Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learn to soar on high,
And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye;
Though the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel cease for me,
Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! still I'll drink a health to thee.
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health to thee;
May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me!
May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!
And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be,
Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee!
I am never merry when I hear sweet music
OH! joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell and float,
A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is pour'd on every note;
And yet my full o'erburthen'd heart grows troubled by your power,
And ye seem to press the long past years into one little hour.
If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no more-
A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the mountain shore,
A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evening sky,
Ye bring me back those images fast as ye wander by.
If in the happy walks and days of childhood I have heard,
And into childhood's memory link'd the music of a bird;
A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's train, –
Ye give me that wild melody of early life again.
Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is changed, or gone,
Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone,
I find that murmur in your notes -- they touch the chords of thought,
And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is brought.
If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground
To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love was bound:
If I have watch 'd the parting step of one who came not back,
The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting track.
Yet on ye float! the very air seems kindling with your glee!
Oh! do ye fling this mournful spell, sweet sounds! alone on me?
Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now, in sighs,
To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies?
I know not!-only this I know, that not by me on earth,
May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its birth;
It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal sphere,
Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter fountains here.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France:
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King."
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,—
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din,
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andrè's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies now, - upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turn'd his rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail;
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew," was pass'd from man to man;
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!
Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath rais'd the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.
BY CHARLES WEST THOMPSON.
BIRD of the heavens! whose matchless eye
Alone can front the blaze of day,
And, wand'ring through the radiant sky,
Ne'er from the sunlight turns away;
Whose ample wing was made to rise
Majestic o'er the loftiest peak,
On whose chill tops the winter skies,
Around thy nest, in tempests speak.
What ranger of the winds can dare,
Proud mountain king! with thee compare;
Or lift his gaudier plumes on high
Before thy native majesty,
When thou hast ta'en thy seat alone,
Upon thy cloud-encircled throne?
Bird of the cliffs! thy noble form
Might well be thought almost divine;
Born for the thunder and the storm,
The mountain and the rock are thine;
And there, where never foot has been.
Thy eyry is sublimely hung,
Where louring skies their wrath begin,
And loudest lullabies are sung
By the fierce spirit of the blast,
When, his snow mantle o'er him cast,
He sweeps across the mountain top,
With a dark fury naught can stop,
And wings his wild unearthly way
Far through the clouded realms of day.
Bird of the sun! to thee-to thee
The earliest tints of dawn are known,
And 'tis thy proud delight to see
The monarch mount his gorgeous throne;
Throwing the crimson drapery by,
That half impedes his glorious way;
And mounting up the radiant sky,
E'en what he is, - the king of day!
Before the regent of the skies
Men shrink, and veil their dazzled eyes!
But thou, in regal majesty,
Hast kingly rank as well as he;
And with a steady, dauntless gaze,
Thou meet'st the splendour of his blaze.
Bird of Columbia! well art thou
An emblem of our native land;
With unblench'd front and noble brow,
Among the nations doom'd to stand;
Proud, like her mighty mountain woods;
Like her own rivers, wandering free;
And sending forth, from hills and floods,
The joyous shout of liberty!
Like thee, majestic bird! like thee,
She stands in unbought majesty,
With spreading wing, untired and strong,
That dares a soaring far and long,
That mounts aloft, nor looks below,
And will not quail though tempests blow.
The admiration of the earth,
In grand simplicity she stands;
Like thee, the storms beheld her birth,
And she was nursed by rugged hands;
But, past the fierce and furious war,
Her rising fame new glory brings,
For kings and nobles come from far
To seek the shelter of her wings.
And like thee, rider of the cloud,
She mounts the heavens, serene and proud,
Great in a pure and noble fame,
Great in her spotless champion's name,
And destined in her day to be
Mighty as Rome — more nobly free.
My native land! my native land!
To whom my thoughts will fondly turn:
For her the warmest hopes expand,
For her the heart with fears will yearn.
Oh! may she keep her eye, like thee,
Proud eagle of the rocky wild,
Fix'd on the sun of liberty,
By rank, by faction unbeguiled;
Remembering still the rugged road
Our venerable fathers trod,
When they through toil and danger press'd,
To gain their glorious bequest,
And from each lip the caution fell
To those who follow'd, "Guard it well.”
Methinks it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world like this,
Where even the breezes and the common air
Contain the power and spirit of harmony.-COLERIDGE.
HARP of the winds! What music may compare
With thy wild gush of melody; Or where,
'Mid this world's discords, may we hope to meet
Tones like to thine-so soothing and so sweet!
Harp of the winds! When Summer's Zephyr wings
His airy flight across thy tremulous strings,
As if enamour'd of his breath, they move
With soft low murmurs, like the voice of Love,
Ere passion deepens it, or sorrow mars
Its harmony with sighs! - All earth-born jars
Confess thy soothing power, when strains like these
From thy bliss-breathing chords are borne upon the breeze!
But when a more pervading force compels
Their sweetness into strength, and swiftly swells
Each tenderer tone to fulness, what a strange
And spirit-stirring sense that fitful change
Wakes in my heart! - Visions of days long past,
Hope-joy-pride-pain-
and passion
Come rushing on my soul,- till I believe
Some strong enchantment, purposed to deceive,
Hath fix'd its spell upon me, and I grieve
may not burst its bonds! — Anon the gale Softly subsides, and whisperings wild prevail Of inarticulate melody, which seem
Is to reality; - or as the swell
(Those who have felt alone have power to tell)
Of the full heart where love was late a guest
Ere it recovers from its sweet unrest!
The charm is o'er! Each warring thought flits by
Quell'd by that more than mortal minstrelsy!
Each turbulent feeling owns its sweet control,
And peace once more returns, and settles on my soul!
Harp of the winds! thy ever tuneful chords,
In language far more eloquent than words
Of earth's best skill'd philosophers, do teach
A deep and heavenly lesson! Could it reach,
With its impressive truths, the heart of man,
Then were he bless'd indeed; and he might scan
His coming miseries with delight! The storm
Of keen adversity would then deform
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