MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.
THE CALL TO BATTLE.
“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking signs,
Which ne’er might be repeated.” Byron.
The vesper-bell, from church and tower,
Had sent its dying sound;
And the household, in the hush of eve,
Were met their porch around.
A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power—
“We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s gathering-hour:
There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell.
Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”
Then the father gave his son the sword
Which a hundred fights had seen—
“Away! and bear it back, my boy!
All that it still hath been!
“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”
Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears
That o’er his dark locks fell:
“I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er,
Yet I stay thee not—Farewell!”
“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!
It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d.
Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight,
To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might.
And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
“In the vigil, in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!”
“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst!
So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed.
The night is pass’d, the silence o’er—on all our hills we rise:
We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”
There were sad hearts in a darken’d home,
When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.
MIGNON’S SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.
[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.]
“Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?”
Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers,
Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove?
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,
And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove.
Know’st thou it well?
There, there, with thee,
O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.
Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say—“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?”
Know’st thou it well?
There, there with thee,
O my protector! homewards might I flee!
Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung,
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way;
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among,
O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray.
Know’st thou it well?
With thee, with thee,
There lies my path, O father! let us flee!
THE SISTERS.[412]
A BALLAD.
“I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain,
And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain:
Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear,
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair!
Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.”
“Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love?
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move!
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng?
I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song.
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”
“Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain?
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again?
Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long,
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong.
It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign
Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.”
“Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee—
It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be;
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine.
O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d,
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?”
“Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years!
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears.
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake!
Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn,
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”
“Yes! I will take the silvery lute—and I will sing to thee
A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee.
O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain?
Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”
[ [412] This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.