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THE POET'S CHOICE.

I.

'Twas in youth, that hour of dreaming;
Round me, visions fair were beaming,
Golden fancies, brightly gleaming,
Such as start to birth
When the wandering restless mind,
Drunk with beauty, thinks to find
Creatures of a fairy kind

Realized on earth!

II.

Then, for me, in every dell Hamadryads seem'd to dwell (They who die, as poets tell,

Each with her own tree ;) And sweet mermaids, low reclining, Dim light through their grottos shining, Green weeds round their soft limbs twining, Peopled the deep sea.

III.

Then, when moon and stars were fair,
Nymph-like visions fill'd the air,
With blue wings and golden hair

Bending from the skies;
And each cave by echo haunted
In its depth of shadow granted,
Brightly, the Egeria wanted,

To my eager eyes.
IV.

But those glories pass'd away;
Earth seem'd left to dull decay,

And my heart in sadness lay,

Desolate, uncheer'd; Like one wrapt in painful sleeping, Pining, thirsting, waking, weeping, Watch thro' life's dark midnight keeping, Till THY form appear'd!

V.

THEN my soul, whose erring measure
Knew not where to find true pleasure,
Woke and seized the golden treasure
Of thy human love;

And, looking on thy radiant brow,
My lips in gladness breathed the vow
Which angels, not more fair than thou,
Have register'd above.

VI.

And now I take my quiet rest,
With my head upon thy breast,
I will make no further quest

In fancy's realms of light,
Fay, nor nymph, nor winged spirit,
Shall my store of love inherit;
More thy mortal charm doth merit

Than dream, however bright.
VII.

And my soul, like some sweet bird
Whose song at summer eve is heard,
When the breeze, so lightly stirr'd,

Leaves the branch unbent,

Sits and all triumphant sings,
Folding up her brooding wings,
And gazing out on earthly things
With a calm content.

THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLE

MAGNE.

AMONG other relics preserved in the Cathedra at Aix-la-Chapelle is the ivory hunting-horn of Charlemagne. It is massive and heavy, and the attempt of the guide to sound it (for the amusement of tourists and strangers) is singularly unsuccessful, the note produced being the most faint and lugubrious which it is possible to conceive.

SOUND not the Horn!-the guarded relic keep: A faithful sharer of its master's sleep: His life it gladden'd-to his life belong'd,Pause-ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd. Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand; Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand. Not such the sound it gave in days of yore, When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore,Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell It waked the echoes with triumphant swell; Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall. From castle crag to roofless ruin'd hall, Down the ravine's precipitous descent, Thro' the wild forest's rustling boughs it went, Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond, And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond.

Pause!-the free winds that joyous blast have borne:

Dead is the hunter!-silent be the horn!

Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day When to the chase an emperor led the way; In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime, Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast, Glad, active, vigorous,-who is now at rest :How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky. Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting steed

(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed,)

At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn,
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn!

Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne ;
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown,
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down!

Or, following to his palace, dream we now Not of the hunter's strength, or forest bough, But woman's love! HER offering this, per

chance,

This, granted to each stranger's casual glance,
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes,
Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

We see her not;-no mournful angel stands
To guara her love-gift from our careless hands;
But fancy brings a vision to our view-

A woman's form, the trusted and the true:
The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare,
Patient to watch through many a day of care,
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile,

And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile;
Even such I see! Her maidens, too, are there,
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air;
But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear,
And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear,
She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still,
For one faint blast that dies along the hill.

Up, up, she springs; her young head backward thrown;

"He comes! my hunter comes !-Mine ownmine own!"

She loves, and she is loved-her gift is worn'Tis fancy, all!-And yet-lay down the horn!

Love-life-what are ye?-since to love and live
No surer record to our times can give!
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame;
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride,
And dim tradition dreameth by his side.
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls,
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls,
Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome
guest,

And loudly rang the beaker and the jest ;-
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound,
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound
Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air,
Or faintly echoes many a humble prayer;
Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and
high,

With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky,-
Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray,
A prison'd portion of God's glorious day,—
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn,
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn!

Ignorant of all distress,

Full of childhood's carelessness.

She is gentle; she hath known Something of the echoed tone Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, In this world of many woes. On her brow such shadows are As the faint cloud gives the star, Veiling its most holy light, Tho' it still be pure and bright; And the colour in her cheek To the hue on thine is weak, Save when flush'd with sweet surprise, Sudden welcomes light her eyes; And her softly chisel'd face (But for living, moving grace) Looks like one of those which beam In th' Italian painter's dream,Some beloved Madonna, bending O'er the infant she is tending; Holy, bright, and undefiled Mother of the Heaven-born child; Who, tho' painted strangely fair, Seems but made for holy prayer, Pity, tears, and sweet appeal, And fondness such as angels feel; Baffling earthly passion's sigh With serenest majesty!

Oh! may those enshrouded years Whose fair dawn alone appears," May that brightly budding life, Knowing yet nor sin nor strife,Bring its store of hoped-for joy, Mother, to thy laughing boy! And the good thou dost impart Lie deep-treasured in his heart, That, when he at length shall strive In the bad world where we live, THY sweet name may still be blest As one who taught his soul true rest! Maiden-Bradley, 1838.

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

But still the BLIND. MAN heard thee speak
In accents made to bless and soothe:
Still he could feel thy guided hand

As through the woodlands wild we rangedStill in the summer light could stand,

And know thy HEART and VOICE unchanged.

VIII.

And still, beloved, till life grows cold,
We'll wander 'neath a genial, sky,
And only know that we are old

By counting happy years gone by:

For thou to me art still as fair

As when those happy years began,

When first thou cam'st to soothe and share The sorrows of a sightless man!

IX.

Old Time, who changes all below,

To wean men gently from the grave,
Hath brought us no increase of woe,
And leaves us all he ever gave:
For I am still a helpless thing,

Whose darkened world is cheered by thee-
And thou art she whose beauty's spring
The blind man vainly yearned to see!

THE FALLEN LEAVES.

We stand among the fallen leaves,
Young children at our play,
And laugh to see the yellow things
Go rustling on their way:
Right merrily we hunt them down,
The autumn winds and we,
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie,
Or sunbeams gild the tree:
With dancing feet we leap along

Where withered boughs are strown;
Nor past nor future checks our song-
The present is our own.

We stand among the fallen leaves

In youth's enchanted springWhen Hope (who wearies at the last) First spreads her eagle wing.

We tread with steps of conscious strength
Beneath the leafless trees,

And the color kindles on our cheek
As blows the winter breeze;
While, gazing toward the cold gray sky,
Clouded with snow and rain,
We wish the old year all past by,

And the young spring come again.

We stand among the fallen leaves
In manhood's haughty prime-
When first our pausing hearts begin
To love "the olden time;
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think

How many a year hath passed
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees
Our footsteps wandered last;
And old companions-now perchance
Estranged, forgot, or dead-
Come round us, as those autumn leaves
Are crushed beneath our tread.

We stand among the fallen leaves

In our own autumn dayAnd, tott'ring on with feeble steps, Pursue our cheerless way. We look not back-too long ago

Hath all we loved been lost; Nor forward-for we may not live To see our new hope crossed: But on we go-the sun's faint beam A feeble warmth impartsChildhood without its joy returnsThe present fills our hearts!

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Yes, thou must go; the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's house-from all of these my exiled one must fly;

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I, starting, wake to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:

And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,

When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears

Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,

Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,

"It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink! Away! the fevered dream is o'er

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!

They tempted me, my beautiful!-for hunger's power is strong

They tempted me, my beautiul! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? who said

that thou wast sold?

'Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;

Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER.

WE have been friends together,

In sunshine and in shade;

Since first beneath the chestnut-trees
In infancy we played.

But coldness dwells within thy heart-
A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together-
Shall a light word part us now?

We have been gay together;

We have laughed at little jests; For the fount of hope was gushing, Warm and joyous, in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip, And sullen glooms thy brow;

We have been gay togetherShall a light word part us now?

We have been sad together

We have wept, with bitter tears,
O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumbered
The hopes of early years.

The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together-
Oh! what shall part us now?

ALLAN PERCY.

Ir was a beauteous lady richly dressed; Around her neck are chains of jewels rare; A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast,

And a young child is softly slumbering there. In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun,

She bears him onward to the greenwood tree. Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless one, The place where an earl's son should cradled be?

Lullaby!

Though a proud earl be father to my child,

Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall lie; Let the winds lull him with their murmurs wild, And toss the green boughs upward to the sky. Well knows the earl how long my spirit pined. I loved a forester, glad, bold, and free; And had I wedded as my heart inclined, My child were cradled 'neath the greenwood

tree.

Lullaby!

Slumber thou still, my innocent-mine own, While I call back the dreams of other days. In the deep forest I feel less alone

Than where those palace splendors mock my

gaze.

Fear not! my arm shall bear thee safely back;

I need no squire, no page with bended knee, To bear my baby through the wildwood track, Where Allan Percy used to roam with me. Lullaby!

Here I can sit; and while the fresh wind blows, Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair, Giving thy check a deeper tinge of rose,

I can dream dreams that comfort my despair;

I can make visions of a different home,
Such as we hoped in other days might be;
There no proud earl's unwelcome footsteps

come

There, Allan Percy, I am safe with thee! Lullaby!

Thou art mine own-I'll bear thee where I list, Far from the dull, proud tower and donjon

keep;

From my long hair the pearl-chains I'll untwist,
And with a peasant's heart sit down and weep.
Thy glittering 'broidered robe, my precious one,
Changed for a simpler covering shall be;
And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son,
And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with me.
Lullaby!

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