SONG FOR TWILIGHT.

HIDE me, O twilight air!

Hide me from thought, from care, From all things, foul or fair,

Until to-morrow!

To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar;
Come, Sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst Pain and Sorrow!

If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams,
Be mine by morning streams
To watch and wander !

So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last

Have leave to ponder!

And shouldst thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet Soul,
On joy-the end—the goal

Of all endeavor!

But if earth's pains will rise,
(As damps will seek the skies),
Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep, for ever!

THE HUNTER'S SONG.

RISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn;
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady-So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.

Hark, hark! Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn, the horn!

The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn.
Now-through the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go!
Away! as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away-away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies and-the day is done!
Hark, hark! What sound on the wind is borne?
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn!
The horn, the horn!

The merry bld voice of the hunter's horn. Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good What's the gully deep or the roaring flood? Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. Oh! what delight can a mortal lack, When he once is firm on his horse's back, With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, And the blast of the horn for his morning sung? Hark, harn! Now, home! and dream till morn, Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn! The horn, the horn!

Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!

THE RECALL.

COME again! Come again 1
Sunshine cometh after rain.
As a lamp fed newly burneth,
Pleasure, who doth fly, returneth,
Scattering every cloud of pain.
As the year, which dies in showers,
Riseth a wrld of flowers,
Called by many a vernal strain,

Come thou--for whom tears were falling,
And a thousand tongues are calling!
Come again, O come again!

Like the sunshine after rain!

THE EXILE'S FAREWELL.

FAREWELL Old England's shores!
Farewell her rugged men!
Now, sailors, strain your oars.
I ne'er will look again.

I've lived--I've sought-I've seen--
Oh, things I love too well,
Upon those shores of green :
So, England! long farewell!
Farewell!

I go; what matter where?
The Exile, when he flies,
Thinks not of other air,

Dreams not of alien skies:
He seeks but to depart

From the land he loves too wellFrom thoughts that smite his heart: So, England! long farewell! Farewell!

O'er lands and the lonely main,
A lonelier man, I roam,
To seek some balm for pain-
Perhaps to find a home:

I go; but time nor tide,
Nor all that tongue may tell,
Shall e'er from thee divide
My heart and

So, farewell!

Old England! fare thee well.

THE WILD CHERRY-TREE.

OH, there never was yet so fair a thing,

By racing river or bubbling spring,

Nothing that ever so gayly grew

Up from the ground when the skies were blue, Nothing so prave, nothing so free

As thou, my wild wild Cherry-tree!

Jove! how it danced in the gusty breeze!
Jove! how it frolicked among the trees!
Dashing the pride of the poplar down,
Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown!
Oak or ash-what matter to thee?
'Twas the same to my wild wild Cherry-tree.

Never at rest, like one that's young
Abroad to the winds its arms it flung,
Shaking its bright and crowned head,
Whilst I stole up for its berries red-
Beautiful berries! beautiful tree!
Hurrah! for the wild wild Cherry-tree!

Back I fly to the days gone by,
And I see thy branches against the sky,
I see on the grass thy blossoms shed,
I see (nay I taste) thy berries red,
And I shout-like the tempest loud and free,
Hurrah! for the wild wild Cherry-tree!

THE LITTLE VOICE.

ONCE there was a little Voice,

Merry as the month of May, That did cry "Rejoice! rejoice!" Now 'tis flown away!

Sweet it was, and very clear,
Chasing every thought of pain:
Summer! shall I ever hear
Such a voice again?

have pondered all night long,
Listening for as soft a sound:
But so sweet and clear a song
Never have I und

I would give a mine of gold,
Could I hear that little Voice-
Could I, as in days of old,
At a sound rejoice!

ON A MOTHER AND CHILD SLEEPING.

NIGHT gaze, but send no sound!

Fond heart, thy fondness keep!
Nurse Silence, wray them round!
Breathe low; they sleep, they sleep!
No wind! no murmuring showers!
No music, soft and deep!
No thoughts, nor dreams of flowers!
All hence; they sleep, they sleep!
Time's step is all unheard:

Heaven's stars bright silence keep:
No breath, no sigh, no word!

All's still; they sleep, they sleep!

O Life! O Night! O Time!

Thus ever round them creep!
From pain, from hate, from crime,

E'er guard them, gentle Sleep!

DARK-EYED BEAUTY OF THE SOUTH.

DARK-EYED beauty of the South!
Mistress of the rosy mouth!
Doth thy heart desert its duty?
Doth thy blood belie thy beauty?
Art thou false, and art thou cold?
Art thou sworn to wed for gold?
On thy forehead sitteth pride,
Crowned with scorn, and falcon-eyed ;
But beneath, methinks, thou twinest
Silken smiles that seem divinest.
Can such smiles be false and coid?
Canst thon-wilt thou-wed for gold?

We, who awell on Northern earth,
Fill the frozen air with mirth-
Soar upon the wings of laughter,
(Though we droop the moment after):
But, through all our regions cold,
None will sell their hearts for gold.

BIE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE.
SHE was not fair, nor full of grace,

Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;
Nor wealth had she, of mind or face,
To win our love or raise our pride;

No lover's thought her cheek did touch;

No poet's dream was 'round her thrown;
And yet we miss her-ah, too much,

Now she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls—
A trifle wanted on the earth!
Some fancy, small, or subtle thought,

Is checked 'ere to its blossom grown;
Some chain is broken that we wrought,
Now she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,

Is marred now she hath sunk in night;
And yet the strong immortal Mind

Is stopped in its triumphant flight!
Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere

Might cast the great Sun from his throne;
For all we know is-" She was here,"
And-" She hath flown!"

A SONG FOR THE SEASONS.
WHEN the merry lark doth gild
With his song the suminer hours,
And their nests the swallows build
In the roofs and tops of towers,
And the golden broom-flower burns
All about the waste,

And the maiden May returns
With a pretty haste-

Then, how merry are the times!

The Summer times the Spring times!

Now, from off the ashy stone

The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown,

And our dream of pleasure dieth;
Now the once blue laughing sky
Saddens into gray,

And the frozen rivers sigh,
Pining all away!

Now, how solemn are the times!
The Winter times! the Night times:

Yet, be merry; all around

Is through one vast change resolving; Even Night, who lately frowned,

Is in paler dawn dissolving;
Earth will burst her fetters strange,
And in spring grow free;

All things in the world will change,
Save-my love for thee!

Sing then, hopeful are all times!
Winter, Summer, Spring times!

THE QUADROON. SAY they that all beauty lies In the paler maiden's hue? Say they that all softness flies,

Save from eyes of April blue?
Arise thou, like a night in June,
Beautiful Quadroon!

Come all dark and bright, as skies
With the tender starlight hung!
Loose the Love from out thine eyes!
Loose the Angel from thy tongue!
Let them hear Heaven's own sweet tune,
Beautiful Quadroon!

Tell them-Beauty (born above)
From no shade nor hue doth fly;
All she asks is Mind, is Love,

And both upon thine aspect lie-
Like the light upon the moon,
Beautiful Quadroon!

IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA.
Is my lover on the sea,
Sailing East, or sailing West?
Mighty Ocean, gentle be,
Rock him into rest!

Let no angry wind arise,

Nor a wave with whitened crest;
All be gentle as his eyes
When he is caressed!

Bear him (as the breeze above
Bears the bird unto its nest),
Here-unto his home of love,
And there bid him rest!

CONSTANCY.

I WOULD I were the bold March-wind,
The merry boisterous hold March-wind,
Who in the violet's tender eyes,
Casts a kiss-and forward flies!

Yet-no! No slight to thee!
O Constancy! O Constancy!

I would I were the soft West-wind,
The wandering sighing soft West-wind,
Who fondles 'round the hyacinth bells,
Then takes wing-as story tells!
Yet-no! No slight to thee!
O Constancy! O Constancy
No; rather will I be the breeze,
That blows straight on in Indian seas;
Or scents, which, in the rose's heart,
Live and love-and ne'er depart!

Love-Love-for aye to thee!
O Constancy! O Constan!

THE MISTLETOE.

WHEN winter nights grow long,

And winds without blow cold,

We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire,

And listen to stories old!

And we try to look grave (as maids should be),
When the men bring in boughs of the laurel-tree.
O, the Laurel, the evergreen tree!

The Poets have laurels-and why not we?

How pleasant, when night falls down,

And hides the wintry sun,

To see them come in to the blazing fire,
And know that their work is done;

While many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme,
Green branches of holly for Christmas time!

O the Holly, the bright green Holly,

It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly!

Sometimes-in our grave-house,

Observe, this happeneth not;

But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs
And the holly are all forgot!

And then what then? why, the men laugh low,
And hang up a branch of-the Mistletoe!

Oh, brave is ine Laurei! and brave is the Holly!
But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy!
Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know
What is done-under the Mistletoe!

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

SING!-Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?

The VINE, boys, the VINE!
The mother of mighty Wine.

A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company,
Drink!-Who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks?

Ah, who is this maid of thine?

The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE!

O, never let her escape

Until she be turned to Wine!

For better is she,

Than vine can be,

And very, very good company!

Dream!-Who dreams

Of the God who governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine?

'Tis WINE, boys, 'tis WINE!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.

O better is he

Than grape or tree,

And the best of all good company!

THE NIGHTS.

OH! the Summer Night

Has a smile of light,

And she sits on a sapphire throne;
While the sweet Winds load her
With garlands of odor,

From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

But the Autumn Night
Has a piercing sight,
And a step both strong and free;
And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the Thunder,
When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter Night

Is all cold and white,

And she singeth a song of pain;
Till the wild bee hummeth,
And warm Spring cometh,

When she dies in a dream of rain!

Oh, the Night, the Night!
'Tis a lovely sight,
Whatever the clime or time;
For sorrow then soareth,
And the lover out-poureth
His soul in a star-bright rhymc.

It bringeth sleep

To the forests deep,
The forest-bird to its nest;
To Care bright hours,
And dreams of flowers,

And that balm to the weary-Rest!

THE STORMY PETREL.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast;
The sails are scattered abroad, like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds,
The mighty cables, and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts like stonɔ
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! Up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amid the flashing and feathery foam

The Stormy Petrel finds a home

A home, if such a place may be,

For her who lives on the wide wide sea,

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeketh her rocky lair

To warm her young, and to teach them spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the Deep! O'er the Deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep, Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain;

For the mariner curseth the warning bird

Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard!
Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
Yet he ne'er falters :-So Petrel! spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

SONG OF THE SOLDIER TO HIS SWORD

My Sword! My friend! My noble friend!
Champion fearless! Servant true!

Whom my fathers without end

In their thousand battles drew

Come!

Let me bare thee to the light!

Let me clutch thee in my hand!

Oh! how keen, how blue, how bright,

Is my noble, noble brand!

Thou wast plucked from su me base mine
Born 'mid stone and stubborn clay;
Ah! who dreamt that aught divine
In that rugged aspect lay?
Come!

Once we called and thou didst come

Straight from out thy sleep didst start,
And the trump and stormy drum
Woke at once thy iron heart!

Thou wast like the lightning, driven
By the tempest's strength at speed!
Brazen shields and armor riven
Told what thou couldst do, at need.
Come!

Hark! again the trumpets bray!
Hark! where rolls the stormy drum!

I am here to lead the way;

Servant of my fathers-Come!

TO A NIGHTINGALE, AT MIDDAY.
THY Voice is sweet-is sad-is clear,

And yet, methinks, 't should flow unseen, Like hidden rivers that we hear

Singing among the forests green. Delay, delay! till downy Eve

Into her twilight woods hath flown: Too soon, musician, dost thou grieve;

Love bloometh best (like thought)—alone. Cease, coase awhile! Thy holy strain Should be among the silence born; Thy heart may then unfold its pain, Leaning upon its bridal thorn.

The insect noise, the human folly,

Disturb thy grave thoughts with their din; Then, cease awhile, bird Melancholy, And when the fond Night hears-begin!

HURRAH FOR MERRY ENGLAND.

HURRAH for the Land of England!

Firm-set in the subject sea;

Where the women are fair,

And the men (like air)

Are all lovers of liberty!

Hurrah! for merry England!

Long life, without strife, for England!

Hurrah, for the Spirit of England!
The merry, the true, the free;

Who stretcheth his hand,

With a king's command,

All over the circling sea!

Hurrah for merry England!

Long life, without strife, for England!

Let tyrants rush forth on the nations,
And strive to chain down the free;

But do thou stand fast,

From the first to the last,

For "THE RIGHT"-wherever it be!
O merry, O merry England !
Long life to the Spirit of England!

Hurrah, for William of England!
Our friend-as a king should be

Who casteth aside

Man's useless pride,

And leans on his people free!

Hurrah! for the King of England!
The boast of merry England!

Her King is the boast of England!
Her guards are her ships at sea;

But her beauty lies

In her women's eyes,

And her strength in her People free!

So, three cheers for merry England!
For the King and the Freemen of England!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

THE WOOD-THRUSH.

WHITHER hath the Wood-thrush flown,
From our greenwood bowers?
Wherefore builds he not again,
Where the white-thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings,
The sunny year he bringeth;
And the heart unlocks its springs,
Wheresoe'er he singeth.

Lover-like the creature waits,
And when Morning soareth,
All his little soul of song

Tow'rd the dawn he poureth.

Sweet one, why art thou not heard
Now, where woods are stillest?
Oh, come back! and bring with thee-
Whatsoe'er thou willest :-

Laughing thoughts, delightful songs,
Dreams of azure hours,
Something, nothing-all we ask
Is to see thee ours!

"Tis enough that thou shouldst sing
For thy own pure pleasure!
'Tis enough that thou hast once
Sweetened human leisure!

COUNT BALTHAZAR.

"A famous man is Robin Hood: But each land' hath a thief as good; Then let us chant a passing stave

In honor of the Hero brave!"

• WORDSWORTH'S ROB ROY.

COUNT BALTHAZAR reigns in his strong stone tower, Girt round by his iron men;

And his strength, like the terrible Tempest's power, Sweeps through each Alpine glen !

A hunter he is, though a monarch grim

He seems on his mountain throne;

But he hunts not the stag, nor the ermine slim,
Nor the wolf, nor the eagle lone.

He breedeth no cattle, he traineth no vine,

He hath naught that is bought or sold:

Yet his cellars are bursting with brave bright wine,
And his coffers are crammed with gold.
Whenever he lacketh or kine or corn,

He calls to his armed band;

And they hunt through the valleys, from night till morn,
And beg for him-sword in hand!

So he drinks and he revels, till daylight gleams :
But nothing is free from pain!

For a Demon e'er watches his blood-red dreams,
(Whose laughter is deep

As the depths of sleep,)

And scares him to life again!

So Balthazar lives, and so must he die,

However the seasons roll:

The visions of guilt must haunt his eye,
And the dread of the damn'd, his soul!

He arose, like a pillar of fire, whose head
Is borne up by the raving blast:
He will sink (like the fire), deserted-dead,
And be trodden in dust at last!

So down with the tower, the old stone tower!
And, down with the iron men!

Let's summon our hearts, and unfetter our power,
And cleanse out the robber's den!

Where lieth their strength? In a vague false fame. Where based? On our fear alone.

Then let us build a phantom, and forge us a name, In a foundery of our own!

THE NIGHT IS CLOSING ROUND, MOTHER.
THE night is closing round, Mother!
The shadows are thick and deep!

All round me they cling, like an iron ring,
And I can not-can not sleep!

Ah, Heaven! thy hand, thy hand, Mother!
Let me lie on thy nursing breast!

They have smitten my brain with a piercing pain:
But 'tis gone!-and I now shall rest.

I could sleep a long long sleep, Mother!
So, seek me a calm cool bed:

You may lay me low, in the virgin snow,
With a moss-bank for my head.

I would lie in the wild wild woods, Mother!
Where naught but the birds are known;
Where nothing is seen, but the branches green,
And flow'rs on the greensward strewn.

No lovers there witch the air, Mother!
Nor mock at the holy sky:

One may live and be gay, like a summer day,
And at last, like the Summer-die!

MIDNIGHT RHYMES.

OH! 'tis merry when the stars are bright
To sing, as you pace along,

Of the things that are dreamt by night,
To the motion of some old song;
For the fancy of mortals teems,
Whether they wake or sleep,

With figures that shine like dreams,
Then-die in the darkness deep!

Oh! merry are Christmas times,
And merry the belfry chimes;
But the merriest things
That a man e'er sings,
Are his Midnight Rhymes.

"Tis night when the usurers feel
That their money is thrice repaid;
'Tis night when adorers kneel,

By scores to the sleeping maid;
'Tis night when the author deems
That his critics are all at bay,
And the gamester regains in dreams
The gold that he lost by day.

Oh! merry are Christmas times, de.

At night, both the sick and the lame
Abandon their world of care;

And the creature that droops with shame
Forgetteth her old despair!

The boy on the raging deep

Laughs loud that the skies are clear;
And the murderer turns, in sleep,
And dreams that a pardon's near!

Oh! merry are Christmas times, &c.

At night, all wrongs are right,

And all perils of life grow smooth;
Then why cometh the fierce daylight,
When fancy is bright as truth?

All hearts, 'tween the earth and the moon,
Recover their hopes again;

Ah-'tis pity so sweet a tune

Should ever be jarred by pain!

Yet-merry are Christmas times, fa