Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy! My lonely bark is launched upon the sea That clasps thy shore, and the soft evening gale Breathes from thy coast, and fills my parting sail. Ere morning dawn, a colder breeze will come, And bear me onward to my northern home; That home, where the pale sun is not so bright, So glorious, at his noonday’s fiercest height, As when he throws his last glance o’er the sea, And fires the heavens, that glow farewell on thee. Fair Italy! perchance some future day Upon thy coast again will see me stray; Meantime, farewell! I sorrow, as I leave Thy lovely shore behind me, as men grieve When bending o’er a form, around whose charms, Unconquered yet, Death winds his icy arms: While leaving the last kiss on some dear cheek, Where beauty sheds her last autumnal streak, Life’s rosy flower just mantling into bloom, Before it fades for ever in the tomb. So I leave thee, oh! thou art lovely still! Despite the clouds of infamy and ill That gather thickly round thy fading form: Still glow thy glorious skies, as bright and warm, Still memory lingers fondly on thy strand, And Genius hails thee still her native land. Land of my soul’s adoption! o’er the sea, Thy sunny shore is fading rapidly: Fainter and fainter, from my gaze it dies, ’Till like a line of distant light it lies, A melting boundary ’twixt earth and sky, And now ’tis gone;—farewell, fair Italy!

THE RED INDIAN

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,— Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last, Still rings upon the rushing blast, That o’er thy grave sweeps drearily. Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow, Beneath the hand of death bends low, Thy fiery glance is quenchëd now, In the cold grave’s obscurity. Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun Is set in blood, thy day is done; Like lightning flash thy race is run, And thou art sleeping peacefully. Rest, warrior, rest! thy foot no more The boundless forest shall explore, Or trackless cross the sandy shore, Or chase the red deer rapidly. Rest, warrior, rest! thy light canoe, Like thy choice arrow, swift and true, Shall part no more the waters blue, That sparkle round it brilliantly. Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past, Yon sinking sunbeam is thy last, And all is silent, save the blast, That o’er thy grave sweeps drearily.

TO –

Oh, turn those eyes away from me! Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays; And though they beam so tenderly, I feel, I tremble ’neath their gaze. Oh, turn those eyes away! for though To meet their glance I may not dare, I know their light is on my brow, By the warm blood that mantles there.

SONG

Yet once again, but once, before we sever, Fill we one brimming cup,—it is the last! And let those lips, now parting, and for ever, Breathe o’er this pledge, “the memory of the past!” Joy’s fleeting sun is set; and no to-morrow Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast, Yet, in the bitter cup, o’erfilled with sorrow, Lives one sweet drop,—the memory of the past. But one more look from those dear eyes, now shining Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last; But one more strain of hands, in friendship twining, Now farewell all, save memory of the past.

LAMENT FOR ISRAEL

Where is thy home in thy promised land? Desolate and forsaken! The stranger’s arm hath seized thy brand, Thou art bowed beneath the stranger’s hand, And the stranger thy birthright hath taken. Where is the mark of thy chosen race? Infamous and degraded! It hath fallen on thee, on thy dwelling-place, And that heaven-stamped sign to a foul disgrace And the scoff of the world, has faded. First-born of nations! upon thy brow, Resistless and revenging, The fiery finger of God hath now Written the sentence of thy wo, The innocent blood avenging! Lion of Judah! thy glory is past, Vanished and fled for ever. Homeless and scattered, thy race is cast Like chaff in the breath of the sweeping blast, To rally or rise again, never!

A WISH

Let me not die for ever, when I’m gone To the cold earth! but let my memory Live like the gorgeous western light that shone Over the clouds where sank day’s majesty. Let me not be forgotten! though the grave Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow. Let me not be forgotten! though the wave Of time’s dark current rolls above me now. Yet not in tears remembered be my name; Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me, Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame Over my tomb spread immortality!

SONG

The moment must come, when the hands that unite In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever; When the eyes that have beamed o’er us brightly to-night, Will have ceased to shine o’er us, for ever. Yet wreathe again the goblet’s brim With pleasure’s roseate crown! What though the future hour be dim— The present is our own! The moment is come, and again we are parting, To roam through the world, each our separate way; In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting, But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray. Then wreathe again the goblet’s brim With pleasure’s roseate crown! What though the present hour be dim— The future’s yet our own! The moment is past, and the bright throng that round us So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream; And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us, Like frost wreaths that melt in the morning’s first beam. Still wreathe once more the goblet’s brim! With pleasure’s roseate crown! What though all else beside be dim— The past has been our own!

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