(8.)-CLEVELAND'S SONGS. 1. LOVE wakes and weeps O for Music's softest numbers, For Beauty's dream, Soft as the pillow of her slumbers! 2. Through groves of palm Fire-flies on the air are wheeling; Comes soft perfume, The distant beds of flowers revealing. 3. O wake and live! No dream can give A shadow'd bliss, the real excelling; And list the tale that Love is telling. Farewell! Farewell! the voice you hear, Has left its last soft tone with you,Its next must join the seaward cheer, And shout among the shouting crew. The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check, Must give the word, above the storm, To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. The timid eye I dared not raise,— The hand, that shook when press'd to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase-- Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. To all I love, or hope, or fear,- Спар. ххіїї, (9.)-CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES. AND you shall deal the funeral dole; The white bread and the wine. And you shall deal my horses of pride; Ay, deal them, mother mine; And you shall deal my lands so wide, And deal my castles nine. But deal not vengeance for the deed, The body to its place, and the soul to Heaven's grace, And the rest in God's own time. Saint Magnus control thee, that martyr of trea son; Saint Ronan rebuke thee, with rhyme and with reason; By the mass of Saint Martin, the might of Saint Mary, Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse if thou tarry! If of good, go hence and hallow thee;— If of ill, let the earth swallow thee;- If thou'rt of air, let the gray mist fold thee;- Hast eat the bread of toil and strife, Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones, Are leaving bare thy giant bones. Who dared touch the wild bear's ski Ye slumber'd on, while life was in?A woman now, or babe, may come And cast the covering from thy tomb. Yot be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight But what I seek thou well canst spare. To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud; See, I draw my magic knife- Thou wilt not wake-the deed is done!- Thanks, Ribolt, thanks,-for this the sea She, the dame of doubt and dread, Wisest, wickedest who lives, Well can keep the word she gives. Chap. xxv. [AT INTERVIEW WITH MINNA.] Thou, so needful, yet so dread, The North would sleep the sleep of death,- With my rhyme of Runic, I Old Reim-kennar, to thy art Mother Hertha sends her part; She, whose gracious bounty gives Needful food for all that lives, From the deep mine of the North Came the mystic metal forth, Doom'd amidst disjointed stones, Long to cere a champion's bones, Disinhumed my charms to aidMother Earth, my thanks are paid. Girdle of our islands dear, On the lowly Belgian strand, From our rock-defended land; Play then gently thou thy part, To assist old Norna's art. Elements, each other greeting, Thou, that over billows dark She who sits by haunted well, And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's cave, A weary weird of woe shall have. By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore, still. |