Now may'st thou slumber-thy work is done-
Thou of the well-worn sword!

From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.

The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:

Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
That art couch'd in a still abode!

A quiet home from the noonday's glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast—

Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair, To win thee but this at last?

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

Он, joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time.
Thou whose wavy shadows,

Long and long ago,
Screen'd our grey forefathers

From the noontide's glow; Thou, beneath whose branches,

Touch'd with moonlight gleams,

Lay our early poets,

Wrapt in fairy dreams.

O tree of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,

As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove

Build again her nest?

She so long the inmate

Of thy fragrant breast?

But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!

These may yet find coverts

Leafy and profound, Full of dewy dimness,

Odour and soft sound:

But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,

When shall they be gather'd

Round another tree?

O pride of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been set to music by the author's sister, and are in the possession of Mr. Willis, by whose permission they are here published.

INTRODUCTION.

ONE hour for distant homes to weep
'Midst Afric's burning sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.

They sat beneath a lonely palm,
In the gardens of their lord;
And mingling with the fountain's tune,
Their songs of exile pour'd.

And strangely, sadly, did those lays

Of Alp and ocean sound,
With Afric's wild red skies above,

And solemn wastes around.

Broken with tears were oft their tones,

And most when most they tried

To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.

So met the sons of many lands,
Parted by mount and main;
So did they sing in brotherhood,
Made kindred by the chain.

I. THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.

In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior-fathers lie,

Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.

But thou, but thou, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep,
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.

In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled;

For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.

But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-drops flow'd for me-
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea.

In a shelter'd home of England

Our sister dwells alone,

With quick heart listening for the sound

Of footsteps that are gone.

She little dreams, my brother!

Of the wild fate we have found; I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave,

Thou, by the dark seas bound.

II. THE ALPINE HORN.

THE Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more- -but once-and die!

Yet, no! 'midst breezy hills thy breath, So full of hope and morn,

Would win me from the bed of deathO joyous Alpine horn!

But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!

Haunt me no more! for slavery's air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair-
Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn!