LONG, wild, and bloody was the day, The noon had seen it red with gore, : Night fell yet still the trumpet rang, Beneath the torch and cresset's flame, And came his haughty chivalry, The tents were pitched, the feast was spread, Was crowned the monarch's feverish head; And lovely o'er the throng, As victor-boast and joyous roar Sank down like waves upon the shore, Sweet stole the Jongleur's ancient strain, The Jongleur paused, he backward flung Through the rich tumult of the wires, "Woe to the lands!" the minstrel sang, With eye of flame, and voice of fear, He comes, the breaker of the spear, The scorner of the shield! "Where lies, proud Greek! thy crescent vane? Where, Venice, is thy barge? Illustrious harlot of the deep! "Thou mother, queen of nations, Rome, Health to the king!—his wreath is won, STANZAS FOR MUSIC. OH when the lips we loved are cold, and fixed in silent death, The tender tale that once they told parts not with parting breath; A word—a tone survives its hour-an angel's passing strain, Once heard when dreams from heaven had power, and never heard again! From eyes that death hath closed, a gleam thrills softly o'er the heart! That joins with life its blessed beam, till life itself depart! A FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY. Nor in envy, ire, or grief, I have sought her long and well. Not in anger;-inward joys Have been mine, and meed of praise,— Payment vast for idle toys, Fleeting, unsubstantial lays; Sandy columns wind destroys, And that wind again can raise. No, nor yet in grief we part,- Not in envy;-though around, I behold the sons of song,- Not in envy ;-though I know Neither wreath nor radiance mine; I will yet pay homage low, Pilgrim-like, at every shrine; Seek where buds and blossoms grow, Never hath my Muse bereaved me, Truer friend I scarce could gain; Yet I bid the art adieu, It may be, adieu for ever; I abjure the Syren too, Vain, I own, my best endeavour; Though I smite the rock of song, Bidden come, or mastered go; Farewell Muse!-vouchsafing never Broken, stringless, soon art thou; Literary Souvenir. FIELD FLOWERS. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 't is true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune ye tell: I thought it delightful your beauties to find When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes; Can the wild water-lily restore. What landscape I read in the primrose's looks; Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. New Monthly Magazine. |