Song of the Mariner.

Song of the Mariner.

HURRAH! along the foaming tide,

With wild waves dashing round,

With furious speed I onwards ride,
And love the roaring sound.

Blow! blow! thou loud and fearful wind!

Roll on, thou angry sea!

I'll drink to those I leave behind-
I'll drink, Joanne, to thee!

Oh, who would tremble at the storm,
Or, like the coward, weep?

I rather feel my bosom warm
At every lengthen'd sweep.

The land is for the dastard mind,
The deep! the deep! for me-
I'll drink to those I leave behind-
I'll drink, Joanne, to thee!

Love, dearest maid! like mine ne'er shall
In empty words depart;

It still shall flourish fresh and fair
Within my faithful heart.

Yes, there's a Power who dwells above,

Who guards the brave and free,

He sees and will reward our love,
So here's a health to thee!

Blow! blow! thou loud and fearful wind!

Roll on, thou angry sea!

I'll drink to those I leave behind

I'll drink, Joanne, to thee!

243

The Bride's Farewell.

do I weep?-to leave the vine, Whose clusters o'er me bend?

WHY

The myrtle—yet, oh, call it mine !—
The flowers I loved to tend?
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,
Like shadows o'er me sweep!

I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh, therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, Sister—we have play'd
Through many a joyous hour,

Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower!
Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore,

In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been as we may be no more-
Kind Sister, let me weep!

1 leave thee, Father!-Eve's bright moon Must now light other feet,

With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward steps to greet!

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,

Lay tones of love so deep,

Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled—
I leave thee!-let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee!—on thy breast

Pouring out joy and woe,

I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless—yet I go.

Stanzas.

Lips that have lull'd me with your strain,
Eyes that have watch'd my sleep,
Will earth give love like yours again?—
Sweet Mother! let me weep!

Stanzas

ADDRESSED TO A LADY,

66

ON READING ROMEO AND JULIET."

FROM THE GERMAN.

F love and sorrow, 'tis a peerless tale !—

OF

Then press it softly to thy gentle breast;
I'll share the fear that makes thy pure cheek pale;
I'll guess the wish that may not be confess'd.
Unhappy pair!—And yet to them was given
That earthly joy which tasteth most of heaven.
Oh, sweet and bitter, let our mix'd tears flow,
Where, on the grave of Love, the drooping violets
grow!

To mortals there is given a fleeting life ;

A life !—Ah, no—a wild, vain, hurrying dream !— A tempest of pride, passion, sin, and strife—

A deep, dark, restless, ever-foaming stream! When fortune lifts us high, or sinks us low, We feel the motion-know not where we go ; Love only, like the oil upon the sea,

Gives to man's tossing soul repose and liberty.

245

'Tis true that they who love are seldom born To a smooth destiny.-Love buds in peace, But foulest wizards in the air have sworn

To blast its beauty ere the leaves increase. The lovers dare not look-fiends watch their eyes ;They dare not speak-fiends intercept their sighs ;A spell is on them, mute, o'ermastering;

Dumb sorrow o'er them waves her dark, depressing wing.

But let the faint heart yield him as he may,

Danger sits powerless on Love's steady breast; The lovers shrink not in the evil day;—

They are afflicted, but are not oppress'd.

To die together, or victorious live

That first and holiest vow, 'tis theirs to give ;
United!—though in fetters-they are free;
They care not though the grave their bridal bed
should be!

It may be, that if Love's expanding flower

Is forced to close before the storm's keen breath, That closing may protract the blooming hour, Which is so short in all that suffers death.

The silence, and the sorrow, and the pain,
May nourish that which they attack in vain.
The lowly flame burns longest.-Humble sadness

Is kindlier to Love's growth than free unvaried glad

ness.

But oh, how glorious shone their ruling star,

Which carried them with budding loves to heaven; Whom angels welcomed in bright realms afar

With a full cup, which scarce to taste was given,

To a Wounded Singing Bird.

While any remnant of terrestrial sin

Had power to stain the holy draught within !

They died!-Young Love stood by them calmly sighing,

And fann'd with his soft wing the terrors of their dying.

Read not of Juliet and her Romeo

With tragic trembling and uplifted hair;
Be mild, fair maid, and gentle in thy woe,

As in their death were that most innocent pair.
Upon the tomb o' the Capulets there gleams
No torchlight, but a moon of tender beams.
Then hate not love because a Juliet died,
But seek to sleep, like her, by a true lover's side.

To a Wounded Singing Bird.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun,

Or the sharp winter done thee harm?

We'll lay thee gently in the sun,

And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm;

Perhaps some human kindness still

May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild,

Till summer fall on field and fell,

And thou shalt be our feather'd child,
And tell us all thy pain and wrong
When thou canst speak again in song.

247