THERE came a youth at dawn of day
From the Golden Gate of the proud Serai :-
He came with no gifts of warrior pride
But the gleam of the good sword by his side,
And an arm that well could wield;
But he came with a form of matchless mould-
Like that by the Delphian shrine of old—
And an eye in whose depth of brightness shone
The light by the Grecian sunset thrown
On the dying Spartan's shield;
For the days of his boyhood's bonds were o'er,
And he stood as a free-born Greek once more!
They brought him robes of the richest dyes,
And a shield like the moon in autumn skies,
A steed that grew by the Prophet's tomb,
And a helmet crown'd with a heron's plume,
And the world's strong tempter, Gold;
And they said "Since thou turnest from the towers
Of honour's path and pleasure's bowers,
Go forth in the Spahi's conquering march-
And gold and glory requite thy search,
Till a warrior's death unfold
For thee the gates of Paradise,
And thy welcome beam'd by the Houris' eyes."
"And where will the yearning memories sleep,
That have fill'd mine exiled years
With a voice of winds in the forest free,
With the sound of the old Ægean sea,
Through echoing grove and green defile,
On the shores of that unforgotten Isle
Which still the light of my mother's smile
To her wanderer's memory wears-
And the voices ever sounding back
From my country's old triumphal track?
The faith that clings with a deathless hold
To the freedom and the fame of old,
Will they rest in a stranger's banner-shade,
Though a conquering flag it be?
Will they joy with its myriad hosts to tread
On a land that once was free?
Take back your gifts," the wanderer said-
"And leave at last to me
That far land's love-for ye cannot part
His country from the Exile's heart!"
They said "Thine Isle is a land of slaves;
It gives no galley to the waves-
No cry with the battle's onset blent-
No banner broad on its breezes sent--
No name to the lists of fame;
Thy home still stands by its winding shore,
But thy place by the hearth is known no more;
The evening fire on that hearth shines on,
But the light of thy mother's smile is gone-
For a stranger bears her name-
And, bright though her smile and glance may be,
They're not like those that grew dim for thee."-
"I know that my country's fame hath found
No rest by her storied streams—
For cold is the chain for ages borne,
And deep is the track its weight hath worn!
The serf hath stood, in his fetters bound,
On hills that were Freedom's battle-ground;
And my name is a long-forgotten sound
In the home of my thousand dreams;
For change hath passed o'er each household face,
And my mother's heart hath a resting place
Where the years of her weary watch are past
For the step that so vainly comes at last.
But far there shines through the shadowy green
Of the laurels bending there,
One beckoning light-'tis the glancing sheen
Of a Grecian maiden's hair;
Alas, for the clouds that rose between
My gaze and one so fair!
Alas! for many a morning ray
That passed from life's misty hills away!"
So spake the Greek, but the tempter said—
Why seek'st thou the flowers of summer fled ?The years that have made thy kindred strange Have they not breathed with the breath of change On thine early chosen too?
They have bound the wealth of that flowing hair—
They have crossed the brow with a shade of care;
For thy young and thy glad of heart hath grown
A matron, saddened in glance and tone—
From whose undreaming view
Life's early lights have fallen-and thou
Art a long-forgotten vision now."
There rose a cloud in his clear dark eye,
Like the mist of coming tears-
Yet it passed in silence, and there came
No after-voice from that perished dream :
But he said "Is it so, my land! Thou hast
No gift for thy wanderer but the past,
And a dream of a gathering trumpet's blast,
And a charge of Grecian spears!
That bright dream's promise ne'er may be-
But the earth hath banners broad and free;
There are gallant barks on the western wave-
And fields where a Greek may find a grave:
With a fearless arm, with a stainless brand,
With a young brow I depart
To seek the hosts of some Christian land-
But I go with an Exile's heart.-
Yet, oft when the stranger's fight is done,
And their shouts arise for the battle won,
This heart will dream what its joy might be
Were it won but for Greece and Liberty!"
SHE listens-""Tis the wind!" she cries:
The moon, that rose so full and bright,
Is now o'ercast; she looks-she sighs;
She fears 'twill be a stormy night.
Not long was Anna wed; her mate,
A fisherman, was out at sea:
The night is dark, the hour is late,
The wind is high, and where is he?
Oh, who would love, oh, who would wed
A wandering fisherman, to be
A wretched lonely wife, and dread
Each breath that blows when he's at sea!"
Not long was Anna wed; one pledge
Of tender love her bosom bore :-
The storm comes down, the billows rage;
His father is not yet on shore.
"Oh, who would think her portion blest,
A wandering seaman's wife to be,
To hug the infant to her breast,
Whose father's on a stormy sea!"
The thunder bursts; the lightning falls;
The casement rattles with the rain;
And as the gusty tempest bawls,
The little cottage quakes again.
She does not speak, she does not sigh,
She gazes on her infant dear;
A smile lights up the cherub's eye,
And dims the mother's with a tear.
66 Oh, who would be a seaman's wife!
Oh, who would bear a seaman's child!
To tremble for her husband's life;
To weep because her infant smiled!"
Ne'er hadst thou borne a seaman's boy,
Ne'er had thy husband left the shore,
Thou ne'er hadst felt the frantic joy
To see thy Robin at the door;
press his weather-beaten cheek,
To kiss it dry and warm again-
To weep the joy thou couldst not speak :
A pleasure's in the depth of pain!
Thy cheerful fire, thy plain repast,
Thy little couch of love, I ween,
Were ten times sweeter than the last-
And not a cloud that night was seen.
O happy pair! the pains you know,
Still hand in hand with pleasure come;
For often does the tempest blow,
And Robin still is safe at home.
THE SUIT OF THE MINSTREL.
WHAT a dream of delight! while young Victor was wooing
Proud Constance, sole heiress of Bernard of Bonn-
In that tenderest of times, when the vintage is viewing
Its deep shadow's glow, where the Rhine rushes on.
Superb as a cloud in the sunset, that maiden
With her eyes of broad blackness and luminous cheekHeard the tale, low and sweet, like a breeze odour-laden, That fever'd the frail lip of Victor to speak.
Fond haunter of moon-brightened hills !—the sweet merit
Of his country's wild Magi-the minstrels of old-
Had fill'd with an early enchantment his spirit,
Till it master'd the Art they melodiously told.
Long unheard in his heart lay the gift unawaking,
Till Constance rose suddenly bright on his way;
Then the songs of his soul sounded out, like the shaking
Of those chords that salute, in the Desert, the day.
And the lone poet's praise, to that lady so peerless,
Grew essential, as dew to the lily's hot life-
And she won him to mix with the festive and fearless
In the joust or the revel's magnificent strife.
The enthusiast yielded, and far from the mountains
Whose blue shadows' softness grew up in his soul,
He came 'mid the crowd thronging luxury's fountains,
The wealth of his wasted existence to roll.
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