Oh the fireside's peace we well may prize! For blood hath flow'd like rain, Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries Of England's homes again. Heap the yule-fagots high, Till the red light fills the room! It is home's own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening-gloom, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, THE CALL TO BATTLE. "Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, BYRON. THE Vesper-bell, from church and tower, And the household, in the hush of eve, Were met, their porch around. A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet's power "We rise on all our hills! come forth! 'tis thy country's gathering hour— There's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each old battle-dell— Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!" Then the father gave his son the sword, "Haste, haste! the hunters of the foe are up, and who shall stand The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land? Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion's blast, With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages past." Then the mother kiss'd her son with tears That o'er his dark locks fell: "I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er, Yet I stay thee not-Farewell!" "One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word! It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's heart is stirred. Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the fight, To breathe. upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might. And a maiden's fond adieu was heard, My prayer shall with thee go!" "Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter's chain is burst! So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursed The night is past, the silence o'er-on all our hills we rise We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries." There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, But the strength of prayer and sacrifice SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.* I. AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. [A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription"Et in Arcadia ego."] THEY have wander'd in their glee They have climb'd o'er heathery swells, What hath staid the wand'rers now? * Of these songs, the ones entitled, "Ye are not missed, fair Flowers," the "Willow Song," "Leave me not yet," and the "Orange Bough," are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whom they will be published with music. Lo! a grey and rustic tomb, Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt." There is many a summer sound That pale sepulchre around; Through the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing; Glimpses of blue festal skies Pouring in when soft winds rise; Violets o'er the turf below Shedding out their warmest glow; O'er the greenwood now is thrown! Through its music seems to float, Something, dimly from those old words felt, "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt." Was some gentle kindred maid |