Over the wild sea-wave;-at times the strain Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world, They crown me with the glistening crown, I hear the pealing music of renown Mine were a lone dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o'er the earth: From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow! Shed by thy gentle eyes It gives to flower and skies, A bright new birth! Thence gleams the path of morning, Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning With lustre not its own! Thence every wood-recess Is fill'd with loveliness, Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known. I see all beauty by the ray Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Of fear 'midst quivering joy, Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart! The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world's cool breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul-a temple fill'd with thee! Seal'd would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free! Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken, Such would my spirit be; So mute, so void, so shatter'd, Bereft of thee! Leave me not, Love! or if this earth Yield not for thee a home, If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth Send thee a silvery voice that whispers" Come!" VOL. VII. 6 Then, with the glory from the rose, With all th' Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love. MUSIC AT A DEATHBED. "Music! why thy power employ Only for the sons of joy? Only for the smiling guests WARTON FROM EURIPIDES. BRING music! stir the brooding air Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, Oh no! not such! that lingering spell When my wean'd heart hath said farewell, Let not a sigh of human love But pour a solemn-breathing strain Deeper, yet deeper! in my thought A passion unto music given, A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven, Deeper! Oh! may no richer power Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour, Away! and hush the feeble song, And let the chord be still'd! Far in another land erelong My dream shall be fulfill'd. MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. "I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin-a plain quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle-his foot in the iron stirrup-his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last.". Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.” THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, And a warrior's bier was thine at last, Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high, |