And the grass grow on its dome, But the glory of thy race must live, And Rome shall yet be Rome!— When her superstitious tyrants,
Sink 'neath oblivion's sea,
Then from the Tiber's foam shall rise The goddess Liberty!
Then shout, ye sons of Brutus!
For the Tarquin's day hath past,
And the kingly throne of power,
On the level earth is cast-
For the rising song of Freedom
Swells like a thunder-gust,
And the triple crown, and purple
Are hurled into the dust;
And from the seven hills goes up
The voice of jubilee,
Till far around, is heard the sound,
That Rome again is free!
WHEN day has darkened in the west
And shadows climb the highland's crest,
When evening winds do seem to hush
To listen to the minstrel thrush,
And e'en the very brook is still
That turned the noisy water-mill,
Then like a spirit's voice is heard
The melancholy twilight bird,
That cries, unseen, from leafy hill,
Its plaintive notes of Whippoorwill.
The mocking-bird, with spotted breast,
The wildest warbler of the west,
The red-bird, in his dress of fire,
Who whistles loud from blooming briar,
The meadow-lark with voice so bold,
With throat of jet and breast of gold,
All these, besides a countless throng,
With morning wake their witching song;
But when pale evening cometh, still,
Is heard the mournful Whippoorwill.
It singeth when the fire-fly
With silver lamp goes flashing by,
And when the glow-worm's gold is seen,
Beneath a leaf of polished green,
And Will-o'-the-Wisp with blazing ray,
Leads school-boys through the marsh astray,
Still plashing through the sodden bog,
O'er briar, brake and fallen log,
Till in the thickets, sad and shrill,
They hear a voice cry, Whippoorwill!
I've heard that voice so sad and wild,
When I was but a timid child,
And trembled as I bent
The wizard notes again to hear,
As they upon the wind would move
From some dark, shaded, haunted grove,
Where, hidden by a friendly leaf,
That plaintive bird poured forth its grief,
In such sad strain, my eyes would fill
To hear it calling, Whippoorwill!
I, then a boy, did fear the sound,
Which issued from the gloom profound,
For then, it was no wondrous thing
To deem it spirit, which could sing,
And grieve as if its heart did move
With recollections of its love.
Ah me! since then how years have flown,
And like that voice, how sad my own;
For grief, so deep, my heart doth thrill,
Thy tones were joy, lone Whippoorwill.
Oh! could I fancy yet once more,
Thou wert a spirit, as before-
Thus sitting in a darksome bower,
To tell thy tale to some pale flower,
Who, when thy falling tears were shed,
Would catch the pearls and droop its head!
Then I to see thee fain would peer,
But trembling stood, withheld by fear,
Lest some strange mystic form of ill,
Thou should'st assume, dread Whippoorwill.
But now, those solemn sounds, when heard, Are but the wailings of a bird,
A bird of shadows dim and grey,
That sings the death knell of the day,
And flies as silent through the gloom
As ghosts which glide around a tomb;
A bird, but yet a mystic thing,
A twilight gnome, on dusky wing,—
It starts my heart to hear it still,
Amid the gloom cry, Whippoorwill.
Lone Whippoorwill! those by-gone years
I look on now with eyes of tears,
My heart grows dark as those sad hours
When thou didst mourn in gloomy bowers,
And all my joys, like thy strange cry,
Live in the voice of memory;
But thoughts of thee are ever blent
With boyhood's careless, gay content;
So 'mong the things on youth's bright hill
I'll place and love thee, Whippoorwill.
|