O’er the transport-tumult driven,
    Doth the music gliding swim;
  From the strings, as from their heaven,
    Burst the new-born Seraphim. 
  As when from Chaos’ giant arms set free,
  ’Mid the Creation-storm, exultingly
  Sprang sparkling thro’ the dark the Orbs of Light—­
  So streams the rich tone in melodious might.

  Soft-gliding now, as when o’er pebbles glancing,
    The silver wave goes dancing;
  Now with majestic swell, and strong,
  As thunder peals in organ-tones along;
    And now with stormy gush,
  As down the rock, in foam, the whirling torrents rush. 
        To a whisper now
          Melts it amorously,
        Like the breeze through the bough
          Of the aspen tree;
    Heavily now, and with a mournful breath,
    Like midnight’s wind along those wastes of death,
  Where Awe the wail of ghosts lamenting hears,
  And slow Cocytus trails the stream whose waves are tears.

  Speak, maiden, speak!—­Oh, art thou one of those
  Spirits more lofty than our region knows? 
  Should we in thine the mother-language seek
    Souls in Elysium speak?

FLOWERS.

  Children of Suns restored to youth,
    In purfled fields ye dwell,
  Rear’d to delight and joy—­in sooth
    Kind Nature loves ye well! 
  Broider’d with light the robes ye wear,
  And liberal Flora decks ye fair
    In gorgeous-colour’d pride. 
  Yet woe—­Spring’s harmless infants—­woe! 
  Mourn, for ye wither while ye glow—­
    Mourn for the soul denied!

  The sky-lark and the nightbird sing
    To you their hymns of love;
  And Sylphs that wanton on the wing,
    Embrace your blooms above. 
  Woven for Love’s soft pillow were
  The chalice crowns ye flushing bear,
    By the Idalian Queen. 
  Yet weep, soft children of the Spring,
  The feelings love alone can bring
    To you denied have been!

  But me in vain my Fanny’s [15] eyes
    Her mother hath forbidden;
  For in the buds I gather, lies
    Love’s symbol-language hidden. 
  Mute heralds of voluptuous pain,
  I touch ye—­life—­speech—­heart—­ye gain,
    And soul denied before. 
  And silently your leaves enclose,
  The mightiest God in arch repose,
    Soft-cradled in the core.

[Footnote 15:  Literally “Nanny.”]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE.

    Heavy and solemn,
      A cloudy column,
      Thro’ the green plain they marching came! 
  Measureless spread, like a table dread,
  For the wild grim dice of the iron game. 
  The looks are bent on the shaking ground,
  And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound;
  Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt,
  Gallops the Major along the front—­
          “Halt!”
  And fetter’d they stand at the stark command,
  And the warriors, silent, halt!