13. THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.
THERE's a magical tie to the land of our home,
Which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may
Be that land where it may, at the Line or the Pole, It still holds the magnet that draws back the soul. "T is loved by the freeman, 't is loved by the slave; 'Tis dear to the coward, more dear to the brave ! Ask of any the spot they like best on earth, And they'll answer with pride, “The land of
O England, thy white cliffs are dearer to me Than all the famed coasts of a far, foreign sea! What emerald can peer or what sapphire can vie With the grass of thy fields or thy summer-day sky? They tell me of regions where flowers are found, Whose perfume and tints spread a paradise round; But brighter to me cannot garland the earth Than those that spring forth in the land of my birth.
Did I breath in a clime where the bulbul is heard, Where the citron-tree nestles the soft humming-bird, Oh, I'd covet the notes of thy nightingale still, And remember the robin that feeds at my sill. Did my soul find a feast in the gay "land of song," In the gondolier's chant, or the carnival's throng, Could I ever forget, 'mid their music and mirth, The national strain of the land of my birth?
"T IS with our judgment, as our watches; none go just alike, yet each believes his own,
Rocks of my country, let the cloud Your created heights array, And rise ye, like a fortress proud, Above the surge and spray ; My spirit greets you as ye stand, Breasting the billow's foam; Oh, thus forever guard the land, The severed land of home!
I have left rich blue skies behind, Lighting up classic shrines, And music in the southern wind, And sunshine on the vines. The breathings of the myrtle-flowers Have floated o'er my way, The pilgrim's voice at vesper hours Hath soothed me with its lay.
The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, The purple heavens of Rome, — Yes, all are glorious; yet again I bless thee, land of home! For thine the Sabbath peace, my land, And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead, the noble band, That makes thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their steps are on thy plains; Their names by old, majestic trees Are whispered round thy fanes. Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea;
Oh, be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!
15. THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN.
I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born; The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember, The roses red and white, The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light, The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday : The tree is living yet.
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance;
But now 't is little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
16. AT THE OLD HOME AGAIN.
LÍNES written on re-visiting the Country.
I STAND upon my native hills again,
Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.
Here, I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; And, where the season's milder fervors beat,
And gales, that sweep the forest border, bear The song of bird, and sound of running stream, Am come awhile to wander and to dream.
Ay, flame thy fiercest, Sun! thou canst not wake, In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. The maize leaf and the maple bough but take,
From thy fierce heats, a deeper, glossier green; The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away.
The mountain wind! most spiritual of all The wide earth knows; when in the sultry time He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, He seems the breath of a celestial clime; As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below.
REMOVE not the ancient landmarks which thy fathers
17. THE NORWEGIAN WEDDING-MARCH, OF GRIEG, IN VERSE.
THE rapidly increasing emigration to America of the honest, hardy, and industrious people of Norway and Sweden, gives special interest to their home customs, and none is more impressive than the country wedding which is portrayed in Grieg's famous Wedding-March. The early stir in the village, the chimes, the incidents of the march, until the chapel closes upon the procession, vividly reproduce the scene.
AFAR off, confusèd sounds salute the quiet air, Commingling with noisy clanging of a chime:
Starting on the outskirts of a mountain village, where A Norway peasant crowd assembles at sweet eventime.
My house half way up the winding village road
Is situate; the village church a full mile further on, Where priest and people at an altar meet to worship God, And solemn rites of life and death are spoken for the town.
To-day, bells chime for nuptial vows of groom and bride: The happy groom, the happy woman at his side, Clasp hands, and lead the way to chapel door: Behind them join a glad procession of dear friends, With rustic band, chanting in unison, o'er and o'er,
A sweet, sad bride-song, oft heard in Norway fiords and glens.
I hear the voices rising, falling, then the drums; And shouts of laughter, and the tramp of lightsome feet; The piercing clarionet, the brasses: onward comes the Merry crowd. My windows, opening on the street, Let in the noises and the music, which impel my soul To cheerful contemplation of life's start and goal.
Just now they've passed behind a heavy clump of wood; The noise is almost hushed; I only feel the tread Of feet; the bride-song's lost. Oh, is it surely dead?
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