And when, in some fair golden hour,
Thy harp-strings shall give back the sigh
Of love's wild harp, no earthly bower
Shall lend such hues as bloom to die;
But, earnest of the eternal spring,
Their amaranth wreaths shall angels bring;
And, preluding the choir of heaven,
Soft Eden gales shall sweep the lyre,
And star-like points of guiltless fire,
From God's own altar-flame, to gem thy brow be given.
It is my pride that I can deem,
Though faintly, of that being's worth,
Who to the All-gracious mind shall seem
Meet help for thee in heaven and earth.
Long as before Life's gale I drive
Shall holiest hope within me live,
Thee fair, thee blessed while I view ;
And when the post of endless rest
Receives me, may my soul be blest
With everlasting upward gaze on you.
Alnwick Castle.
HOME of the Percy's high-born race,
Home of their beautiful and brave,
Alike their birth and burial place,
Their cradle and their grave!
Still sternly o'er the castle gate
Their house's Lion stands in state,
As in his proud departed hours;
And warriors frown in stone on high,
And feudal banners “flout the sky"
Above his princely towers.
A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green, To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene
As silently and sweetly still
As when at evening, on that hill,
While summer winds blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katherine was a happy bride,
A thousand years ago.
Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile;
Does not the succoring ivy, keeping
Her watch around it, seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping?
One solitary turret gray
Still tells, in melancholy glory,
The legend of the Cheviot day,
The Percy's proudest border story.
That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang from aisle to pictured dome,
The light step of the soldier's march,
The music of the trump and drum ;
And babe and sire, the old, the young,
And the monk's hymn and minstrel's song,
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long,
Welcomed her warrior home!
Wild roses by the Abbey towers
Are gay in their young bud and bloom; They were born of a race of funeral flowers, That garlanded, in long-gone hours,
A Templar's knightly tomb.
He died, the sword in his mailed hand,
On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land,
Where the Cross was damp with his dying breath, When blood ran free as festal wine,
And the sainted air of Palestine
Was thick with the darts of death.
Wise with the lore of centuries,
What tales, if there be "tongues in trees,”
These giant oaks could tell,
Of beings born and buried here;
Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,
The welcome and farewell,
Since on their boughs the startled bird
First in her twilight slumbers heard
The Norman's curfew-bell.
I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high, heroic name ;
From him who once his standard set,
Where now o'er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons,
To him who, when a younger son,
Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.
That last half-stanza,-it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup ;
The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world, is gone;
And Alnwick's but a market town,
And this, alas! its market day;
And beasts and borderers throng the way ;
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots,
Men in the coal and cattle line;
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,
So dazzling to the dreaming boy ;
Ours are the days of fact, not fable—
Of knights, but not of the Round Table-
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy;
'Tis what "Our President," Monroe,
Has called "the era of good feeling ;”
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,
And leave off cattle-stealing;
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglass in red herrings;
And noble name and cultured land,
Palace, and Park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild or the Barings.
The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come to-day the turbaned Turk
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart!
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start)
Is England's friend and fast ally;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,
And on the Cross and altar-stone;
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And hears the Christian maiden shriek,
And sees the Christian father die ;
And not a sabre-blow is given
For Greece and fame, for faith and Heaven,
By Europe's craven chivalry!
You'll ask if yet the Percy lives
In the armed pomp of feudal state?
The present representatives
Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate,"
Are some half-dozen serving-men
In the drab coat of William Penn;
A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,
Spoke nature's aristocracy ;
And one, half groom, half seneschal,
Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall,
From donjon keep to turret wall,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling.
A Poet's Daughter.
[FOR AN ALBUM.]
LADY asks the minstrel's rhyme.”
A lady asks? There was a time
When, musical as play-bell's chime
That sound would summon dreams sublime
Of pride and joy.
But now the spell hath lost its sway;
Life's first-born fancies first decay;
Gone are the plumes and pennons gay
Of young Romance :
There linger but her ruins gray,
And broken lance.
'Tis a new world-no more to maid,
Warrior, or bard, is homage paid;
The bay tree's, laurel's, myrtle's shade,
Men's thoughts resign:
Heaven placed us here to vote and trade-
Twin tasks divine!
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