Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!

But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Fill'd with the soul of prayer;
Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain,
And trembling hope be there.

Deeper, yet deeper! in my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:

A passion unto music given,
A sweet, yet piercing cry:
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?

Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?

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,
And a banner in thy hand;

Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast,
Thy long bright years had sped;

And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head.

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.

The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;

And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.

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.