"I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?—
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?-
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle-boughs?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?-
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?”
-"Not there, not there, my child!
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE GRAVE OF AN
ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.
A lonely grave is thine, poor child!
A lonely grave is thine;
No mother's form, in anguish wild,
May o'er thy clay recline,
Beside this little spot of scorn
No sister's love appear;
The flowers that weep at prime of morn
The only mourners here!
Nor dares a father's manlier part
Here vent a father's care,
Remorse would wring his conscious heart,
And hush even nature there.
Thy mother's step would turn away,
Her cheek were dashed with shame-
Orphaned by guilt, thy moment's stay
Nor parent knew, nor name.
Oh, curse of guilt, all curse above!
That "hardens a' within,"
That sours a mother's milk of love
With sorrow, scorn, and sin-
For thee, lorn babe! no tender throe
Might a parent's hope employ,
Thy birth-hour was an hour of woe,
Thy death a tale of joy!
Thrice blest, that to thy day of pain
A date so brief was given;
The light of earth scarce seen, till ta'en
To see the light of heaven!
Had riper periods o'er thee past,
Reproach had galled thy way,
And thou hadst died, perchance, at last,
To grief and guilt a prey.
If the lorn bird complain, or rustling sweep
Soft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,
Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,
Where on the enamelled bank I sit below,
With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow;
'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!
Her, formed in Heaven! I see, and hear, and know!
Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:
"Alas!" she pitying says, 'ere yet the hour,
Why hurry life away with swifter flight?
Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?
No longer mourn my fate! through death my days
Become eternal! to eternal light
These eyes which seemed in darkness closed, I raise!"
The eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould,
So long the theme of my impassioned lay,
Charms which so stole me from myself away,
That strange to other men the course I hold:
The crisped locks of pure and lucid gold;
The lightning of the angelic smile, whose ray
To earth could all of Paradise convey,
A little dust are now!-to feeling cold!
And yet I live!—but that I live bewail;
Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led
My shattered bark, bereft of mast and sail :
Hushed be the song that breathed love's purest fire;
Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed,
And turned to mourning my once tuneful lyre.
Not skies serene, with glittering stars inlaid,
Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing,
Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing,
Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade,
Nor tidings new of happiness delayed,
Nor poesie, Love's witchery enchanting,
Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing,
In beauty's pride, with chastity arrayed;
Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show,
Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tomb
Who was erewhile my life and light below!
So heavy-tedious-sad-my days unblest,
That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom,
Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were blest!
WITH THE FOREGOING TRANSLATIONS.
THE brook, soft rippling on its pebbled way,
With many a winding fondly lingers long
In valleys low, stealing wild weeds among,
And pendent boughs that o'er its surface play;
Its humble pride still to reflect the gay
And varied flowers that round its mirror throng;
So I, erewhile, lone warbled my rude song,
Echoing Valclusa's sad melodious lay:
And as, lured forth along the unsheltered plain,
The little stream at length, with bolder course,
Bears tributary waters to the main;
I, too, though late, to thee my offering bear,
Adventurous, won by Friendship's gentle force
From covert shades, the broader light to dare.
O I am not of this countrie,
And much my heart is wrung,
To wander in a foreign land,
And beg in foreign tongue.
'Tis all to gain a little sum
To bear me o'er the sea;
And hither slowly I am come
To ask your charity.
My home is in the Valteline,
Far inland from the main ;
And every day I wish and pine
To see it once again.
I cannot mend this little store;
My wishing is in vain;
And I shall ne'er behold it more,
Ah never, ne'er again!
If you have ever been abroad,
Bestow an alms on me!
And think you speed me on my road
My native land to see.
My cot still rises to my view,
And will not let me stay;
But I am old, and alms are few,
And sad is the delay!
And must I ever thus deplore
My labour spent in vain?
And shall I ne'er behold it more?
Ah never, ne'er again!
Your country is a pleasant land,
But oh, it is not mine!
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