarseness is unfelt 
 By the coarse nature of the utterer. 
 
CORREGGIO : 
 
 God help me! I shall often need, I fear, 
 
 To call to mind his counsel. Oh! to think 
 
 That one must sell to men like this, for money, 
 
 The bright creations that have sprung to life 
 
 Before him on the canvas — shapes of beauty 
 
 That owe to him their birth, and yet whose being 
 
 Is to himself a mystery — when he sees them 
 
 Take form and vivify beneath his pencil, 
 
 Until, while gazing on their loveliness, 
 
 He almost dreads that, like the visions seen 
 
 In happy dreams, they will take flight and vanish. 
 
 'Tis a hard fate ! But I must bow to it, 
 
 A better time may come, perhaps, and I, 
 
 Like others, may acliieve a name, and find 
 
 Nobler employment than this weary work 
 
 Of seeking patronage from soulless men, 
 
 For whom the highest flight of human art 
 
 Is the stamped image on the current coin, 
 
 Albeit the rudest product of the mint. 
 
 But I must homeward. What this Count doles out 
 
 At least will glad my wife and little ones. 
 
 Come, worthy Giacomo, 'tis time I go. 
 
 And let me tell thee that I value much 
 
 The praise thou hast bestowed upon my picture. 
 
 Giacomo. I thank thee, Signor. I'm a simple man, 
 And have no knowledge of such things ; but, truly, 
 Those painted cherubs are like living beings. 
 And I could look on them for hours and hours, 
 In wonderment. [_£xeun/. 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. ItS 
 
 Ten Years Later. 
 
 Correggio {solus). And thus it is 
 
 The worthy patrons of our church encourage 
 The man who gives whate'er he has of cunning 
 To lend a beauty to the sanctuary ! 
 'Tis something, if one's paid in niggard fashion, 
 To get what he has bargained for; but they. 
 Craving reductions, on the poor pretence 
 That working for the adornment of the altar 
 Is working in Heaven's service, hold it fair 
 To keep back half one's earnings. They should pay me 
 An hundred scudi for my work, and now 
 They put me off with fifty. I must take it. 
 For I am poor, and they are powerful. 
 But 'tis not justice. I would gladly give 
 All that my highest skill could execute. 
 To add a splendour to the house of God. 
 But I must earn my bread from day to day. 
 And win the means by which my dear ones live. 
 'Tis a hard struggle. Once, indeed, I dreamed 
 A time might come when, by this art of mine, 
 I might gain something like a competence. 
 And, dragged no longer down by daily needs, 
 Find time to toil for glory — time to paint 
 Something that, in the days to come, the world 
 Might set among the master-works of art. 
 But that can never be ; and yet, methinks 
 My hand has left some traces of a skill 
 Not all unworthy of an artist's pencil. 
 
lih CORREGGIO : 
 
 Some hues that caught their radiance from above, 
 
 And were not wholly of the earth. 'Tis something 
 
 To feel even this. But, oh ! the pang of knowing 
 
 That one is capable of nobler effort. 
 
 If poverty would loose her iron grasp, 
 
 And leave him free to make it ! But, repining 
 
 Is sorry work. These lofty dignitaries 
 
 Have paid me well — in bulk and weight, at least, 
 
 If not in value. Fifty crowns, in qopper, 
 
 Might ask a stronger back than mine to carry ; 
 
 Albeit their Bursar made a jest of it : 
 
 ' You must be right well paid, friend, when you find 
 
 That you lack strength to take away your money. 
 
 Few men' have that complaint to make.' 
 
 [Lifts the sack with some effort. 
 Eight miles — 
 Eight weary miles — on such, a scorching day. 
 With this upon my shoulders, are no trifle. 
 And yet I am still young. But, somehow,, lately 
 I lack the strength of manhood, and the sense 
 Of vigour that should surely still be mine. 
 Not so much want of muscle as a sinking, 
 A sort of inner weariness, that seems 
 To rob me of my vital energies. No matter ; 
 The day is long, and I can take my leisure. 
 
 {After a short distance stops, fatigued. 
 I must set down my burthen : 'tis too weighty 
 To bear it farther without rest. And yet 
 I have not nigh completed half my journey. 
 I'm faint and weary. It should not be so. 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. Ji5 
 
 At eight-and-thirty one should still be hale 
 And vigorous. Yet now my heart is throbbing, 
 As it would burst my ribs ; my breathing 
 Oppresses me, and every pore gives out 
 Its trickling stream. I wish I were near home, 
 Or had some aid to bring this sack for me. 
 But, doubtless, when I've had a little rest 
 I shall find strength to carry it myself. 
 
 [Sils down and rests a little. 
 I should be better now — [Takes up the sack. 
 
 'Tis very weighty. 
 Ah ! me. I really begin to feel 
 One may have too much money. \_S miles faintly. 
 
 What is this .' 
 I totter ! — I grow dizzy ! — [Falls in a swoon. 
 
 Scene — Correggio's Cottage. His Wife and two Boys 
 at the door. 
 
 Wife. What can have kept Antonio so long .? 
 Could any hurt or harm have come to him 7 
 O God ! preserve him safe, my dear good husband. 
 Always so kind and loving. Virgin Mother, 
 Keep watch above him with your blessed eyes ! 
 He should have been with us three hours ago 
 To share our meal. 'Tis but an eight miles' walk ; 
 And he is young. But, then, the day is sultry, 
 And he has not the strength that should be his. 
 Poor fellow, latterly. I cannot think 
 Why it should be so. He makes no complaint, 
 
id CORREGGIO : 
 
 And even jests when my own spirits sink 
 
 To see his noble toils so ill-requited. 
 
 I must look after him. This weary waiting 
 
 Is more than I can bear. Tomaso, dear, 
 
 I am uneasy at your father's stay. 
 
 Let's go to meet him ; he may want our help. 
 
 I fear this sultry day may have o'ercome him. 
 
 Come, Cherubino dearest. 
 
 Tomaso. Mother ! yes ; 
 
 By all means let us go. He may require us 
 To bring his money for him. I suppose 
 'Tis very heavy — such a Ipt of silver 
 As the good canons must have paid to him 
 For his grand picture ? 
 
 Cherubino. Oh ! 'tis gold, I'm certain — 
 
 Bright yellow gold I — that shines so beautiful 1 — 
 And that is heavier still. Is it not, mother ? 
 We each can bring some, and leave him no weight 
 To carry. Can we not ? 
 
 Giulia. Yes, darling, yes ; 
 
 We all can help him. Tho' I greatly fear 
 His weight of gold or silver will not prove 
 Too much for one of us. He is not strong, 
 Your dear, good father ; and 1 should have gone 
 Into the city with him. Come, boys, now ; 
 We must not tarry longer. May Heaven grant 
 Our coming may be timely 1 \ExeuHt. 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. P 
 
 Correggio.- — {Awakening from his swoon,) 
 
 Have I slept ? 
 Or have I been amongst the blest in Heaven f 
 Surely the Queen of its celestial host 
 Stood radiant, with her bright, ineffable smile, 
 Yet full of tenderest pity, over me ; 
 While all the opal atmosphere was filled 
 With cherub faces, glowing in the light, 
 Into whose rays they seemed themselves dissolving. 
 Oh ! could I seize, and fix upon the canvas 
 That all-transcendent vision, men would bend 
 As worshippers before it, and my fame 
 Would stand unshaken to all after-time. 
 But I am very chill. The day is waning. 
 I fear I have slept long. 
 
 Did I hear voices ? 
 Surely my name was called. Oh ! how I wish 
 That someone came ; for I have no force left 
 To take me further, even without this. 
 The price of my last picture. Ah I I feel 
 It is my last one, truly. It has won me— 
 Not as I dreamt of — immortality. 
 But that is Giulia's voice. Oh 1 God be thanked 
 That she has found me. 
 
 \^Raises himself and cries faintly s 
 Giulia, I am here. 
 
 \^His wife and boys tome up, 
 
 Giulia. Great Heaven I-^my own Antonio I What ia 
 this ? 
 
liS CORREGGIO : 
 
 Correggio. My own sweet love ! 'Twas the Ma- 
 donna's mercy 
 That sent you here. I've fainted on my way 
 To our dear home, and had not strength to move 
 A footstep further. 
 
 Giulia. Oh ! my cherished husband, 
 What has so overcome you .? Tell me, dearest. 
 That you are only weary, and not stricken 
 With sickness ? But how pale you look ; 
 And here is blood upon your mouth and vesture. 
 You surely have not Oh ! Antonio, speak ! 
 
 Correggio. Blood, did you say ? I knew not of it, 
 
 dearest. 
 They gave me too much money \smiling faintly\ — more, 
 
 in truth, 
 Than I could carry — seeing 'tis in copper — 
 And on my way I fainted. This is all 
 I know — except that I am very feeble. 
 And very weary. Come, boys, lift me up, 
 And let us go. Be careful of our money. 
 'Tis fifty crowns, and has been dearly earned. 
 Giulia, your arm ! My love, my own true wife ! 
 How cold it is \ I wish we were at home ! 
 
 \They raise him. 
 There, darling ! — Boys ! — My limbs feel powerless ! 
 One moment ! — Giulia ! — kiss me 1 Ah ! how faint 
 I feel ! 
 
 Giulia. My darling, we must set you down ; 
 You are too weak to move. Tomaso, run 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. i9 
 
 And get sqme help. 'Tis but a little way 
 To the next hamlet. Some kind people there 
 Will lend us means to take your father home. 
 My poor Antonio ! Oh ! sweet Mother, guard him ! 
 Let me just wrap this scarf about you, darling ; 
 'Tis very slight, but may protect you somewhat 
 From the cool evening air. 
 
 Correggio. My Giulia ! 
 
 Ah 1 what a wealth of love I've found in you 
 Thro' all our happy years ! How happy, dearest. 
 Despite of all their poverty and pain ! — 
 As years of boundless trust and tenderness 
 Must ever be. They're drawing to their close, 
 Sooner than we had dreamed of — very soon — 
 My own, own darling 1 Ah ! how poor a thing 
 Is fame contrasted with a love like ours ! — 
 The only thing, among God's gifts to man. 
 Worthy of immortality. Hereafter 
 It surely shall endure, and we shall meet 
 In that bright Heaven, of whose celestial host 
 God has vouchsafed me glimpses ; for I feel 
 That I have looked into its depths sublime. 
 And caiight their dazzling glories, as I gazed, 
 Until their beauty overwhelmed my soul. 
 And faded into dreams : faint reflexes 
 Of what I know I saw — and may, perchance. 
 Have left a fainter reflex still behind. 
 Upon the canvas. Ay, even when my pencil 
 Was truest to my soul. But wherefore speak 
 
50 CORREGGIO : A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Of such things now ? All this is over, Giulia. 
 Is it not very cold, love ? What delays 
 The boys ? My eyes grow weary ; let me rest 
 A moment on your breast. 
 
 Giulia. They come, my darling ; 
 
 I see them. Hasten, Cherubino ! 
 
 Correggio. Giulia ! 
 
 My love ! — The boys ! — Oh ! darling wife ! [Dies. 
 
 Giulia. O God !— 
 
 My husband — children! — How the place swims round! 
 
 \_Falls in a swoon. 
 
SEVASTOPOL IS WON, 
 
 A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE. 
 
 'Hags of tlje amar'. 
 
SEBASTOPOL IS WON. 
 
 '' I "'IS won ! — three cheers of triumph — hurrah, 
 
 ■^ hurrah, hurrah ! 
 And yet another cheer, boys — we may exult to-day ! 
 The stronghold of the despot, with all its frowning 
 
 tgwers, — 
 From which a thousand guns belched forth their 
 
 deadly fire,^is ours; 
 How many gallant hearts, this hour, are throbbing 
 
 high, with pride, 
 Behind those broken ramparts, that shot and shell 
 
 defied : 
 How many eyes turn Westward, o'er Euxine's chafing 
 
 foam. 
 And glisten tearful at the thought — ' How proud they'll 
 
 be at home 1 ' 
 Ay ! proud we are — proclaim it, with trumpet, drum, 
 
 and gun, 
 And all our island's pealing spires — Sebastopol is won ! 
 
5lt SEBASTOPOL IS WON. 
 
 II. 
 
 What of the despot's braggart vaunt, to drive into the 
 
 sea 
 The men who planted on his soil the standard of the 
 
 free ? 
 And those proud eagles, vainly doomed, by Russia's 
 
 baffled ire ? 
 'Mid Moscow's blazing palaces, to find their funeral 
 
 pyre ? 
 He sleeps beneath his cofBn-lid — his soldier-serfs have 
 
 fed 
 The dog, the raven, and the kite — or, craven-like, have 
 
 fled. 
 The rainbow-flag of gallant France — the brave old 
 
 Jack, that waves. 
 Fanned by the winds of half the world, and nowhere 
 
 over slaves — 
 Savoy's White Cross and crimson shield — the Crescent 
 
 of the Turk, 
 Are gleaming, haughtily, to-day, o'er every captured 
 
 work. 
 The shattered roofs — the blackened walls — attest the 
 
 ruin done. 
 And every desert street proclaims — Sebastopol is 
 
 won ! 
 
SEBASTOPOL IS WON. 55^ 
 
 III. 
 
 Ay ! peal it out with triumph ! — Ay ! peal it out with 
 
 pride ! 
 Not vainly, on those sacred heights, our bravest 
 
 brothers died. — 
 Not vainly, in the Alma's tide — swept down by shot 
 
 and shell, — 
 And up its cannon-crested steep our dauntless children 
 
 fell !— 
 Not vainly, through the iron hail, in front, to left, to 
 
 right, 
 Our heroes dash'd to grapple death, on Balaklava's 
 
 -height! 
 Not vainly, in the treacherous mist, that hid the foe- 
 man's wiles, 
 'Gainst fearful odds they, falling, fought, in Inkerman's 
 
 defiles ; 
 Nor vainly have their comrades died, whose lot 'twas — 
 
 harder strife, — 
 'Gainst sickness, want, and cold, to strive, through 
 
 weary months, for life : 
 Had they not played their part so well, — so gloriously 
 
 begun. 
 We should not raise the shout to day-r-Sebastopol is 
 
 won! 
 
56 SEBASTOPOL IS WON. 
 
 Well may we raise that shout of joy ; but, 'mid our 
 
 spirit's flush, 
 To manliest eyes the tears must come, with all unbidden 
 
 gush. 
 To think how many gallant hearts and manly forms lie 
 
 cold. 
 Save for whose valour this proud tale of triumph ne'er 
 
 were told ; 
 Yet, wherefore weep ? A day would come when death 
 
 would lay them low, 
 Worn by the ills of weary age, or chilled in manhood's 
 
 glow; 
 A few short years of listless life are all that, at the 
 
 most, 
 The cowardliest coward o'er the bravest brave can 
 
 boast — 
 And who could count the craven hearts whose pulses 
 
 cease to beat. 
 For each last throb a hero's gives, 'mid battle's fiery 
 
 heat ? 
 Or who would think, except with joy, his own career 
 
 might run 
 Like theirs, who've left us now to bpast — Sebastopol is 
 
 won ? 
 
SBBASTOPOL IS WON. 57 
 
 There will indeed be aching hearts — but o'er that 
 
 sacred grief, — 
 That mute and maddening agony, that will not know 
 
 relief, — 
 That must, throughout these haughty realms, a thousand 
 
 bosoms wring — 
 O'er that, in this exultant hour, the veil of darkness 
 
 fling. 
 Pity we may, and still exult — the mourners will not 
 
 heed — 
 They have no thought, to-day, save that which makes 
 
 their bosoms bleed. 
 Yet, even now, the world may know, each home within 
 
 our isles 
 Would send its cherished darling forth, its anguish 
 
 masked with smiles ; 
 And bid him do as fits the brave — at Honour's, Duty's 
 
 call, 
 First, in the deadly strife, to fight, — first, pleased it 
 
 Heaven to fall ; — 
 Ay ! God be thanked ; for thus it is that gallant deeds 
 
 are done. 
 And else we could not, this day, boast — Sebastopol is 
 
 won ! 
 
58 SEBASTOPOL IS WON. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Rejoice, all you who can rejoice, — too many have to 
 
 grieve — 
 Rejoice, and, for the victors' brows, the laurel-chaplets 
 
 weave ! 
 Remember all who fought and died — bless all who 
 
 fought and live — 
 And pray our island -children long may like examples 
 
 give, 
 To fall, if need, as Cathcart fell, to die as Raglan 
 
 died, — 
 The soldier's duty nobly done, without the soldier's 
 
 pride. 
 No pomp of battle on his brow its glorious lustre 
 
 shed ; 
 But calumny and falsehood hung above his dying 
 
 bed- 
 Yet murmured not the brave old man, and, from its 
 
 house of clay. 
 His hero soul serenely passed. — Oh ! were he here to- 
 day! 
 He should have lived to see the end of what he had 
 
 begun. 
 And heard those thrilling triumph words — Sebastopol 
 
 is won ! 
 
SEBASTOPOL IS WON. 59 
 
 VII. 
 
 He sleeps well, in his own loved isle. — But there are 
 
 those who sleep 
 High on those rude Crimean hills, that now our 
 
 brothers keep. — 
 Those hills, that drank their hearts' best blood, will, 
 
 surely, never more 
 Obey the Power, whose lawless lust has asked thai 
 
 priceless gore, — 
 And on those rocks, whose deep ravines are graves 
 
 of freeborn men. 
 The carrion-eagle ne'er shall whet his bloody beak 
 
 again ! 
 Down from their height, with crippled wing, the hateful 
 
 bird has flown. 
 And never must the spot again his foul dominion 
 
 own. 
 Then — three cheers more of triumph, boys, — hurrah, 
 
 hurrah, hurrah ! 
 And yet another mighty cheer, one worthy of the 
 
 day. 
 Proclaim, proclaim, with trumpet shrill, loud drum, 
 
 and thundering gun, 
 And peals from every reeling spire, Sebastopol is 
 
 won ! 
 
A REQUIEM FOR THE BRA VE. 
 
 T T TE have had our song of triumph ! ItTias hardly 
 
 ' " died away — 
 Ah ! the sound of sadder music follows soon the 
 
 exultant lay. 
 Let the sighing breezes waft it over land and over 
 
 wave, 
 To where our dead lie sleeping — a Requiem for the 
 
 Brave ! — 
 
 II. 
 
 There is grief, too deep for languages-there is grief, 
 
 too deep for tears — 
 There is grief, that knows no solace, in the long, long, 
 
 lapse of years — 
 Grief that, in the heart's dark chamber, shrines the 
 
 dead', with pious care. 
 And whose life is one long vigil, o'er the relics cherished 
 
 there. 
 
A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE. 
 
 III. 
 
 But we speak not of such sorrow, save, with earnest 
 souls, to pray 
 
 That the God who sees the mourners may watch over 
 them to-day ! 
 
 May pour balm into the bosoms that, in agony, now 
 bleed, 
 
 And give strength to bear the anguish by his Pro- 
 vidence decreed. 
 
 No ! besides that speechless anguish, there is grief 
 
 serene and- high, 
 As the sorrow of immortals, over those who grandly 
 
 die! 
 A grief that has both voice and tears, yet rises calmly 
 
 strong, 
 And breathes a nation's sympathies in chaunt of solemn 
 
 song, 
 
 It does not speak in lofty words — but many a simple 
 
 phrase 
 Makes the sad and solemn chorus in that hymn of 
 
 grief and praise, 
 Words but rarely heard when spoken, yet that float o'er 
 
 land and wave. 
 In harmonies God's angels hear, — a Requiem for the 
 
 Brave 1 
 
A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE. 
 
 In her halls the high-born lady muses, full of haughty 
 
 grace, 
 And a pensive shadow softens the proud beauty of her 
 
 face; 
 Whither now her thoughts are straying it were easy 
 
 task to tell, 
 Though we heard not the half-spoken words — 'How 
 
 gloriously they fell ! ' 
 
 VII. 
 
 The young village maid is sitting by her humble cottage 
 
 door; 
 Ah ! her thoughts are wandering, likewise, to that far 
 
 Crimean shore. 
 The big tear is trickling, heavily and slowly, down her 
 
 cheek, 
 ' May God pity those that loved them ! ' — all the tribute 
 
 she' can speak. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The strong, swarthy smith is brandishing his massive 
 
 sledge in air, 
 And he; flings it on the anvil, with his brawny arms all 
 
 bare; 
 And he pauses for a moment, and resumes his' toil 
 
 again. 
 With the brief and pithy sentence — 'Well, they did 
 
 their work like men 1 ' 
 
A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE. 63 
 
 IX. 
 
 The old man, with hair of silver, as he gladdens in the 
 
 glee 
 Of the golden-headed grandchild that sits laughing on 
 
 his knee — 
 Lays his hand upon the baby-brow, and says, with 
 
 aspect grave — 
 ' God grant, my little darling, you may one day prove 
 
 as brave 1 ' 
 
 With firm step and gallant bearing, the brave boy 
 
 hangs o'er the tale. 
 And his eye is flashing haughtily — his cheek grows red 
 
 and pale — 
 And his heart-beat quickens hotly, as he thinks, with 
 
 thick'ning breath. 
 He, too, could fling bright life away, for such a gallant 
 
 death. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Such the thoughts half-uttered hourly, throughout these 
 
 Imperial isles — 
 Noble thoughts, that steal in sadly, 'mid our wonted 
 
 household smiles — 
 Telling more than high-flown sentences, or grand 
 
 heroic lay, , 
 
 How we sorrow for our heroes, who are sleeping far 
 
 away. 
 
6lf A REQUIEM FOR THE BRA VE. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And there will be distant echoes of that grand funereal 
 
 song, 
 Where the Ganges rolls its sacred tide, in majesty, 
 
 along ; 
 And the soldier, by the Indus, and the Sutledj, with a 
 
 tear, 
 Will say, at some remembered name — ' How bravely 
 
 he fought here ! ' 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And, across the Western waters, as his keel grates on 
 the strand, 
 
 The news will make the fisher sad, in far-off New- 
 foundland ; 
 
 And away, where noble cities, by the broad St. Law- 
 rence, rise. 
 
 The dead will have their tribute, from sad hearts and 
 weeping eyes. 
 
 And still farther off to westward, where is heard, sub- 
 limely grand, 
 
 The thunder of Niagara, the wonder of the land — 
 
 And away in mighty forests, which the stalwart wood- 
 man clears. 
 
 The brave will, in the lonely hut, find sympathy and 
 tears. 
 
A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE. 65 
 
 XV. 
 
 And away, in other regions, where our starlight does 
 
 not shine. 
 And the Southern Cross beams, nightly, on the broad 
 
 Pacific brine. 
 Will the rough and bearded digger rest, amid his 
 
 search for gold, 
 And dash away a manly tear, when their proud tale is 
 
 told. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And the stockman, as he gallops, driving home his 
 
 tameless stock ; 
 And the shepherd, gazing listlessly upon his fleecy 
 
 flock ; 
 All, who dwell beneath the ensign that our gallant 
 
 heroes bore, 
 Will turn, with saddened thought, at times, to that 
 
 Crimean shore. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Nor will these be the sole mourners — though that flag 
 flies far and wide — 
 
 Though it waves o'er half the peopled earth, and floats 
 on every tide — 
 
 To the valour that displays itself in actions thus sub- 
 lime. 
 
 All the world the meed of homage pays, from every 
 shore and clime. 
 
 F 
 
68 A REQUIEM FOR THE BRA VE. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And thus, too, to future ages, will the noble hymn go 
 
 down. 
 Linking their proud names, for ever, with all names of 
 
 high renown, 
 Calling up great, solemn, memories, when high deeds 
 
 are lingered o'er. 
 Of the heroes who fell fighting, on that rude Crimean 
 
 shore. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 We have had our song of triumph ; it has hardly died 
 
 away ; 
 But a strain of sadder music must salute the ear to-day ; 
 Let the sighing breezes waft it over land and over 
 
 wave, 
 To where our dead lie sleeping — a Requiem for the 
 
 Brave ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES i 
 ©risinal anU STranslatca. 
 
LUCRETIA BORGIA* 
 
 ONLY a single tress of hair, 
 That once adorned a woman's head ! 
 But, oh ! so exquisitely fair ! 
 Tho' she who wore it long lies dead. 
 
 It rests upon the open page. 
 Traced by its owner's lovely hand. 
 
 For one who, poet, wit, and sage, 
 Shed lustre on their glorious land. 
 
 Yes, Bembo's eye has read the lines — 
 The graceful verse we look on now — 
 
 On which that golden ringlet shines. 
 Bright as it shone on Borgia's brow. 
 
 That dread Lucretia, on whose name 
 The records of three hundred years 
 
 Have left so deep a blot of shame. 
 It will not fade for angels' tears. 
 
 And yet, thou frarl and shining tress, 
 
 I cannot gaze on thee nor feel 
 That, in thy wondrous loveliness, 
 
 Thou makest to me thy mute appeal : 
 
 * On seeing a lock of her hair in the Ambrosian Library, at 
 Milan, in 1861. 
 
70 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 Mute — but how eloquently strong, — 
 Dead beauty, pleading from the tomb, 
 
 'Gainst those dark centuries of wrong. 
 To the dread day of final doom. 
 
 Thou seem'st to ask me — ' Oh, withhold 
 Thy censure ; think how dark a world 
 
 Was that in which these threads of gold 
 Above that brow beloved curl'd ! 
 
 ' If even the hands of valiant men 
 Shrank not from poisoned cup or knife, 
 
 Think, was the venomed tongue or pen 
 More sparing of the life of life ? 
 
 ' Is accusation proof ? If not. 
 What proof hast thou so damning clear 
 
 To serve with foullest stain to blot 
 A name that worthiest men held dear ? 
 
 ' Would' St thou consign to foullest shame 
 Some bright, beloved, living head 
 
 For nameless slanderers ? — I but claim 
 Impartial justice for the dead ! ' 
 
 ' Fair tress, thy pleading is not vain ; 
 
 To hold the balance is not mine : 
 Nor dare I do so. Men arraign. 
 
 Judgment unerring is Divine.' 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. HI 
 
 THE SUITOR. 
 
 From the Bawisb of ' Ittgemaua'. 
 
 A KNIGHT all so manly, so faithful, so bold. 
 With burnished steel harness and helmet of gold. 
 On a snorting steed mounted, all hurriedly rode, 
 And halted at young Lyna's peaceful abode. 
 
 ' I come,' were his words, ' over mount, over wave, 
 The love of the fairest of maidens to crave.' — 
 She stammered out 'Welcome!' while leading him in, 
 And blushed like the red-rose from forehead to chin. 
 
 ' I come,' he repeated, ' o'er mountain and wave. 
 For my bride the most beauteous of maidens to crave.' 
 The maiden, confused, marked that stranger, I trow. 
 And, sorely perplexed — ah ! no words could tell how. 
 
 ' I come,' he continued, ' o'er mountain and wave, 
 Thy love, Lyna, loveliest maiden, to crave ; 
 And deeply I swore, ere I hither did hie, 
 To make thee my own, or in battle to dfe.' 
 
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 She blushed like a rose, like a lily grew white ; 
 With quick-throbbing heart she drew close to the knight. 
 ' Fly,' sighed she, ' oh, fly ! ' I can never be thine ; 
 My hand and my heart they no longer are mine ! 
 
 'A youth won the love of my girlhood, brave knight ; 
 His eyes thou hast got — not his tresses of light -^r- 
 His mouth and his chin in thy own I can trace : 
 But his voice was more tender, and beardless his face. 
 
 ' To far foreign climes he has wandered since then ; 
 But soon to his maiden he's coming again. 
 Seven times has rolled onward the lingering year ; 
 But the love of my girlhood will quickly be here ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! maiden, thy love was but Infancy's play ; 
 With childhood our childhood's love passes away ! — 
 Nor trust thee, fair Lyna, thy downy-cheeked swain ; 
 Believe me, thou never wilt see him again ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, stranger, nay, sooner will Death have my love 
 Than false to his vows and his maiden he'll prove. 
 My name he has traced, with his hand on his breast. 
 In letters of light on his heart 'tis imprest.' 
 
 ' Then fly I from hence ', said the stranger, forlorn ; 
 ' I'll seek on the battle-field death — as I've sworn ; — 
 But, maiden, in dreams when my corpse thou shalt see ; 
 Oh ! give it a tear, and say : " This was for me !" ' 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 73 
 
 And slowly departed that rider so bold. 
 With burnished steel harness and helmet of gold ; 
 'Ah, stranger, remain here ! — I love thee ! — ah, no ! — 
 Fly ! — Come back ! — Yet — no ; — yet — I love thee not ! — 
 Go!' 
 
 Then came back, rejoicing, that rider so bold, 
 And cast off his harness and helmet of gold. 
 ' True, love, oh ! trust only thy downy-cheeked swain ; 
 But downy-cheeked comes he not back here again ! 
 
 'The love of thy girlhood before thee behold; 
 
 With manlier voice, darker locks than of old ! ' — 
 
 ' God ! — Ludwig ! ' she stammered, and sank on his 
 
 breast. 
 With heavenly happiness silently blest. 
 
 TO A LADF. 
 
 'Twere surely rashness to declare 
 
 That you are good, as you are fair. 
 
 How could it be sd, when we know 
 
 Perfection cannot dwell below ? 
 
 When some one charm of your's grows faint 
 
 I'll think you may be quite a saint. 
 
r^ MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 TO M^CENAS. 
 i^nrace, @ia» I. 
 
 M^CENAS, offspring of royal progenitors, 
 Dearest of friends, and most potent of senators ! 
 Some men rejoice the swift chariot-race driving, 
 In the thronged circus for victory striving, 
 And, if they bear off the palm through its portals. 
 Feel themselves raised to the rank of immortals ! 
 One man there is whose supremest delight is 
 Triple rank granted by fickle Quirites : 
 One who loves granaries filled to o'erflowing 
 With the rich harvests of Libya the glowing ; 
 One, calmly ploughing his acres paternal, 
 Attains' wealth would not lure from his vernal 
 Fields, to embark on the Myrtouan billow, 
 Cut by the Cyprian keel 'neath his pillow. 
 Timid, the merchant, the south-west wind urges, 
 Thinks on his home 'mid Icarian surges. 
 Lauding its dwellings and fields. Scarcely landed, 
 Once more he fits out his bark, tempest-stranded. 
 Poverty, more than wild billows, affrighting ! 
 One man, in cups of old Massic delighting, 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. IS 
 
 With the green arbutus over him closing, 
 
 Or by the hallowed rill, lingers reposing. 
 
 "Trump, tent, and clarion give gladness to others, 
 
 And the wild warfare abhorrent to mothers ! 
 
 Patient, the hunter, his sweet wife neglected, 
 
 Rests 'neath the freezing air, all unprotected. 
 
 If the true hounds of the swift deer give token, 
 
 Or through the thin toils the wild boar have broken. 
 
 Ivy — the brows of the learned entwining — 
 
 Deifies me — me the satyrs, combining 
 
 With nymphs in chorus, from crowds that I prize not 
 
 Draw, if Euterpe her music denies not ; 
 
 And Polyhymnia grants me to waken 
 
 Chords by the passionate Sappho once shaken, 
 
 While if with lords of the lyre, great and gifted. 
 
 Ranked, to the stars my proud head is uplifted ! 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 He who but one ennobling deed has wrought. 
 Or left the world but one ennobling thought. 
 And marred its lustre by no sordid stain. 
 Die when he may, will not have lived in vain. 
 
76 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 THE GARRET. 
 
 Fmm Bsraoger. 
 
 Once more I see the refuge where my youth, 
 
 Though schooled by penury, passed blithe along : 
 I was but twenty — all my wealth, in sooth, 
 
 A mistress dear, true friends, and love of song. 
 Scorning the world, its fools and plodding wights. 
 
 Rich in life's spring-time, without cares or fears, 
 Bounding and gay, I mounted my six flights : 
 
 Ah ! for that garret life at twenty years ! 
 
 Yes, 'twas a garret. Think it no disgrace — 
 
 There lay my bed, ill-furnished, hard and small ; 
 There stood my table — and I still can trace 
 
 The verse, half-writ with charcoal on the wall. 
 Rise up before me, joys of life's young dawn ! 
 
 Whose memory blots out days of gloom and tears : 
 Full oft for you I've left my watch in pawn ! 
 
 Ah ! for that garret life at twenty years ! 
 
 Let sweet Lisette come back here above all, — 
 Witty and beauteous, with her headdress gay ! 
 
 Behold her stand to curtain, with her shawl. 
 The narrow casement that let in the day ! 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 77 
 
 Behold her pretty gown my couch o'erspread : 
 That gown whose flowing drapery love endears, — 
 
 Who paid the milliner I've since heard said — 
 But ah ! that garret life at twenty years ! 
 
 One day at table — day of festal high — 
 
 When, in gay chorus, happy friends unite, — 
 Up to our attic mounts the joyous cry 
 
 That Buonaparte has won Marengo's fight ! 
 The cannon roars — another song is ours — 
 
 The lofty deed we celebrate with cheers. — 
 ' Let France defy the banded tyrants' might ! ' 
 
 Ah ! for that garret life at twenty years I 
 
 Farewell, loved roof, with wildering memories rife ! 
 
 Alas ! how fast have flown those moments dear ! 
 I'd gladly give the poor remains of life 
 
 For one bright day by Heaven allowed me here. 
 To dream of mirth, enjoyment, glory, love, — 
 
 To live a life in what an hour appears, — 
 Hope's glorious lustre shining from above : 
 
 Ah I for that garret life at twenty years ! 
 
78 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 BOB GOODCHEER, 
 
 Fraw Boranger. 
 
 To all sad-livered mortals, 
 
 As an example bright, — 
 When Want threw wide her portals, 
 
 Bob Goodcheer first saw light. 
 To live in gay retirement, 
 
 At grumbling fools to jeer ; 
 This was the chief requirement 
 
 Of jovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
 A hat as old as Moses, 
 
 Dressed out, on festal days. 
 With ivy-wreaths or roses, 
 
 Which made it fresh always,-r 
 A cloak, from long use tender. 
 
 Old friend of many a year — 
 Such was the wardrobe splendour 
 
 Of jovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
 His cot a shaky table 
 
 Could boast — a bed to suit — 
 A jug he filled when able, 
 
 A pack of cards, a flute ; 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 79 
 
 A chest with nothing in it, 
 
 His mistress' picture dear ; 
 These made the wealth, each minute, 
 
 Ofjjovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
 To teach, throughout the city, 
 
 The children little plays ; • 
 To tell them tales — not witty, 
 
 But couched in merry phrase, — 
 In dance and song discerning 
 
 Fit themes for every ear, — 
 Such was the solid learning 
 
 Of jovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
 For want of vintage rarer, 
 
 To quaff vin ordinaire ; 
 To think his Maggie fairer 
 
 Than dames of high-born air ; 
 With mirth to blend emotion. 
 
 Each moment of the year, — 
 Such was the sound wise notion 
 
 Of jovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
 ' On thy goodwill depending. 
 
 Father, in every need, 
 Forgive the errors blending 
 
 In my too easy creed 1 
 Let my last hours pass gaily, 
 
 As did life's springtime dear I' 
 The orison was, daily, 
 
 Of jovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
80 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 You poor, with envy serving, 
 
 You rich, still craving more, 
 All you whose life seems swerving 
 
 From its fair course of yore ; t 
 You stripped, ah ! dire disaster — 
 
 Of titles men revere, — 
 Take, take, for guide and master, 
 
 The jovial Bob Goodcheer. 
 
 THE FOUR-LEA FEB SHAMROCK. 
 
 The four-leaved shamrock's magic leaf 
 'Tis once again your lot to find ; 
 
 Whose spell, 'tis said, can cure each grief 
 That falls on hapless human kind. 
 
 But — whatsoe'er's its charm for woe, — 
 To you the plant is valueless. 
 
 No fairy favour can bestow 
 
 Upon you, greater power to bless. 
 
 The grace and sweetness to you given. 
 That none around you can withstand ; 
 
 These, lady, these are gifts of Heaven, 
 Beyond all spells of fairyland. 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 81 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S VOW. 
 From the Et-enasa. 
 
 A YOUTHFUL warrior, brave and true, 
 His bright sword from the scabbard drew, 
 Upon the altar placed the blade. 
 And 'fore high Heaven his vow he made. 
 
 ' I swear to thee, oh ! Fatherland, 
 Clasping this bright sword in my hand. 
 Upon the altar's sacred shrine. 
 Till life's last pulse, to hold me thine ! 
 
 ' I swear to thee, oh ! Freedom, too, 
 Till death to be thy champion true ; 
 With heart and soul, with brain and blood — 
 For thou art mankind's highest good ! 
 
 ' Thou, God, who mak'st the sun to roll, 
 And o'er men's hearts hold'st high control ; 
 Almighty Ruler, grant that mine 
 May bend to each behest of thine ! 
 
 ' That I, from fraud and falsehood free, 
 Thy trusty combatant may be ; 
 That in the sacred cause of right 
 Alone this steel shall leap to light ! 
 
 G 
 
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES : 
 
 'And if 'gainst God or Fatherland 
 I draw, then withered be this hand ; 
 And to this arm, like bough that's dead, 
 This sword be as a weight of lead ! ' 
 
 Oh ! no ; — oh ! no ; — that warrior brave 
 Shall ne'er be found a traitor knave ! 
 Honour and Truth, with purest ray, 
 Shall, like twin stars, illume his way. 
 
 NEAR THE BELOVED. 
 
 From gfostbe. 
 
 I THINK of thee, when the sun's golden shimmer 
 
 Illumes the deep ; 
 When on the stream, with trembling, paly glimmer. 
 
 The moonbeams sleep. 
 
 I see thee, when across my path, far -roaming. 
 
 The dust-clouds fly ; 
 When into deep night sinks the tender gloaming, 
 
 Thou still art nigh. 
 
 I hear thee, when the waves, with murmuring voices, 
 
 Fill all the air ; 
 In the hushed woods thy voice my soul rejoices, 
 
 And thou not there ! 
 
 Where'er I go thy soft spell still is on me ; 
 
 Thou'rt ever near ! 
 The sun goes down, the bright stars shine upon me. 
 
 Oh ! wert thou here ! 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 83 
 
 A WORLD OF LOVE. 
 
 From lerangsr. 
 
 Yes ! spite of all the wise may say, 
 
 I'd heap up gold, had I the power. 
 At my beloved's feet to lay 
 
 The treasure, in some rapturous hour. 
 Thy lightest whim to gratify, 
 
 Each hour, Ad^le, my task would prove ; 
 I have no avarice, not I, 
 
 ■But, oh ! I have a world of love ! 
 
 To win Adele immortal fame. 
 
 Were I inspired with song divine. 
 My verse, enshrining but her name, 
 
 Through endless ages still should shine. 
 Thus in men's memories, by-and-by, 
 
 Our names might mingle, interwove ; 
 I have no thought of glory — I, 
 
 But, oh ! I have a world of love ! 
 
 G 2 
 
81t MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 If Providence would lift me high, 
 
 Even to a monarch's dazzling throne, 
 AdSle the dream should beautify, 
 
 And make my regal rights her own. 
 Her happiness to magnify, 
 
 'Mid courtly splendours I would move ; 
 I have but small ambition, I, 
 
 But oh ! I have a world of love ! 
 
 But why let idle longings tease ? 
 
 Ad^le each highest wish can crown ; 
 Splendour, renown, luxurious ease. 
 
 No bliss, like love, on earth bring down. 
 Rich in the happiness I hold, 
 
 The pranks of fickle fate above, 
 I have not glory, rank, or gold. 
 
 But, oh ! I have a world of love 1 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 From Walberbe. 
 
 She was of earth, where all with beaty rife 
 
 Finds swiftest doom : 
 Herself a rose, she had the rose's life — 
 
 A morning's bloom ! 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 85 
 
 BLACK AND BLUE EYES. 
 
 From tbe Italian. 
 
 A STRIFE arose once, fierce and loud, 
 
 Between a black eye and a blue. 
 ' You're sullen,' exclaims Blue, ' and proud 1 ' 
 , ' Not fickle,' Black retorts, ' like you.' 
 ' Your gloomy looks all joys estrange.' 
 ' Each hour to some new whim you range.' 
 ' You never wear a gladsome smile.' 
 ' Your flirting with the men is vile.' 
 'The azure tint of Heaven is mine.' 
 ' Like blaze of burning torch I shine.' 
 ' Pallas and Juno's eyes are blue.' 
 ' And Venus's of jetty hue.' 
 
 Thus did they scold, the pretty things. 
 Till Love flew down on radiant wings, 
 By his decree to end the fight. 
 The notes of which, set down aright, 
 At his command, remain' to guide us, 
 Amongst the codices of Gnidos : 
 
86 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 ' It matters little which their hue, 
 Those eyes are sure the loveliest, 
 
 Whether their tint be black or blue. 
 That speak the heart's emotions best.' 
 
 ANACREON. 
 Sde I. 
 
 I OF Atreus' sons would sing. 
 And to Cadmus wake the string : 
 But upon its chords my lyre 
 Breathes no "passion save desire. 
 Late the languid string I changed, 
 Late to nobler themes I ranged. 
 And extolled, in martial song, 
 Hercules the brave, the strong. 
 But, alas ! in vain I strove, 
 Still the lyre returns to love. 
 Henceforth, heroes, fare ye well, 
 Love alone shall wake the spell. 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 87 
 
 ROSETTE. 
 Frnoi Berawger. 
 
 What ! rich in all that youth endears, 
 
 You talk to me of love, forsooth. 
 When, 'neath the weight of forty years, 
 
 I see succumb my radiant youth ! 
 In days gone by my soul to move 
 
 It needed but a poor grisette : 
 Ah ! why even you can I not love 
 
 As long ago I loved Rosette ? 
 
 Each day your form the world admire, 
 
 In gorgeous splendour whirled along : 
 Rosette, in simple, neat attire. 
 
 Tripped, gay and smiling, through the throng ; 
 Her eyes, my jealous heart to prove. 
 
 Coaxed glances sly from all we met : 
 Ah ! why even you can I not love 
 
 As long ago I loved Rosette ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 As thro' this rich boudoir you pass, 
 
 Your smiles the mirror-walls reflect : 
 Rosette had only one small glass ; 
 
 I saw in that the Graces decked ! 
 No curtains hung her couch above ; 
 
 Morn's smile her waking glances met : 
 Ah ! why even you can I not love 
 
 As long ago I loved Rosette ? 
 
 Your wit, which plays with vivid flame. 
 
 From many a lyre has won its meed ; 
 I own it frankly, without shame, 
 
 That poor Rosette could hardly read. 
 Yet, when to speak her thoughts she strove. 
 
 Love made one all such wants forget : 
 Ah ! why even you can I not love 
 
 As long ago I loved Rosette ? 
 
 Her charms were not so rare as thine. 
 
 Her heart was even less true, perchance ; 
 Nor did her eyes so fondly shine 
 
 On his who burned to meet their glance. 
 But she had — all things else above — 
 
 My youth, that vainly I regret : 
 And thus even you I cannot love 
 
 As long ago I loved Rosette ! 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 89 
 
 THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. 
 From Beranger. 
 
 Brave steed, the Cossack's noble friend 1 
 
 Fly, at the northern trumpet's breath ; 
 For rapine swift — war's ranks to rend, 
 
 Beneath me spread the wings of death ! 
 No gold thy housings or thy rein 
 
 Bedecks — but that my deeds shall crown ; 
 Neigh, proudly neigh, brave steed, again. 
 
 And trample kings and peoples down 1 
 
 Peace flies ! — thy rein once more I hold, — 
 
 Old Europe's ranjparts, crumbling, fall ! 
 Come, fill my greedy hands with gold ! 
 
 In Art's museums thou shall stall ! 
 Back, back, to quaif that rebel Seine 
 
 Whose blood-stained bath gave twice renown ! 
 And proudly neigh, brave steed, again, 
 
 While trampling kings and peoples down ! 
 
90 . MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 Priests, nobles, princes, — held in siege 
 
 By suffering serfs, upon me call, — 
 ' Come, Cossack, be our lordly liege, 
 
 So thou wilt hold us these in thrall 1' 
 I seize my lance — I smite amain — 
 
 I strike to earth both cross and croWn ; 
 Then proudly neigh, brave steed, again. 
 
 While trampling kings and peoples down ! 
 
 I've seen a giant phantom glare 
 
 Upon our camp-fires, with hot eye — 
 Crying — 'Again my reign prepare ! ' 
 
 With poised axe towards the western sky. 
 Immortal Hun ! oh ! not in vain 
 
 Thou callest thy son with wrathful frown ; 
 Then proudly neigh, brave steed, again, 
 
 And trample kings and peoples down ! 
 
 The splendour Europe's boast and pride, — 
 
 The learning which defends her not, 
 Changed into dust-clouds, where I ride, 
 
 Shall pass away and be forgot ! 
 Efface where'er I guide thy rein. 
 
 Fane, palace,' learning, law, renown ; 
 And proudly neigh, brave steed, again, 
 
 While trampling kings and peoples down ! 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 91 
 
 THE IRISH HARP. 
 
 When Erin, fallen from power and pride, 
 Was reft of all she loved beside. 
 She dreamed her Harp might sometime raise 
 Her sons to thoughts of by-gone days, 
 And notes of glory still might wake 
 The slumb'ring hearts by glen and lake ; 
 But Valour snapped in twain the string 
 That with his deeds was wont to ring ; 
 And Triumph tore the chord away 
 That thrilled exultant to his lay ; 
 While Hope and Joy, as each withdrew, 
 The chords they gave her shattered too ; 
 Yet Love and Sorrow lingered still 
 Beside that Harp on Tara's hill. 
 And, when each spirit else had flown, 
 Waked it to music all their own : — 
 Not quite their own — a fond regret 
 For kindred spirits touched them yet ; 
 And Sorrow, sometimes, strove to sing 
 Glad music to her moaning string : 
 
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 While Love to loftier themes would stray, 
 And wake the chord to Glory's lay. 
 The Harp responded to their call, 
 But their own music spoke thro' all ; 
 And thus it comes — whate'er the strain 
 That wild Harp breathes — the grand, the gay, 
 Some sad and softening tones remain 
 Of Loveand Sorrow in the lay. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 Written for Wwsic. 
 
 My life is like a cloud by night. 
 
 On which the sun has ceased to shine ; 
 The rays of joy that made it bright. 
 
 Now shed no more their light divine. 
 That lonely cloud, ere break of day, 
 
 Will all dissolve in tears away. 
 And, long ere joy again appears, 
 
 My life shall melt away in tears. 
 
 'My life is like the parch'd-up bed 
 
 Of some unthought-of, desert stream, 
 
 Where roses, once, their fragrance shed, 
 And glossed their hues in Summer's beam. 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 
 
 Hope's gushing tide no more for me 
 Will bound along with early glee. 
 
 Nor Love's bright roses shed their bloom, 
 Or with their sweets the soul perfume. 
 
 My life is like the mournful lamp 
 
 That burns within a vaulted tomb, 
 Whose radiance, dimmed by vapours damp. 
 
 Gives barely light to show the gloom. 
 That lonely watcher o'er the dead 
 
 Still lingers on, when all are fled, — 
 Ah ! thus for me life's lamp burns on, 
 
 When Joy and Love and Hope are gone I 
 
 THE SWORD* 
 
 What rights the brave ? 
 
 The sword ! 
 What frees the slave } 
 
 The sword ! 
 What cleaves in twain 
 The despot's chain, 
 And makes his gyves and dungeons vain } 
 
 The sword 1 
 
 * From The Spirit of the Nation, published by Messrs. Duffy 
 & Sons, Dublin, and reprinted by their kind permission. 
 
H MISCELLANEOUS VERSES: 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then cease thy proud task never 
 While rests a link to sever ! 
 Guard of the free, 
 We'll cherish thee, 
 And keep thee bright for ever ! 
 
 What checks the knave ? 
 
 The sword ! 
 What smites to save ? 
 
 The sword ! 
 What wreaks the wrong 
 Unpunished long, 
 At last, upon the guilty strong ? 
 
 The sword ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then cease thy proud task never, &c. 
 
 What shelters right .-' 
 
 The sword ! 
 
 What makes it might ? 
 
 The sword ! 
 
 What strikes the crown 
 
 Of tyrants down, 
 And answers with its flash their frown } 
 The sword ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then cease thy proud task never, &c 
 
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 95 
 
 Still be thou true, 
 
 Good sword ! 
 
 We'll die or do, 
 
 Good sword ! 
 
 Leap forth to light 
 
 If tyrants smite, 
 And trust our arms to wield thee right, 
 Good sword ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yes ! cease thy proud task never 
 While rests a link to sever ! 
 Guard of the free. 
 We'll cherish thee, 
 And keep thee bright for ever ! 
 
Just Published, Third Edition, Fcap. 8vo, Cloth neat. 
 Price Is., post free. 
 
 HENRY GRATTAN: 
 
 ^ ?^istortcal Sftrtrij of Ijis 3Ltfe anlt ^xm.zs, 
 
 BY 
 
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 A Iso by same A uthor, Third Edition, Price Is., post free. 
 
 THE 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION 
 
 1792: 
 
 ITS CAUSES, ITS EVENTS, AND 
 ITS RESULTS: 
 
 ^ f^tstorical StuKg. 
 
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