[317] The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the “bright old inhabitants.” They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling brightness.—See Notes to Leyden’s Scenes of Infancy.

[318] The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded to in a former note.

THE BENDED BOW.

[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in different directions through the land, each bearing a bended bow; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.—See the Cambrian Antiquities.]

There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
“Heard you not the battle-horn?—
Reaper! leave thy golden corn:
Leave it for the birds of heaven—
Swords must flash and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed—
Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.”
And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Hunter! leave the mountain-chase,
Take the falchion from its place;
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey;
Let the deer ungall’d sweep by—
Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh.”
And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Chieftain! quit the joyous feast—
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall—
Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.”
And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Prince! thy father’s deeds are told
In the bower and in the hold,
Where the goatherd’s lay is sung,
Where the minstrel’s harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea—
Give our bards a tale of thee!”
And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Mother! stay thou not thy boy,
He must learn the battle’s joy:
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer:
Maiden! bid thy lover part:
Britain calls the strong in heart!”
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on;
And the bards made song for a battle won.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.]

The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll’d on;
And what was England’s glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived—for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death to those who mourn?
He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass’d the young and fair,
In pleasure’s reckless train;
But seas dash’d o’er his son’s bright hair—
He never smiled again!
He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney’s victor crown’d
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep—
He never smiled again!
Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour’d,
And strangers took the kinsman’s place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven’s bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!

CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.]

Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o’er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath;
And light, as noon’s broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.
On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm’d at times by the censer’s breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply furrow’d trace
Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that sceptred mortal’s race
Had surely closed in woe!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests round him that slept
Sang mass for the parted soul:
And solemn were the strains they pour’d
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush’d awhile,
As, by the torch’s flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp’d hands o’er it raised;
For his father lay before him low—
It was Cœur-de-Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast;
But there’s more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress’d!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,—
Men held their breath in awe;
For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he reck’d not that they saw.
He look’d upon the dead—
And sorrow seem’d to lie,
A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop’d—and kiss’d the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;
Till bursting words—yet all too weak—
Gave his soul’s passion way.
“O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again:
I weep—behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!—
Were but this work undone,
I would give England’s crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
“Speak to me! Mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr’d!
Hear me, but hear me!—father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!
Hush’d, hush’d—how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?——Woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
“Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart! at last:
No longer couldst thou strive.
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say—‘forgive!’
“Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e’er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart:
Oh! ever the renown’d and loved
Thou wert—and there thou art!
“Thou that my boyhood’s guide
Didst take fond joy to be!—
The times I’ve sported at thy side,
And climb’d thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,—
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”

THE VASSAL’S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.

[“Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days.”—Camden’s Britannia.]

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell’d by the woodman’s stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.
I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might;
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew!
’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep
For the forest’s pride o’erthrown—
An old man’s tears lie far too deep
To be pour’d for this alone;
But by that sign too well I know
That a youthful head must soon be low!
A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye;
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set—
Oh! could my life redeem him yet!
He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem’d like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine.
With a stag’s fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life—but he must die!
He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water’s side,
’Tis known that ne’er a proud tree fell
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he—there’s laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice—yet he must die!
I’ve borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!—yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast!
The noble boy!—how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!
It seem’d like youth to see him young,
A flower in his father’s land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.
Say not ’tis vain! I tell thee, some
Are warn’d by a meteor’s light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go! And he too, he!—
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.]

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour,
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by
Through the dark unquiet sky!
The stag sprang up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!
The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!
From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle’s festive board,
And a sudden pause came o’er the swell
Of the harp’s triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger’s[319] thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.
The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d,
And the hermit dropp’d his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.
The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky;
But the mother looks on her son to-day
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair!
The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie—
For the Huntsman hath gone by!

[319] Minnesinger, love-singer—the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages.

BRANDENBURG HARVEST-SONG.[320]

FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

The corn in golden light
Waves o’er the plain;
The sickle’s gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.
Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!—
Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o’er the day!
Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eyes blue,—
Now o’er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!
On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour:
We know its cause too well—
She is no more!

[320] For the year of the Queen of Prussia’s death.

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.

Know ye not when our dead
From sleep to battle sprung?—
When the Persian charger’s tread
On their covering greensward rung;
When the trampling march of foes
Had crush’d our vines and flowers,
When jewel’d crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers;
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
There was one, a leader crown’d,
And arm’d for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle’s front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood,
Though their path was through his breast.
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
His sword was seen to flash
Where the boldest deeds were done;
But it smote without a clash—
The stroke was heard by none!
His voice was not of those
That swell’d the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush’d like snows—
’Twas the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.

Where is the summer with her golden sun?—
That festal glory hath not pass’d from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
—Far in my own bright land?
Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?—the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?—
The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad’s footsteps, and the minstrel’s dreams?—
Oh, that my life were as a southern flower’s!—
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.

[“Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia—comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu’elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de vêtemens, s’habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale, avec cette différence, qu’elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur douleur s’exhale de nouveau, et comme la première fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des lamentations d’une autre espèce: ce sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c’est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d’un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poésie.”—Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par C. Fauriel.]

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young—
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung:—
“Ianthis! dost thou sleep? Thou sleep’st—but this is not the rest,
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow’d on my breast:
I lull’d thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As, in thy glowing childhood’s time, by twilight I have done.
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?
“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave.
Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,—‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,—
And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay!
“Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that this would be!
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;—
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.—
Why doth a mother live to say—My first-born and my dead!
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won:
Speak thou, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!”
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young—
A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:—
“Ianthis! look’st thou not on me? Can love indeed be fled?
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had follow’d thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved;
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side!—
It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!
“But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board?
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine?
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart
Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring! And couldst thou thus depart?
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?—
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!
“Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread;
But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins flew—
Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu?
What now can breathe of gladness more,—what scene, what hour, what tone?
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone!
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved:
Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young—
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:—
“Ianthis! brother of my soul!—oh! where are now the days
That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays?
When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source,
And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!—
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,
But see thy bounding step no more—my brother and my friend!
“I come with flowers—for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou here?
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier.
Thou shouldst be crown’d with victory’s crown—but oh! more meet they seem,
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream—
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low.
Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine’s glow—
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send:
Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!—my brother and my friend!”

GREEK PARTING SONG.

[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his “Chansons Populaires de la Grèce Moderne,” and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country and friends.]

A Youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall’d,
And brightest kept, of love;—a mountain-home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines,
And sounding waters, first in childhood’s heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half-unconscious prayer;—a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left! Yet many leave
Far more—the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call’d out the soul’s bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection’s tones. He left not these.
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother’s love! A bitterer grief
Was his—to part unloved!—of her unloved
That should have breathed upon his heart like spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!
Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot; and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach’d—a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue still upper heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.
“Farewell, farewell!
I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!—thou’rt from my native dell,
Thou’rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell!
And fare thee well—flow on, my stream!—flow on, thou bright and free!
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unloved from childhood’s loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears!
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
“I see thee once again, my home! thou’rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves—
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves.
The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o’er my soul through distant years will come—
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
“Not as the dead!—no, not the dead! We speak of them—we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep:
We hallow even the lyre they touch’d, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill’d our band among!
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
“And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong;
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak! Within my breast, whate’er hath seem’d to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gush’d for thee!
Brightly it would have gush’d—but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own!
“Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine,
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine.
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be that a tone
Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone;
And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne’er hast smiled,
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child!
Might but my spirit then return, and midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love’s free tears! ’Tis all a dream—farewell!”
“Farewell!”—the echo died with that deep word;
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken’d in the mother’s breast!
There had pass’d many changes o’er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
“Return, return, my son!” The echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring, “Return, my son!”

THE SULIOTE MOTHER.

[It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.]

She stood upon the loftiest peak,
Amidst the clear blue sky;
A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye.
“Dost thou see them, boy?—through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman’s armour shines?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror’s crest?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast!
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother’s arms with joy?
—That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!”
For in the rocky strait beneath,
Lay Suliote sire and son:
They had heap’d high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.
“They have cross’d the torrent, and on they come:
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”
And now the horn’s loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal’s clang,
Till even the upper air was stirr’d,
As cliff and hollow rang.
“Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli’s wild?
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armèd sire?
Still!—be thou still!—there are brave men low:
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!”
But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swell’d the horn,
And farther yet the tambour’s peal
Through the dark pass was borne.
“Hear’st thou the sound of their savage mirth?
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,—
Free, and how cherish’d, my warrior’s son!
He too hath bless’d thee, as I have done!
Ay, and unchain’d must his loved ones be—
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!”
And from the arrowy peak she sprung,
And fast the fair child bore:—
A veil upon the wind was flung,
A cry—and all was o’er!

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.