MAGDALEN. 6 A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, My joy, whate'er my destiny. Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright Alone illumed my cradle-bed; And I had borne with wild delight My banner where Bolivar led, Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek, Or manhood's pride was on my brow. Its folds are furled-the war-bird's beak Is thirsty on the Andes now; I longed, like her, for other skies In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, Its soldier-song the bugle sings; And I had buckled on my brand, And waited but the sea wind's wings, To bear me where, or lost or won Her battle, in its frown or smile, Men live with those of Marathon, Or die with those of Scio's isle; And find in Valour's tent or tomb, In life or death, a glorious home. I could have left but yesterday The scene of my boy-years behind, And floated on my careless way Wherever willed the breathing wind. I could have bade adieu to aught I've sought, or met, or welcomed here, Without an hour of shaded thought, A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. Such was I yesterday,-but then I had not known thee, Magdalen. To-day there is a change within me, And Fame, whose whispers once could win me There ever is a form, a face Of maiden beauty in my dreams, Speeding before me, like the race To ocean of the mountain streamsWith dancing hair, and laughing eyes, That seem to mock me as it flies. My sword-it slumbers in its sheath; Beats with the same low, lingering tone: And this, the land of Magdalen, Seems now the only spot on earth Where skies are blue and flowers are green; And breathe my song of joy, and twine In vain! in vain! the sail is spread; May'st thou be then, as now thou art, In smile and voice, in eye and heart FROM THE ITALIAN. EYES with the same blue witchery as those Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles; Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, That move but with kind words, and sweetest smiles; A power of motion and of look, whose art Throws, silently, around the wildest heart The net it would not break; a form which vies With that the Grecian imaged in his mind, And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find Know ye this picture? There is one alone We deem the Hebe of Jove's banquet hours; |