Yet must I perish if the gift depart

Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

The music from my lyre

With thy swift step would flee;

The world's cold 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,
Whence the oracle hath fled;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,

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 !" Then, with the glory from the rose,

With the sparkle from the stream,

With the light thy rainbow-presence throws

Over the poet's dream;

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
At natal, or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair!"

WARTON FROM EURIPIdes.

BRING music! stir the brooding air

With an ethereal breath!

Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!

Oh no! not such! that lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,

When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,
And pass'd the gates of strife.

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 Reflec-
tions 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!
Thou 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.