SONG OF EMIGRATION.
There was heard a song on the chiming sea.
A mingled breathing of grief and glee;
Man’s voice, unbroken by sighs, was there,
Filling with triumph the sunny air;
Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new,
It sang, while the bark through the surges flew.
But ever and anon
A murmur of farewell
Told, by its plaintive tone,
That from woman’s lip it fell.
“Away, away o’er the foaming main!”
This was the free and the joyous strain,
“There are clearer skies than ours, afar,
We will shape our course by a brighter star;
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press’d,
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest.”
“But, alas! that we should go,”
Sang the farewell voices then,
“From the homesteads, warm and low,
By the brook and in the glen!”
“We will rear new homes under trees that glow
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough;
O’er our white walls we will train the vine,
And sit in its shadow at day’s decline;
And watch our herds, as they range at will
Through the green savannas, all bright and still.
“But woe for that sweet shade
Of the flowering orchard-trees,
Where first our children play’d
Midst the birds and honey-bees!
“All, all our own shall the forests be,
As to the bound of the roebuck free!
None shall say, ‘Hither, no further pass!’
We will track each step through the wavy grass
We will chase the elk in his speed and might,
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night.”
“But, oh! the gray church-tower,
And the sound of Sabbath bell,
And the shelter’d garden-bower,
We have bid them all farewell!
“We will give the names of our fearless race
To each bright river whose course we trace;
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods,
And the path of our daring in boundless woods;
And our works unto many a lake’s green shore,
Where the Indians’ graves lay, alone, before.”
“But who shall teach the flowers,
Which our children loved, to dwell
In a soil that is not ours?
Home, home and friends, farewell!”
THE KING OF ARRAGON’S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.[371]
“If I could see him, it were well with me!”
Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”
There were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish’d city’s halls,
As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls;
And the conquerors fill’d the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed;
But their lord, the King of Arragon, midst the triumph wail’d the dead.
He look’d down from the fortress won, on the tents and flowers below,
The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets—and a gloom came o’er his brow:
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal’s tone;
But his heart, midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.
And he cried, “Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!
But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?—
I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,
And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is mournful to my soul.
“My brother! O my brother! thou art gone—the true and brave,
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave.
There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead on;
There was one to love me in the world—my brother! thou art gone!
“In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest’s wrath,
We stood together, side by side—one hope was ours, one path;
Thou hast wrapp’d me in thy soldier’s cloak, thou hast fenced me with thy breast;
Thou hast watch’d beside my couch of pain—oh! bravest heart, and best!
“I see the festive lights around,—o’er a dull, sad world they shine;
I hear the voice of victory—my Pedro! where is thine?
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply!—
O brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!
“I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway,
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly,—my friend hath pass’d away!
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain;
And the face that was as light to mine—it cannot come again!
“I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a crown;
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold renown;
How often will my weary heart midst the sounds of triumph die,
When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!
“I am lonely—I am lonely! this rest is even as death!
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet’s breath;
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave—
But where art thou, my brother? where? In thy low and early grave!”
And louder swell’d the songs of joy through that victorious night,
And faster flow’d the red wine forth, by the stars’ and torches’ light:
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror’s moan—
“My brother! O my brother! best and bravest! thou art gone!”
[371] The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana. It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads in Lockhart’s beautiful collection.