ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. 123 ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD WHENCE art thou, flower? from holy ground, Yet bugle-blast or trumpet sound Flower of a noble field! thy birth But where the sunny hues and showers There met high hearts at midnight hours, And vows were pledged that man should roam Free as the wind, the torrent's foam, The shaft of William Tell. And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, And souls grew strong for battle there, Before the Alps and stars they knelt, And rose, and made their spirits felt 124 ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. Then welcome Grütli's free-born flower! There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing, Those suns in golden light e'en now, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave. The flowers, o'er Posilippo's brow, May cluster in their purple bloom Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's tomb. Thy place is void; oh! none on earth, Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung On the green stem which once was thine; When shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine? THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. YES, it is ours!—the field is won, A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield! Let me not hear your trumpets ring, Swell not the battle-horn! Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne! Speak not of victory!—in the name There is too much of woe! Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame— Speak not of victory!-from my halls The ancient banner on my walls, Must sink erelong—I had but him—but one! Within the dwelling of my sires The hearths will soon be cold, With me must die the beacon-fires That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold. And let them fade, since this must be, My lovely and my brave! Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me, And is there but for stately youth a grave? Speak to me once again, my boy! Thou wert so full of life and joy, I had not dreamt of this-that thou couldst fall! Thy mother watches from the steep For thy returning plume; How shall I tell her that thy sleep Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb? Thou didst not seem as one to die, -Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down! Slow be your march! the field is won! A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. A FRAGMENT. REST on your battle-fields, ye brave! Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, Oh! there was mourning when ye fell, But that hath long been o'er. Rest with your still and solemn fame; But we on changeful days are cast, When bright names from their place fall fast; ENGLAND'S DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep, On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'ersway'd, With fearful power the noonday reigns, But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, |