PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D'AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832.

Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band,
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land,
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung,-
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue.

Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of power,
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour;
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the impassion'd lays,
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise;
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not aught
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.

But let the barriers of the sea give way,
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's sway!
And let the Rhine divide high souls no more
From mingling on its old heroic shore,

Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many

an age

Have made the Poet's own free heritage!

To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known;

Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.
And if by one, more used on march and heath
To the shrill bugle than the muse's breath,
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought,
And in a trusting loyalty of thought

TO GIULIO REGONDI.- O YE HOURS.

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So let it be received!- a soldier's hand
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime,
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,
Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame,
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread,
Where once that harp "the soul of music shed!"

TO GIULIO REGONDI,

THE BOY GUITARIST.

BLESSING and love be round thee still, fair boy!
Never may suffering wake a deeper tone,
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy,

Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may'st thou ne'er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!

For in the light of those confiding eyes,

And on the ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies,

A

pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, oh, gentle child, Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undefiled!

O YE HOURS.

O YE hours! ye sunny hours!
Floating lightly by,

Are ye come with birds and flowers, Odours and blue sky?

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Yes, we come, again we come, Through the wood-paths free; Bringing many a wanderer home, With the bird and bee."

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Are ye wafting song?

Doth wild music stream in showers,
All the groves among?

"Yes, the nightingale is there
While the starlight reigns,
Making young leaves and sweet air
Tremble with her strains."

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
In your silent flow,

Ye are mighty, mighty powers!

Bring ye bliss or woe?

"Ask not this-oh! seek not this!

Yield your hearts awhile

To the soft wind's balmy kiss,

And the heavens' bright smile.

"Throw not shades of anxious thought O'er the glowing flowers!

We are come with sunshine fraught, Question not the hours!"

THE FREED BIRD.

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THE FREED BIRD.

RETURN, return, my bird!

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 'Tis lovely as a violet bank

In the heart of forest bowers.

"I am free, I am free-I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er;
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me-the blue bright sky!

"The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their growing heath-flowers and bounding deer,
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore-
I am free, I am free-I return no more !"

Alas, alas! my bird!

Why seek'st thou to be free?

Wert thou not bless'd in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed nought but glee?

"Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
-O! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!

"From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best, Sigh'd for wild-flowers and a leafy nest."

Was it with thee thus, my bird?

Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright;
I have seen the glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.

"It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race,

With the soul of the wild wood, my native place! With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar— Woo me not back-I return no more!

"My home is high, amidst rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and the breeze,
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play,
And the odours that wander afar away!"

Farewell-farewell, then, bird!

I have call'd on spirits gone,

And it may be they joy'd, like thee, to partLike thee, that wert all my own!

"If they were captives, and pined like me,
Though love may guard them, they joy'd to be free;
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour!

"Call me not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven!
Farewell!-with my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies-I am earth's no more!"