Look to yon Heaven! If love is deep
On earth-'tis tenfold there.
Give this a soldier's grave. Away!
Then to thy closet, to thy knee:—
Go live; and if thou lov'dst him, pray
Even here, to make him glad of thee.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven-
Then flew the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow,
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens! on ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !
No zephyr softly o'er the valley swept;
'Twas eve, and ocean's mighty spirit slept.
Why stands Gonilda on the craggy steep,
All wildly gazing on the silent deep ?
Why bends her lovely form, as though 'twould dare
To meet the image deep reflected there?
Her long dishevell'd tresses loosely flow,
Above the breast that heaves with hopeless woe:
Her shadowy form beneath the crystal water,
Attracts her smile!—oh, Conrade's hapless daughter!
Oh! lost for ever! reason's meteor light
Has fled, and left distraction's cheerless night!
Yet, through that night there shone one radiant star,
One
ray of promised bliss-but distant far:
Nor other good could prompt on earth to stay-
Her Leof wronged-her Conrade passed away!
When that still flood, which now beneath her sleeps,
Roars to the blast that o'er its bosom sweeps;
When thunder howls, and vivid lightnings glare,
And billowy mountains foam aloft in air,
E'en then-when hideous waves in tumult roll,
E'en then-'tis calmer than her troubled soul!
For life's serener passions dwell not there ;`
Her words breathe anguish, madness, and despair.
"My father! Leof! Edwin! all are gone!
I fear not death, but must I die alone?
This fatal sorrow, this unceasing woe,
May change my fault, if any fault I know.
They say I wronged him—wronged a valiant Thegn;
Ah, Edwin! I would wrong that love again;
For thou wast dearest!-all my soul's pure light-
The star that beamed through sorrow's lonely night-
The ray of life's bright morn, no more to shine
On her, whom oft thy accents numbered thine.
Thou send'st not-comést not-cold thy heart may be,
Or beat no more! or does not beat for me.
Here first I saw thee, struggling with the wave—
Not thine, but may be lost Gonilda's grave.
Ha! art thou there! I see thy pallid brow;
Oh, sink not-sink not-beat that billow now!
Edwin, these hands thy breast with flowers shall deck;
The cold damp sea-weed winds around thy neck!
Thy cheek grows pale-thy weary eye-balls start;
Thy stifling groans distract my ruined heart.
Again o'erwhelmed, my love! thy woe resign,
Expand thy weary arms-oh, rush to mine!
I come, I come, thy luckless fate to share;
The wave o'erwhelms thee-I can meet thee there!
Oh, God!??
THE sun is up; and slowly on the tide, How gay, how fair the painted barges glide, While o'er yon level, length of mead is seen, Bright as an emerald, in its robe of green. The mill-sail ceaseless turns-the laden wain Creaks as it wears along the rushy plain, And many a thought to calm enjoyment dear, And many a scene of patient toil is hereAlong each broomy mead, each willowy shore, The little hamlet opes its willing door: And here content with ever watchful breast, Dove-like sits brooding o'er its sheltered nest. And nursed by her, here patriot valour calls From Delf's high spires, and Haarlem's mouldering walls, And Leyden's streets yet nobler scenes afford, The scholar's counsel edged the soldier's sword, While he, the baffled tyrant, shrunk to see In famine's ghastly eye, the gleam of liberty.
Then why should he, the pensive traveller, grieve For scenes like these his native hills to leave?
Marked he how trim yon garden's trelliss'd bound,
How streaked with beauty rose the flower-girt mound;
Saw he the swan his snowy plumage lave,
And the green island tremble in the wave;
Marked he the moated watch-tower rise around
With many a peak'd fantastic turret crown'd?-
The village spire seen frequent o'er the trees,
The tufted osiers rustling in the breeze:
The kine that pasture in the champaign wide,
The frequent barge laveering on the tide,
The poplar grove with autumn's foliage gay,
These all shall cheer him on his length'ning way—
For many a day content with scenes like these,
Well-pleas'd I gazed, for all had power to please.
The painted summer-house, that o'er the stream
Catches the evening sun's departing gleam;
The willow weeping o'er the turf; the vine
Whose beamy clusters through the lattice shine;
And the long colonnade, whose dark'ning green,
Through pillar'd arches just admits the scene;
The slow canal, the air-hung bridge, the tree
Of figur'd form :-they all had charms for me.
Here late with him I roamed, who many a day
Had left his native vallies far away-
And now well-nigh the autumn day was done,
And Ryswick's spires shone in the setting sun.
From mead to mead as slow we loiter'd there,
Soft chimes caine floating through the evening air,
The music of his native land:"-it came
And burst, and lighten'd on his heart, like flame!
What instant visions floated o'er his eyes!
Yon level meads in mountain structures rise!
The carillons in the churches in Holland very often play Swiss tunes.
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