BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.

By a mountain stream at rest,

We found the warrior lying,

And around his noble breast

A banner, clasp'd in dying:

Dark and still

Was every hill,

And the winds of night were sighing.

Last of his noble race,

To a lonely bed we bore him;

'Twas a green, still, solemn place

Where the mountain heath waves o'er him.

Woods alone

Seem to moan,

Wild streams to deplore him.

Yet, from festive hall and lay

Our sad thoughts oft are flying,

To those dark hills far away,

Where in death we found him lying; On his breast

A banner press'd,

And the night-wind o'er him sighing.

IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.

Is there some spirit sighing
With sorrow in the air,

Can weary hearts be dying,

Vain love repining there?

If not, then how can that wild wail,

O sad Æolian lyre!

Be drawn forth by the wandering gale,
From thy deep thrilling wire?

No, no!-thou dost not borrow
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow

In thee, O harp! enshrined;

But in our own hearts deeply set

Lies the true quivering lyre,

Whence love, and memory, and regret,

Wake answers from thy wire.