Part 6

Nurslings of nature, I mark your bold bearing, Pride in each aspect and strength in each form, Hearts of warm impulse, and souls of high daring, Born in the battle and rear'd in the storm. The red levin flash and the thunder's dread rattle, The rock-riven wave and the war trumpet's breath, The din of the tempest, the yell of the battle, Nerve your steeled bosoms to danger and death.

III.

High on the brow of the Alps' snowy towers The mountain Swiss measures his rock-breasted moors, O'er his lone cottage the avalanche lowers, Round its rude portal the spring-torrent pours. Sweet is his sleep amid peril and danger, Warm is his greeting to kindred and friends, Open his hand to the poor and the stranger, Stern on his foeman his sabre descends.

IV.

Lo! where the tempest the dark waters sunder Slumbers the sailor boy, reckless and brave, Warm'd by the lighting and lulled by the thunder, Fann'd by the whirlwind and rock'd on the wave; Wildly the winter wind howls round his pillow, Cold on his bosom the spray showers fall; Creaks the strained mast at the rush of the billow, Peaceful he slumbers, regardless of all.

Mark how the cheek of the warrior flushes, As the battle drum beats and the war torches glare; Like a blast of the north to the onset he rushes, And his wide-waving falchion gleams brightly in air. Around him the death-shot of foemen are flying, At his feet friends and comrades are yielding their breath; He strikes to the groans of the wounded and dying, But the war cry he strikes with is, 'conquest or death!'

VI.

Then pour thy broad wave like a flood from the heavens, Each son that thou rearest, in the battle's wild shock, When the death-speaking note of the trumpet is given, Will charge like thy torrent or stand like thy rock. Let his roof be the cloud and the rock be his pillow, Let him stride the rough mountain, or toss on the foam, He will strike fast and well on the field or the billow, In triumph and glory, for God and his home!

SONG.

Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear, And I will hold thee on my knee; Thy mother's in her winding sheet, And thou art all that's left to me. My hairs are white with grief and age, I've borne the weight of every ill, And I would lay me with my child, But thou art left to love me still.

Should thy false father see thy face, The tears would fill his cruel e'e, But he has scorned thy mother's wo, And he shall never look on thee: But I will rear thee up alone, And with me thou shalt aye remain; For thou wilt have thy mother's smile, And I shall see my child again.

SONG.

Oh the tear is in my eye, and my heart it is breaking, Thou hast fled from me, Connor, and left me forsaken; Bright and warm was our morning, but soon has it faded, For I gave thee a true heart, and thou hast betrayed it.

Thy footsteps I followed in darkness and danger, From the home of my love to the land of the stranger; Thou wert mine through the tempest, the blight, and the burning; Could I think thou wouldst change when the morn was returning.

Yet peace to thy heart, though from mine it must sever, May she love thee as I loved, alone and for ever; I may weep for thy loss, but my faith is unshaken, And the heart thou hast widowed will bless thee in breaking.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

Grant me, I cried, some spell of art, To turn with all a lover's care, That spotless page, my Eva's heart, And write my burning wishes there.

But Love, by faithless Laia taught How frail is woman's holiest vow, Look'd down, while grace attempered thought Sate serious on his baby brow.

"Go! blot her album," cried the sage, "There none but bards a place may claim; But woman's heart's a worthless page, Where every fool may write his name."

Until by time or fate decayed, That line and leaf shall never part; Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade The lines of love from woman's heart.

LINES TO A LADY, ON HEARING HER SING "CUSHLAMACHREE."

Yes! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean; Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores; Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion, The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o'er.

And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling, That tamely could listen unmoved at the call, When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing, Laments for her country and sighs o'er its fall.

Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea; And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin, Descending, shall hail thee her "Cushlamachree."

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING NEW ROCHELLE.

Whene'er thy wandering footstep bends Its pathway to the Hermit tree, Among its cordial band of friends, Sweet Mary! wilt thou number me?

Though all too few the hours have roll'd That saw the stranger linger here, In memory's volume let them hold One little spot to friendship dear.

I oft have thought how sweet 'twould be To steal the bird of Eden's art; And leave behind a trace of me On every kind and friendly heart,