IMPROMPTU LINES.

And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
Green land, poet land of my home and my

205

dead!

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes!

May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

IMPROMPTU LINES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.

YE tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the Summer's murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers:
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing spring-
A fount of kindness ever new,

In a friend's heart, the good and true.

VOL. VI. -18

A PARTING SONG.

"Oh! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelquefois mes vers; mon ame y est empreinte."- Corinne

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?-

When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away-
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought-
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends!
When will ye think of me?—

When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime-
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may
tread

Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?-

When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody-

When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream-
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!

WE RETURN NO MORE.

Kindly and gently, but as of one

For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone-
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found-
So let it be.

207

WE RETURN NO MORE!'

"When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,

I turn'd from all she brought to all she could not bring."
Childe Harold.

"WE return!-we return!- we return no more!"
So comes the song to the mountain-shore,
For those that are leaving their Highland home
For a world far over the blue sea's foam:

"We return no more!" and through cave and dell Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er:
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart,
Where lovely things with their light depart:
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.

1 Ha til!-ha til!-ha til mi tulidle!—"we return!-we return!-we return no more!"-the burden of the Highland song of emigration.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the glory from sunset's robe hath pass'd,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?

No!-it is not the rose that returns no more;
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;
And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers,
With a stream of love through the starry hours;
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues,

Nor the frail flush'd leaves which the wild wind strews.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore?
Those wings that follow the southern breeze,
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas?
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.

"But we!-we return!-we return no more!"
The heart's young dreams, when their spring is o'er
The love it hath pour'd so freely forth-
The boundless trust in ideal worth;

The faith in affection-deep, fond, yet vain-
These are the lost that return not again!

TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER. 209

TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.

THOU hast loved and thou hast suffer'd!
Unto feeling deep and strong,

Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string-
I know it by thy song!

Thou hast loved-it may be vainly

But well-oh! but too well

Thou hast suffer'd all that woman's breast
May bear-but must not tell.

Thou hast wept and thou hast parted,
Thou hast been forsaken long,

Thou hast watch'd for steps that came not back—
I know it by thy song!

By the low clear silvery gushing

Of its music from thy breast,

By the quivering of its flute-like swell—

A sound of the heart's unrest.

By its fond and plaintive lingering,
On each word of grief so long,

Oh! thou hast loved and suffer'd much-
I know it by thy song!

18*