174

The Lyre's Lament.

"Wind of the dark sea-waters!
Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.

"But the spell-the gift—the lightning—
Within my frame concealed,
Must I moulder on the rock away
With their triumphs unrevealed?

"I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!

I have sounds that through the ancient hills
Like a torrent's voice might roll.

"I have pealing notes of victory
That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich, deep tones to send the wail
For a hero's death afar.

"I have chords to lift the pæan
From the temple to the sky,

Full as the forest-unisons

When sweeping winds are high.

"And love-for love's lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violet's faint farewell:

"Soft-spiritual—mournful—

Sighs in each note enshrined-
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
Thou canst not, ocean-wind!

176

A Parting Song.

Her soul is far away,

In her childhood's land perchance,
Where her young sisters play,

Where shines her mother's glance.

Some old sweet native sound
Her spirit haply weaves;

A harmony profound

Of woods with all their leaves;

A murmur of the sea,

A laughing tone of streams :—
Long may her sojourn be

In the music-land of dreams!

Each voice of love is there,

Each gleam of beauty fled,
Each lost one still more fair-
Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

A PARTING SONG.

"O mes amis! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers! mon ame y est

W

empreinte."-Corinne.

HEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away—
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought,
Then let it be!

Woman and Fame.

177

When will ye think of me, kind friends?

When will ye think of me?—

When the rose of the rich midsummer-time

Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime-
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread-
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?—

When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody—
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream—
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!

Kindly and gently, but as of one

For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone-
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found—
So let it be.

WOMAN AND FAME.

HOU hast a charmèd cup, O Fame!

A draught that mantles high,

And seems to lift this earthly frame

Above mortality.

M

178

Woman and Fame.

Away! to me—a woman-bring

'Sweet waters from affection's spring!

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine
Into so proud a wreath,

For that resplendent gift of thine

Heroes have smiled in death:

Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet :

But mine, let mine—a woman's breast,
By words of home-born love be bless'd.

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thine eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy-

For kindly looks to cheer it on,

For tender accents that are gone.

Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay

Unto the drooping reed,

The cool fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need:

Where must the lone one turn or flee!

Not unto thee-oh! not to thee!