‡ BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.

By a mountain stream at rest,
We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
A banner clasp'd in dying:
Dark and still

Was every hill,

And the winds of night were sighing.

Last of his noble race,

To a lonely bed we bore him; 'Twas a green, still, solemn place,

Where the mountain-heath waves o'er him. Woods alone

Seem to moan,

Wild streams to deplore him.

Yet, from festive hall and lay

Our sad thoughts oft are flying, To those dark hills far away,

Where in death we found him lying;

On his breast

A banner press'd,

And the night-wind o'er him sighing.

IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.

Is there some spirit sighing

With sorrow in the air,

Can weary hearts be dying,

Vain love repining there?

If not, then how can that wild wail,
O sad Æolian lyre!

Be drawn forth by the wandering gale,
From thy deep thrilling wire?

No, no!-thou dost not borrow
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow

In thee, O harp! enshrined;
But in our own hearts deeply set

Lies the true quivering lyre, Whence love, and memory, and regret,

Wake answers from thy wire.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

THE trumpet of the battle

Hath a high and thrilling tone;

And the first deep gun of an ocean fight

Dread music all its own.

But a mightier power, my England!
Is in that name of thine,

To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner'd line.

Proudly it woke the spirits
Of yore, the brave and true,

When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,

And the yeoman's arrow flew.

And proudly hath it floated

Through the battles of the sea,

When the red-cross flag o'er smoke wreaths play'd, Like the lightning in its glee.

On rock, on wave, on bastion,

Its echoes have been known,

By a thousand streams the hearts lie low,
That have answer'd to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirr'd;
Sound on, and on, for evermore,
O thou victorious word!

OLD NORWAY.'

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

"To a Norwegian the words Gamlé Norgé (Old Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. Gamlé Norgé is heard, in an instant, repeated by every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained; not a drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus ‘For Norgé!' the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression Gamlé Norge. The gravest discussion is instantly

1 These words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.

interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment, that the party was a party of patriots assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom. DERWENT CONWAY'S Personal Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden.

The following words were written to the national air, as contained in the work above cited.

ARISE! old Norway sends the word
Of battle on the blast;

Her voice the forest-pines hath stirr❜d,
As if a storm went past;

Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.

Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,
The kingly chase of foes;

'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race
Whose trampling shakes the snows;
Arm, arm! 't is on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.

Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed;

Heap there the rocks for funeral piles,
Above the invader's head!

Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!

10*

COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP.

COME to me, gentle sleep!

I pine, I pine for thee;

Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,

And set my spirit free!

Each lonely, burning thought,

In twilight languor steep

Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought,
O gentle, gentle sleep!

Come with thine urn of dew,

Sleep, gentle sleep! yet bring
No voice, love's yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!

Come, as to folding flowers,

To birds in forests deep;

-Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,

O gentle, gentle sleep!