Those warbled notes, too well they tell of other, happier hours, Of joyous, childish innocence, of boyhood's gleeful sports, A mother's tender watchfulness, a father's gentle sway-- The silent tear rolls stealthily adown his furrowed cheek. Sweet choristers of England's fields, how fondly are ye prized! Your melody, like mystic strains upon the dying ear, Awakes a chord that, all unheard, long slumbered in the breast, That vibrates but to one loved sound--the sacred name of "Home." ZAYDA. "Come lay thy head upon my breast, And I will kiss thee into rest." _--Byron._ Wherefore art thou sad, my brother? why that shade upon thy brow, Like yon clouds each other chasing o'er the summer landscape now? What hath moved thy gentle spirit from its wonted calm the while? Shall not Zayda share thy sorrow, as she loves to share thy smile? Tell me, hath our cousin Hassan passed thee on a fleeter steed? Hath thy practised arm betrayed thee when thou threwst the light jereed? Hath some rival, too ungently, taunted thee with scoffing pride? Tell me what hath grieved thee, Selim--ah, I will not be denied. Some dark eye, I much mistrust me, hath too brightly answered thine; Some sweet voice hath, all too sweetly, whispered in the Bezestein. Nay, doth sadder, deeper feeling dim the gladness of thine eye? Tell me, dearest, tell me truly, why thou breath'st that mournful sigh? Oh, if thou upon poor Zayda cast one look of cold regard, Whither shall she turn for comfort in a world unkind and hard? Since our tender mother, dying, gave me trustfully to thee, Selim, brother, thou hast always been far more than worlds to me. Take this rose--upon my bosom I have worn it all the day; Like thy sister's true affection, never can its scent decay: As the pure wave, murm'ring fondly, lingers round some lonely isle, Life-long shall my love enchain thee, Selim, asking but a smile. THE TWO FOSCARI.[16] Ho! gentlemen of Venice! Ho! soldiers of St. Mark! Pile high your blazing beacon-fire, The night is wild and dark, Behoves us all be wary, Behoves us have a care No traitor spy of Austria Our watch is prowling near. Time was, would princely Venice No foreign tyrant brook; Time was, before her stately wrath The proudest Kaiser shook; When o'er the Adriatic The Wingéd Lion hurled Destruction on his enemies-- Defiance to the world. 'Twas when the Turkish crescent Contended with the cross, And many a Christian kingdom rued Discomfiture and loss; We taught the turban'd Paynim-- We taught his boastful fleet, Venetian freemen scorned alike Submission or retreat. Alas, for fair Venezia, When wealth and pomp and pride --The pride of her patrician lords-- Her freedom thrust aside: When o'er the trembling commons The haughty nobles rode, And red with patriotic blood The Adrian waters flowed.