Where shall now the weary As on thy sweet leaves? She so long the inmate Of thy fragrant breast? But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee These may yet find coverts Leafy and profound, Full of dewy dimness, Odour and soft sound: But the gentle memories When shall they be gather'd Round another tree? O pride of our fathers! O hallow'd tree! 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 They sat beneath a lonely palm, And strangely, sadly, did those lays And solemn wastes around. Broken with tears were oft their tones, And most when most they tried From hearts that inly died. So met the sons of many lands, I-THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. In the proud old fanes of England Banners hang drooping o'er their dust But thou, but thou, my brother! In the old high wars of England For her lion-kings of lance and spear, But thou, but thou, my brother! 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! 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, Haunt me no more! for slavery's air Thy proud notes were not born; The dream but deepens my despairBe hush'd, thou Alpine horn! III. O YE VOICES. O YE voices round my own hearth singing! Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted Oft since then your fond farewell was said; O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed, Oft again! Or if still around my heart ye linger, Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer, Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home, Ne'er again! . IV. I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. I DREAM of all things free! Of a gallant, gallant bark, That sweeps through storm and sea, |