SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.
[These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been set to music by the author’s sister, and are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whose permission they are here published.]
INTRODUCTION.
One hour for distant homes to weep
Midst Afric’s burnings sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.
They sat beneath a lonely palm,
In the gardens of their lord;
And, mingling with the fountain’s tune,
Their songs of exile pour’d.
And strangely, sadly did those lays
Of Alp and ocean sound,
With Afric’s wild, red skies above,
And solemn wastes around.
Broken with tears were oft their tones,
And most when most they tried
To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.
So met the sons of many lands,
Parted by mount and main;
So did they sing in brotherhood,
Made kindred by the chain.
THE BROTHER’S DIRGE.
In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior-fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o’er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
O’er thee dark billows sweep—
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.
In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled;
For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-drops flow’d for me—
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea!
In a shelter’d home of England
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone.
She little dreams, my brother!
Of the wild fate we have found;
I, midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.
THE ALPINE HORN.
The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more—but once—and die!
Yet, no! Midst breezy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of death—
O joyous Alpine horn!
But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!
Haunt me no more! for slavery’s air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair—
Be hush’d, thou Alpine horn!
O YE VOICES!
O ye voices round my own hearth singing,
As the winds of May to memory sweet!
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?
Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again!
Or if still around my heart ye linger,
Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come:
Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer,
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home
Ne’er again!
I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.
I dream of all things free!
Of a gallant, gallant bark
That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o’er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills—
Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain-king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver—
I dream of all things free!
Of a happy forest child,
With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way;
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer’s greenwood tree—
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free!
FAR O’ER THE SEA.
Where are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee?
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,
Where doth my birthplace lie?
—Far o’er the sea.
Where floats the myrtle-scent
O’er vale and lea,
When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee!
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
—Far o’er the sea!
Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me?
Where o’er the cabin roof
Waves the green tree?
Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?
—Far o’er the sea.
Dance on, ye vintage bands!
Fearless and free;
Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father’s tree!
Still smile, ye kind, blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o’er the sea!
THE INVOCATION.
Oh! art thou still on earth, my love?
My only love!
Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?
Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love?
Thy light step gone?
And art thou not, in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?
I see thee with thy gleaming hair,
In midnight dreams!
But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.
Peace in thy saddest hour, my love!
Dwelt on thy brow;
But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!
And silent ever is thy lip,
And pale thy cheek;—
Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s?
Speak to me, speak!
THE SONG OF HOPE.
Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain—
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain;
A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches—we yet shall be free!
Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps;
Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,
Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam.
Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea—
Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!