Locked in my heart's remotest treasures, SONGS FROM THE TROUBADOUR.* I. (FROM CANTO 1.) "My mother's grave, my mother's grave! Oh! dreamless is her slumber there, And drowsily the banners wave O'er her that was so chaste and fair; And silence sleeps on earth and sea, In her cold beauty darkly shaded! "I cannot guess her face or form; But what to me is form or face? I do not ask the weary worm To give me back each buried grace Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses! I only feel that she is here, And that we meet, and that we part; And that I drink within mine ear, And that I clasp around my heart, Her sweet still voice, and soft caresses! * First published in Knight's Quarterly Magazine. "Not in the waking thought by day, A glittering cloud, a darkling beam, And all the passion of a dream, Linked in a golden spell together!" II. Spirits, that walk and wail to-night, Of the lonely dead Creeps through the whispering atmosphere ! Ye hover o'er the hoary trees, And the old oaks stand bereft and bare; Ye hover o'er the moonlight seas, And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air; Ye gaze on the gate Of earthly state, And the ban dog shivers in silence there. Come hither to me upon your cloud, In heaven or hell? And why do ye wander on earth again? Tell me where and how ye died, From friend or foe, Hurried your angry souls away? Mute ye come, and mute ye pass, Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven; But ye have blighted the pale grass, And scared the ghastly stars from heaven; And guilt hath known Your voiceless moan, And felt that the blood is unforgiven ! III. (FROM CANTO II.) Oh fly with me! 'tis Passion's hour; Oh fly with me! my courser's flight There's nothing else to speak or hear; And we will say, as on we glide, Oh fly with me! and we will wing The envious Mermaid, when we pass, Oh fly with me! and we will dwell Where Italy's unclouded skies Oh fly with me! by these sweet strings IV. Fare thee well, fare thee well, Nor link to earth those glittering wings, I know that thou art gone to dwell Fare thee well, fare thee well; And go thy way, all pure and fair, And wander there with the spirits of air, Fare thee well, fare thee well! Fare thee well, fare thee well! Fare thee well, fare thee well! See, I have been to the sweetest bowers, And culled from garden and from heath The tenderest of all tender flowers, And blended in my wreath The violet and the blue harebell, |