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MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken;

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

FELICIA HEMANS.

Born 1793. Died 1835.

A BALLAD OF RONCESVALLES.

THOU hast not been with the festal throng
At the pouring of the wine,

Men bear not from the hall of song

So dark a mien as thine!

There's blood upon thy shield,

There's dust upon thy plume,

Thou that hast brought from some disastrous field That brow of wrath and gloom."

"And is there blood upon my shield!
Maiden, it well may be !

We have sent the streams from our battle-field
All darkened to the sea!

We have given the founts a stain
Midst our woods of ancient pine;

And the ground is wet-but not with rain,
Deep dyed-but not with wine.

"The ground is wet-but not with rain;
We have been in war array,

And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.

I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.

There's many a fair young face Which the war-steed hath gone o'er; At many a board there is kept a place For those those that come no more!"

"Alas for love, for woman's breast,
If woe like this must be !

Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest
And a white plume waving free?

With his proud quick-flashing eye,

And his mien of kingly state,

Doth he come from where the swords flashed high
In the Roncesvalles' Strait?"

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
I saw, and marked him well;
For nobly on his steed he sate
When the pride of manhood fell.
But it is not youth that turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns
Till it rests among the slain.`

"Thou canst not say that he lies low,
The lovely and the brave?

Oh none could look on his joyous brow
And think upon his grave!

Dark, dark perchance the day
Hath been with valour's fate;
But he is on his homeward way

From the Roncesvalles' Strait.

There is dust upon his joyous brow,
And o'er his graceful head,

And the war-horse will not wake him now,
Though it browse his greensward bed.
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate,
Where the mountain winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait."

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song
Or childhood's tale is told;
And lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England,
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn,
All other sounds in that still time

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England!
Long, long to hut and hall,

May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall.

And green for ever be her groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God.

A DIRGE.

CALM on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit, rest thee now!

E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod

His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!

Soul, to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee !
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mountain, stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow:
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep :

He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain !

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee !

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth!—

Alas, for love! if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O earth!

CASABIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form!

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;-

That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud: "Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!"-

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son,

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound,-
The boy!-oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,-
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young faithful heart!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Born 1777. Died 1844.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave !—

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,