From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains, Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, Touch them, every fount unsealing, VI.-BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE. BIRD, that art singing on Ebro's side! Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee? Doth song avail thy full heart to free? -Bird of the midnight's purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody. Bird! is it blighted affection's pain, Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain? And is the wound of that arrow still'd, When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd? -Bird of the midnight's purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody. VII.-MOORISH GATHERING SONG. ZORZICO. * CHAINS on the cities! gloom in the air! Come from the Darro !-changed is its tone; Come from Alhambra! garden and grove Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers! VIII. THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. WE heard thy name, O Mina! Far through our hills it rang; The peasant left his vintage, The shepherd grasp'd the spear- The mountain bands are here. * The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorish melody. As eagles to the dayspring, So rush'd our hearts to thee. Thy spirit is our banner, The mountain bands are thine. IX.-MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST. A CANCION. MOTHER! oh, sing me to rest As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress'd. Lay this tired head on thy breast! -Mother, oh, sing me to rest! Take back thy bird to its nest! THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES. 31 X. THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 'Tis a day of the spear and the banner, There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias, Proud marks where their children have stood! THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. HARK! from the dim church tower, Sadly 'twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth-flame Sternly and sadly heard, As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word, And the red wine's foaming flow! Flung out from every fane, Woe for the pilgrim then, In the wild deer's forest far! And woe for him whose wakeful soul, Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, And yet a deeper woe For the watcher by the bed, Where the fondly loved in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread! For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Darkness in chieftain's hall! Darkness in peasant's cot! While freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o'er her lot. |