And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? -Thou hast lov'd, fair girl! thou hast lov'd too well! Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell; Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth, And art unrepaid for their priceless worth! Mourn on!-yet come thou not here the while, It is but a pain to see thee smile! There is not a tone in our songs for thee -Home with thy sorrows flee! Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again! -But what dost thou with the Revel's train? A silvery voice through the soft air floats, Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth -Back to thy silent hearth! Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again! -But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine, By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, I know thee!-it is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here! I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night, With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might! There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun, For it asks what the secret soul hath done! And thou-there's a dark weight on thine-away! Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all Save the free in heart from our festive hall. On through the maze of the fleet dance, on! And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? And the waving locks and the flying feet, That still should be where the mirthful meet! -They are gone-they are fled-they are parted all-Alas! the forsaken hall! THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. SLEEP 'midst thy banners furl'd! Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow, And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, Alike unconscious and defenceless thou! Tread lightly, watchers!-now the field is won, Break not the rest of nature's weary son! Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, And all the windings of thy native stream; -Why, this were joy!-upon the tented plain, But thou wilt wake at morn, With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, And put thy terrors on, till none may dare Why, so the peasant sleeps Beneath his vine!—and man must kneel before thee, Forget that thou, ev'n thou, Hast feebly shiver'd when the wind pass'd o'er thee, |