They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon;

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,-

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

IN ITALY.

123

In Italy.

EAR Lillian, all I wished is won;

DE

I sit beneath Italia's sun,

Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver

Along the banks of Arno's river.

Through laurel leaves the dim green light
Falls on my forehead as I write;

And the sweet chimes of vesper ringing
Blend with the contadina's singing.

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold;
The stirring memories of old

Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit's young ambition.

But as radiant sunsets close
Above Val d'Arno's bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory,
And deems our love a dearer story.

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;

Thou standest here-the gentle-hearted—
Amid the shades of bards departed.

I see before thee fade away

Their garlands of immortal bay,

And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances
To my own dearer heart-romances.

Sad is the opal glow that fires

The midnight of the cypress spires;
And cold the scented wind that closes
The heart of bright Etruscan roses.

The fair Italian dream I chaced,
A single thought of thee effaced;
For the true land of song and sun

Lies in the heart that mine hath won.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

MY

Zara's Ear-Rings.

Year-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well,

And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell

'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daugh

ter:

The well is deep-far down they lie, beneath the cold blue

water;

To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

My ear-rings! my ear-rings !-they were pearls in silver set, That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget;

That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's

tale,

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings

pale.

When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them

in the well,

Oh! what will Muça think of me?—I cannot, cannot tell!

My ear-rings! my ear-rings!-he'll say they should have

beer:,

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting

well:

Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

ON THE CLIFF.

125

He'll think, when I to market went I loitered by the way;
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses

noosed,

From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl

unloosed;

He'll think when I was sporting so beside his marble well, My pearls fell in—and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

He'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same;

He'll say, I loved, when he was here to whisper of his flame-
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings: oh! luckless, luckless well,—
For what to say to Muça—alas! I cannot tell.

I'll tell the truth to Muça-and I hope he will believe—
That I thought of him at morning and thought of him at

eve;

That, musing on my lover when down the sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea when from my hand
they fell,

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the
ANONYMOUS. Spanish.

well.

Translation of JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

On the Cliff.

EE where the crest of the long promontory,

"SEE

Decked by October in crimson and brown,
Lies like the scene of some fairy-land story,
Over the sands to the deep sloping down.
See the white mist on the hidden horizon
Hang like the folds of the curtain of fate;
See where yon shadow the green water flies on,
Cast from a cloud for the conclave too late.

“See the small ripples in curving ranks chasing
Every light breeze running out from the shore,
Gleeful as children when merrily racing,

Hands interlocked, o'er a wide meadow floor.
See round the pier how the tossing wave sparkles,
Bright as the hope in a love-lighted breast;
See the one sail in the sunlight that darkles,
Laboring home from the land of the west.

"See the low surf where it restlessly tumbles,
Swiftly advancing, and then in retreat;
See how the tall cliff yields slowly and crumbles,
Sliding away to the waves at our feet.
Sure is thy victory, emblem of weakness,
Certain thine overthrow, ponderous wall;
Brittle is sternness, but mighty is meekness—

O wave that will conquer! O cliff that must fall!"

66

Ah lady, how deep is the truth of your teaching!
All that delights and enthralls you I see;

But little you dream of the meaning far-reaching,

Yea more than you meant them, your words have

for me.

Light run my fancies that once were too sober;

All the fair land of the future lies spread Brightly before me in hues of October;

Homeward, full laden, my ship turns her head.

Dimly across them falls fate's mystic curtain-
If but thy fingers could draw it away,

Making the fanciful turn to the certain,

Then would the sounds and the sights of to-day

Ring like the strains of a ballad pathetic,

Heard when the voice of the singer is dumb;

Glow like the great words on pages prophetic,

Read when the fingers that wrote them are numb.