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Mightier far 

Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 


Das ist das Loos des Schonen auf der Erde ! 




No. 92 Broadway, 

Sleight & George, Printers, Jamaica, L. I, 




The Bride of the Greek Isle, 25 

The Switzer's Wife, .39 

Properzia Rossi, 49 

Gertrude, or Fidelity till death, 59 

Imelda, 65 

Edith, a Tale of the Woods, 73 

The Indian City, 87 

The Peasant Girl of the Rhone, . . . . .101 

Indian Woman's Death Song, 108 

Joan of Arc, in Rheims, 113 

Pauline, 120 

Juana, 127 

The American Forest Girl, 135 

Coztanza, . . . 140 

Madeline, a Domestic Tale, . *. . . . . 148 

The Queen of Prussia's Tomh, 154 

The Memorial Pillar, 159 

The Grave of a Poetess, 164 

Notes to Records of Woman, 169 


The Homes of England, . 173 

The Sicilian Captive, ' 17G 

Ivan the Czar, 184- 

Carolan's Prophecy, . . < . . . . "* 191 

The Lady of the Castle, 198 

The Mourner for the Barmecides, - . . . 204 



The Spanish Chapel, 212 

The Captive Knight, 217 

The Kaiser's Feast, 219 

Tasso and his Sister, 225 

Ulla, or the Adjuration, 230 

To Wordsworth, 236 

A Monarch's Death-bed, 238 

To the Memory -cf Heber, 241 

The Adopted Child, 243 

Invocation, 246 

Korner and his Sister, ....... 249 

An Hour of Romance, 254 

A Voyager's Dream of Land, 257 

The Effigies, . 261 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England, . 265 

The Spirit's Mysteries, 268 

The Departed, 271 

The Palm-tree, 275 

The Child's Last Sleep, 279 

The Sunbeam, 281 

Breathings of Spring, ^ 284 

The Illuminated City, 287 

The Spells of Home, 290 

Roman Girl's Song, 292 

The Distant Ship, 297 

The Birds of Passage, 300 

The Graves of a Household, 303 

Mozart's Requiem, 306 

The Image in Lava, 311 

The Last Wish, 315 

Fairy Favours, 319 

A Parting Song, 322 



" THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was 
descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII. and con- 
sequently allied by birth to Elizabeth, as well as James I. This 
affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jea- 
lousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were 
anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment 
of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervent- 
ly desired. By a secret, but early discovered union with William 
Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, 
and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate con- 
finement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan 
of escape ; and having won over a female attendant, by whose as- 
sistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint 
from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last 
reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in wait- 
ing. She embarked ; and, at break of day, a French vessel, engaged 
to receive her, was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, 
had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at 
anchor for him ; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, 
contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," says D'Israeli, " oc- 
casioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, 
indeed, had escaped from the Tower ; he reached the wharf, and 


found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. 
The time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella was not there ; 
but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take 
him on hoard, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not 
the French ship charged with his Arabella ; in despair and confusion he 
found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its 
course, and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, while 
imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the 
expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by 
a vessel in the King's service, and brought back to a captivity, under 
the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. 
"What passed in that dreadful imprisonment, cannot perhaps be 
recovered for authentic history, but enough is known ; that her 
mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the du- 
ration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by 
her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written 
and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers." 

DISRAELI'S Curiosities of Literature. The following poem, meant 

as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts 
and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first 
imprisonment, while her mind was yet buoyed up by the conscious- 
ness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual 



And is not love in vain, 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? 

Fennossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto. 



'TWAS but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 

Under the boughs where early birds were singing. 
I stood, o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far thro* a royal forest : then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook, 


And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all pass'd by, 
Save one I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away, 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array, 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted, 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless-hearted, 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour, 
Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 



'Tis past! I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering, for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong, 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervour ; and prevail, 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, 
Thro' hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright face, 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chilPd and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 



And thou too art in bonds ! yet droop thou not. 
Oh, my belov'd ! there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
TJiere sits the grief that mantles up its head, 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light. 
When darkness, from the vainly-doting sight, 
Covers its beautiful ! * If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now, 
Seems floating thro' my sbul, were music taken 
For ever from this world, oh ! thus forsaken, 
Could I bear on 1 thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou'rt mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn. 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 


And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou has sent tidings, as of heaven. I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee< 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss ? 
Yet shall I fear that lot? the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, 
After long-suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 



Sunset ! I tell each moment from the skies 
The last red splendour floats along my wall, 

Like a king's banner ! Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star I hear 'twas not the call, 

Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbb'd too soon. 

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 

Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam 

Thro' my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream 

Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 

Under the vine, or in the citron-grove, 

May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 

And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 

I hear my veins beat. Hark ! a bell's slow chime. 

My heart strikes with it. Yet again 'tis time! 

A step ! a voice ! or but a rising breeze ? 

Hark ! haste ! I come, to meet thee on the seas. 



Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly never more ! the hope is crush' d 
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd 
That spoke sweet oracles ; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks no billow toss'd ; 
Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be, 
That so have lov'd, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's careey 
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning : It drew near, 


Fraught with our foes ! What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink ! 
Thou, tliou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 

And this shall be my strength the joy to think 

That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath around 

thee ; 

And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken, 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, tho' the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 



My friend, my friend ! where art thou ? Day by day, 
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away, 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; Summer, with her smile, 

Fills the green forest ; young hearts breathe their 

vows ; 

Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; Hope laughs from loving eyes: 
All this is in the world ! These joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall the stricken deer, 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 


Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ' 
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 

O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, 
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent, 



Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been, 
Thro' the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmur'd, and the rill. My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream, the green, the free, 
The full of all sweet sound, the shut from me ! 


There went a swift bird singing past my cell 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 

And by the streams ; but I the blood of kings, 
A proud, unmingling river, thro' my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings ! I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 


I am cast under their triumphal car, 

An insect to be crush'd. Oh ! Heaven is far, 

Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am prov'd 

So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my belov'd ! 

There are such tales of holy marvels done 

By strong affection, of deliverance won 

Thro' its prevailing power ! Are these things told 

Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 

Wonder, yet dare not doubt, and thou, oh ! thou, 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay 1 
Thou canst not ! thro' the silent night, ev'n now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. Oh ! gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 

Aid ! comes there yet no aid 1 the voice of blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 


Sinks thro' the greensward ! is there not a cry 

From the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony, 

To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! hear me ! None 

That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun, 

Have heavier cause ! yet hear ! my soul grows 


"Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown, 
Its freight of human hearts ? th' o'ermastering wave ! 
Who shall tell how it rush'd and none to save ? 

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! a magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ;^- 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all, 


Thine ! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair ? 
It is not well of thee ! my love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying ; 
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf- 
Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief! 

Death ! what, is death a lock'd and treasur'd thing, 

Guarded by swords of fire ? 2 a hidden spring, 

A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 

As if the world within me held no cure ? 

Wherefore not spread free wings 'Heaven, Heaven 


These thoughts they rush I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray. 
So shall their dark host as-. 


The storm is still'd. 

Father in Heaven ! Thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, 

For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if Thy child, 
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, 
And sinn'd in her despair ! It well may be, 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd, 
The stricken love which hath perchance ador'd 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With Thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home : no breeze flits by, 

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 


Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, 
Thee, its first love ! oh ! tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Tho' but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 


Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness ! Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours a thought, dear friend ! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Tho' bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell ! the passion of long years I pour 
Into that word : thou hear'st not, but the wo 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place ; there let them dwell 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet Farewell ! 



Fear ! I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

* * * * * * 

I will not live degraded. 


COME from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; 
They came, and Eudora stood rob'd and crown'd, 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 

* Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the 
Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture in the 
"Painted Biography" there described. 


Jewels flash' d out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heav'd by her heart thro' its golden zone : 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Tho' clear as a flower which the light looks through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She look'd on the vine at her father's door, 
Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own, 
As it greenly wav'd by the threshold stone ; 
She turn'd and her mother's gaze brought back 
Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 


Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall ; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 

Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile, 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 

She lifted her graceful head at last 

The choking swell of her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 3 



Why do I weep ? to leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend, 
The myrtle-^yet, oh ! call it mine ! 

The flowers I lov'd to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

Oh, therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! we have play'd 

Thro' many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 


i leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet, 
With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
_ Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! on thy breast, 

Pouring out joy and wo, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless, yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain, 

Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again ? 

Sweet mother ! let me weep ! 

And like a slight young tree, that throws 

The weight of rain from its drooping boughs, 


Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring, 
That works its way, thro' the torrent's foam, 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 
It is well ! the cloud, on her soul that lay, 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so, 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng, 

Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 

Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes' gleam, 

Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. 

Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 

Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed ; 

They have light leaves around them, blue skies above, 

An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 



Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood, 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring thro' lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst then: dark foliage glow'd, 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river ; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd, 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound, 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers thro' a thicket of glossy bay, 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen/ane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride, 
And the guests were met by that fountain-side ; 


They lifted the veil from Eudora's face, 

It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 

With lips of love, and a brow serene, 

Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. 

Bring wine, bring odours ! the board is spread 

Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head ! 

The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was showcr'd 

On the young and fair from the world embower'd, 

The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade, 

The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 

But there came by fits, thro 7 some wavy tree, 

A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! was that no more 
Than the murmur from me shore ? 
Silence ! did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet ? 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword ! 
The groves are filled with a pirate-horde ! 


Thro' the dim olives their sabres shine ; 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, 

The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang ; 

Under the golden-fruited boughs 

There were flashing poniards, and darkening brows, 

Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled ; 

And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow. 

Like a child's large tears in its hour of wo, 

And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 

That sought his young bride out mournfully. 

She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 

As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 


But they tore her thence in her wild despair. 
The sea's fierce rovers they left him there ; 
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 
And a hush of fear thro' the summer-grove, 
So clos'd the triumph of youth and love ! 


Gloomy lay the shore that night, 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bath'd each purple Sciote hill, 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke, the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal wo, 
In its changes wild or low, 
Thro' the midnight's blue repose. 
From the sea-beat rocks arose. 


As Eudora's mother stood 
Gazing o'er th' Egean flood, 
With a fix'd and straining eye- 
On ! was the spoilers' vessel nigh ? 
Yes ! there, becalrn'd in silent sleep, 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 
On a sea of molten silver dark, 
Brooding it frown'd that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast, 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast, 
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail, 
Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 
Hush'd was all else had ocean's breast 
Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ? the waves tremble ! what piercing cry 
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ? 
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire, 
Shoots from the deck up ? Fire ! 'tis fire ! 


There are wild forms hurrying to and fro. 
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, 
And the dashing of water, but fruitless all ! 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 
The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake. 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 
It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in air, 
And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare, 
And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee, 
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea. 
The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow- 
Eudora, Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 
The slave and his master alike are gone. 
Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 
The child of thy bosom ! and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 


And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 

Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare, 

And her fragile form to its loftiest height 

Dilated, as if by the spirit's might, 

And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught, 

Oh ! could this work be of woman wrought ? 

Yes ! 'twas her deed ! by that haughty smile 

It was her's ! She hath kindled her funeral pile ! 

Never might shame on that bright head be, 

Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free. 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear, 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near, 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never infold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd, 

Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'd- 


Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd, 
And her last look rais'd thro' the smoke's dim shroud, 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love !* 

* Originally published, as well as several other of these Records, 
in the Aho Monthly Magazine, 


Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the 
field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which 
the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appear- 
ance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwell- 
ing. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties 
of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of an heroic 
spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends 
upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally de- 

THE SWtTZEI! 4 41 


Nor look nor tone revealeth aught 
Save woman's quietness of thought ; 
And yet around her is a light 
Of inward majesty and might. 

M. J. J. 

* * * * * 

VVer solch ein herz an seinen Busen druckt, 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. 


IT was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by, 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 


' | 


And lovely smil'd full many an Alpine home. 

Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour, 
Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, 

And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bower ; 
But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 
Then first look'd mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree, 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 

Ev'n as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

T h' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings. 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hush'd before him, sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ; he mark'd it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child 

Rang from the greensward round the shelterd spot, 

15ut seem'd unheard ; until at last the boy 

Rais'd from his heap'd up flowers a glance of joy, 


And met his father's face : but then a change 
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 

Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey, 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away ? 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 
Missing the smile from thine ? Oh ! cheer thee ! bend 

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 



He looked up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosen'd from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand. 

" Speak low 1" he cried, and pointed where on high 

The white Alps glitter'd thro' the solemn sky : 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills, 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain-homo. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best-belov'd in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see ?" 


The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek ; 

Back on the linden-stem she lean'd her form, 
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever thro 1 her home had mov'd 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and belov'd, 
And timid in her happiness the while, 

Stood brightly forth, and stedfastly, that hour, 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might 
As it found language : " Are we thus oppressed? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 


" I know what thou wouldst do, and be it done ! 

Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! this, thy son, 

The babe whom I have born thee, must be free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength if aught be strong on earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois-paths, and thro' the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my belov'd ! Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me, I can pray !'' 


He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air ; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die. 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armour to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell, 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps Farewell !" 

And thus they parted, by the'quiet lake, 

In the clear starlight : he, the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs 

Singing its blue, half-curtain'd eyes to sleep, 

With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 


Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed 
also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an unre- 
quited attachment. A painting by Ducis, represents her showing her 
last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman Knight, the object 
of her affection, who regards it with indifference. 



Tell me no more, no more 

Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness ? 
Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind 
One true heart unto rne, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its hurden of affections ? I depart, 
Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious. 


ONE dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, tho' its race 
Might have been loftier far. -Yet one more dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 


Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be, 
Thou, lov'd so vainly ! I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind, 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection ; something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavished ; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near, 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away, 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me die, 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, my spirit, wake ! 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake, 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! that he may yrt, 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 

T:R/I\ II" 

It comes, the power 

Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : they throng they press 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, 
I shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, 
Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows and now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh ! more. fair, 
Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my wo 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 



When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould 

Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, 

The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 

Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 

With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, 

Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully, 

Of all my love and grief! Oh ! could I thro AY 

Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low, 

And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh. 

To send the passion of its melody 

Thro' his pierc'd bosom on its tones to bear 

My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 

Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, to rise, to swell, 

To sink away in accents of farewell, 

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 

Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 

If love be strong as death ! 

I 1 no PE 11/1 A P.< 

Now fair thou art, 

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee ! Oh ! I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven^ 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ; a heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of spring, 
These are denied me dreamt of still in vain, 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain. 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

>RP> OF 

Yet the world will 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee, 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the reed 
From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine, 

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it ask'd ! Yet how my heart, 
In its own fairy world of song and art, 
Once beat for praise ! Are those high longings o'er '* 
That which I have been can I be no more ? 
Never, oh ! never more ; tho' still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still, 
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams, 
Unchang'd on forms, instinct with poet-dreams ; 


Never, oh ! never more ! Where'er I move. 

The shadow of this broken-hearted love 

Is on me and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, 
W T hen there the blight hath settled ; but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, 
The inward burning of those words " in vain," 

Sear'd on the heart I go. 'Twill soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, who know'st not what was given 
In that devotedness, the sad, and deep, 
And unrepaid farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, belov'd one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky, 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh ; 


With thec to listen, while the tones of song 

Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along, 

To listen silently ; with thee to gaze 

On forms, the deified of olden days, 

This had been joy enough ; and hour by hour, 

From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, 

How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow ! Dreams, dreams ! the fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name 

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hush'd awhile to live, 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me : I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, 
Say proudly yet " 'Twa-s tier's who lov'd me well !" 


The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, 
as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was 
bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, through- 
out his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her 
own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most af- 
fectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a fe- 
male friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in 
a book entitled Gertrude Von Der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death. 



Dark lowers our fate, 

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law, 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee. 


HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes rais'd, 
The breeze threw back her hair ; 

Up to the fearful wheel she gazM 
All that she lov'd was there. 


The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

4i And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side, 

Peace, peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow ? 
The world ! what means it ? mine is here 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me thro* this ! 


And thou, mine honour'd love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Thro' all that night of bitterest wo 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 
. With such a curdling cheek 
Love, love ! of mortal agony, 
Thou, only thou shouldst speak ! 

The wind rose high, but with it rose 
Her voice, that he might hear : 

Perchance that dark hour brought repose 
To happy bosoms near ; 


While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft, 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low, 

Had still'd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bath'd his lips with dew, 
And on his cheeks such kisses press'd 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed one smile in death- 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 


While ev'n as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! 

1MELDA. 6-5 



The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, 

And lov'd when they should hate, like thee, Imelda ! * 

It a/y, a Poem. 

Passa la bella Donna, e par che donna. 


WE have the myrtle's breath around us here, 
Amidst the fallen pillars ; this hath been 

Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 

Up thro' the shadowy grass, the fountain wells, 
And music with it, gushing from beneath 

The ivied altar ! that sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of wo or death ; 


Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops but not of rain 
On the dim violets by its marble bed, 
And the pale shining water-lily's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. A fair girl met 

One whom she lov'd, by this lone temple's spring, 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair. 

With the blue heaven of ItaJy above, 
And citron-odours dying on the air, 

And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. What reck'd their souls of strife 
Between their fathers ? Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 


Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, thai 


Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower, 
And star, just gleaming thro' the cypress boughs, 
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows. 


But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread 

Broke on the whispery shades, Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twilight : pausing there, she caught 
Was it the clash of swords ? a swift dark thought 

Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd, 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more, 
She still'd her heart to listen, all was o'er ; 

Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 

5 ' 

Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 


That night Imelda's voice was in the song. 
Lovely it floated thro' the festive throng, 
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light, 
And her cheek glow'd with heauty's flushing dyes, 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies, 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Follow'd her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze, 
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue, 
With something of dim fear ; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, 

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest, 
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft, 
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane, 
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again 


There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, 

Thro' the dim cedar shade ; the step of one 

That started at a leaf, of one that fled, 

Of one that panted with some secret dread : 

What did Imelda there ? She sought the scene 

Where love so late with youth and hope had been ; 

Bodings were on her soul a shuddering thrill 

Ran thro' each vein, when first the Naiad's rill 

Met her with melody sweet sounds and low ; 

We hear them yet, they live along its flow 

Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 

She gain'd the wave flash'd forth 'twas darkly 

Ev'n as from warrior-hearts ; and on its edge, 

Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, 
There lay, as lull'd by stream and rustling sedge, 

A youth, a graceful youth. " Oh ! dost thou sleep? 
Azzo !" she cried, " my Azzo ! is this rest ?" 
But then her low tones falter'd : " On thy breast 


Is the stain, yes, 'tis blood ! and that cold cheek 
That moveless lip ! thou dost not slumber 1 speak, 
Speak, Azzo, my belov'd ! no sound no breath 
What hath come thus between our spirits ? Death ! 
Death ? I but dream I dream !" and there sho 


A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone, 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a 

gleam > 

'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream, 
Her brother's sword ! she knew it ; and she knew 
'Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slew ! 
Wo for young love ! But love is strong. There 

Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame. 


There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round, 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and press'd 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast, 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! 
So the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 

Thro* the green forests of the Appenines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, 

And steps and voices out among the vines. 
What found that day-spring here ? Two fair forms 


Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 


Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl, 
Deck'd as for bridal hours ! long braids of pearl 


Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light ; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining ; 

And her pale graceful arms how sadly bright ! 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. 
But she died first ! the violet's hue had spread 

O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress'd, 
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head, 

And, on the youth's hush'd bosom, sunk to rest. 
So slept they well ! the poison's work was done ; 
Love with true heart had striven but Death had won. 



Du Heilige ! rufe dein Kind zuruck I 
Ich habe genossen das irdische Gliick, 
Ich habe gclcbt und geliebet. 


THE woods oh ! solemn are the boundless wood? 

Of the great Western World, when day declines. 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines - 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood* 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 

* Founded on incidents related in an American work, " Sketches 


Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there 


One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismay'd ; while sank the crimson light. 
And the high cedars darken'd with the night. 
Alone she sate : tho' many lay around, 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, 
Were sever'd from her need and from her wo, 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had rag'd, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast t>ut fear, 
And by its might upborne all else above, 

She shrank not inark'd not that the dead were 


< )f him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound, 
Yet hoped, still hoped ! Oh ! from such hope how long 

Affection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bow'd she there, 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down, 
Yeining the pine-stems thro' the foliage brown, 
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face, 
Whereby she caught its changes : to her eye, 

The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony. 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze. 

7 to nr.coKPs OF WOMAX. 

When voice was not : that fond sad meaning pass'd 

She knew the fulness of her wo at last ! 

One shriek the forests heard, and mute she lay, 

And cold ; yet clasping still the precious clay 

To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death ! 

Ye have sad meetings oa this changeful earth, 

Many and sad ! but airs of heavenly breath 

Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 

Is far apart, 

Now light, of richer hue 

Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds play'd, 
Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the shade, 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 

From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 

Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance, 
The widow'd Edith : fearfully her glance 

EDITH. 77 


Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
W ith all its whispers, wav'd not o'er her now, 
Where was she ? Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief, 
Whose home look'd sad for therein play'd no child 

Had borne her,iin the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung, 
O'er her low couch an Indian patron hung, 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head, 

And leaning on his bow. 


78 >RDS or \\tr\M\. 

And lite return'ii. 

Life, but with all its memories of the dead, 

To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferer learn'd 
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore, 
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go, 
And ever from that time her fading Mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low. 
Had haunted their dim years ; but Edith's face 
Now look'd in holy sweetness from "her place, 
And they again seem'd parents. Oh ! the joy, 
The rich, deep blessedness tho' earth's alloy, 
Fear, that still bodes, be there of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

i-.un it. 

Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, 

On something all its own ! that kindly glow, 

Which to shut inward is consuming pain, 

Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, 

When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares 

Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 

Who lov'd her thus : her spirit dwelt, the while, 

With the departed, and her patient smile 

Spoke of farewells to earth ; yet still she prayM. 

Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 

One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 

Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 

Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 

The secret whisper of her bosom true, 

Which warn'd her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd, 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim, 


By the persuasion of her fervent eye. 

All eloquent with child-like piety, 

By the still beauty of her life, she strove 

To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love 

Pour'd out on her so freely. Nor in vain 

Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 

The soul in gentle bonds : by slow degrees 

Light follow'd on, as when a summer breeze 

Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 

And lets the sunbeam through : her voice was made 

Ev'n such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 

By faith and sorrow rais'd and purified, 

So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 

Until their prayers were one. When morning spread 

O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 

Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress-bough. 

And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 

Sank on her heart, tho> no melodious chime 

Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one. 

Now might she pass in hope, her work was done. 


And she was passing Trom the woods away ; 

The broken flower of England might not stay 

Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 

Ev'n yet with something of a starry light, 

But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 

Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 

A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 

Of autumn thro' the forests had gone by, 

And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 

Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 

Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 

Amidst the pines ; and now a softer green 

Fring'd their dark boughs ; for spring again had come> 

The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 

Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 

To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 

In her young lovely things, when voices break 

Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake : 

Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 

Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, 


If here such glory dwell with passing blooms-. 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs '* 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day, 
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play, 
Whispering of spring-time, thro the cabin-door, 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore ; 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
" My father !" to the grey-hair'd chief she spoke - 
" Know'st thou that I depart?" 4 ' I know, I know," 
He answer'd mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy belov'd, my daughter !" " Sorrow not 

For me, kind mother !" with meek smiles once more 
She murmur'd in low tones ; " one happy lot 

Awaits, us, friends ! upon the better shore ; 
For we have pray'd together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust, 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, 
Under the cedar-shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be, 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 



My childhood's prayer was learn'd, the Saviour's 


Which now ye know, and I shall meet you there, 
Father, and gentle mother ! ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye 
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply ; 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep, 
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep, 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in wo, 
" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd. 

Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away ; 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 

Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 


Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home. 

Where the skies are ever clear ; 
The corn-month's golden hours will come. 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 
Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 

Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt set- 
No fear of parting more. 


The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 
And the wind's wild moanings by, 

Thou with thy kindred shalt forget. 
Midst flowers not such as die. 

The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

"When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Vet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side 

Go to the better land !" 


The song had ceas'd the listeners caught no breath, 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



What deep wounds ever clos'd without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it. 

Ckttdt HaroU, 


ROYAL in splendour went down the day 
On the plain where an Indian city lay, 
With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 
Red as if fused in the burning sky, 
And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made 
A bright stream's way thro' each long arcade, 
Till the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood, 
Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood, 

* From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Memoirs, 


And the plantain glitter' d with leaves of gold. 

As a tree midst the genii-gardens old, 

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire, 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers, 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 

With the water-vase from the palmy shade. 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps to the tanks below ; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard, 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd : 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air, 

Told where the Brarm'n bow'd in prayer. 

1 111. INDIAN CITY. 

There wandered a noble Moslem boy 
Thro* the scene of beauty in breathless joy ; 
He gazed where the stately city rose 
Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose ; 
He turn'd where birds thro' the gorgeous gloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume ; 
He track'd the brink of the shining lake, 
By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake, 
Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound 
To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrin'd 
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind, 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down thro' its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west 
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast, 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
Seem'd made for the swimmer's joyous leap, 

:M) in. i M;l>S or \MO1AN. 

For the stag athirst from the noontide chase. 
For all free things of the wild-wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky, 
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye, 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave ; 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white, 
O'er the glossy leaves in his young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother look'd from her tent the while, 
O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 
She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 
Had stay'd the march of her pilgrim-train, 
Calmly to linger a few brief hours, 
In the Bramin city's glorious bowers ; 
For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall. 
The red gold of sunset she lov'd them all. 


The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; 
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came back 
Oh ! what had he met in his lonely track ? 
The serpent's glance, thro' the long reeds bright ? 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 
No ! yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn, 
And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye, 
And a gash on his bosom he came to die ! 
He look'd for the face to his young heart sweet, 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 

u Speak to me ! whence doth the swift blood run ? 

What hath befall'n thee, my child, my son ?" 

The mist of death on his brow lay pale, 

But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale, 

Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn, 

And wounds from the children of Brahma born : 

t2 >->RDS OF 

This was the doom for a Moslem found 
With foot profane on their holy ground, 
This was for sullying the pure waves free 
Unto them alone 'twas their God's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look 

The mother shriek'd not then, nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood ; 

But it rush'd like a river which none may stay. 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain. 

Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain, 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment the soul from the face had pass'd ! 

Are there no words for that common wo ? 
Ask of the thousands, its depth that know ! 


The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest. 

Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast ; 

He had stood, when she sorrow'd, beside her knee, 

Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 

He hacf kiss'd from her cheek the widow's tears, 

With the loving lip of his infant years ; 

He had smiPd o'er her path like a bright spring-day- 

Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 

Murder'd ! Alas ! and we love so well 

In a world where anguish like this can dwell ! 

She bow'd down mutely o'er her dead 
They that stood round her watch'd in dread : 
They watch'd she knew not they were by 
Her soul sat veil'd in its agony. 
On the silent lip she press'd no kiss, 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this ; 
She shed no tear as her face bent low, 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow : 


She look'd but into the half-shut eye, 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might ! 

And what deep change, what work of power, 
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour ? 
How rose the lonely one ? She rose 
Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 
And proudly flung from her face the veil, 
And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 
And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood. 
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 
A brow in its regal passion high, 
With a close and rigid grasp she press'd 
The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast. 
And said " Not yet not yet I weep, 
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep, 


Not till yon city, in ruins rent, 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple-gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd, 
The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiPd, 
As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child < 


Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Thro* the woods round the Indian city borne. 
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar- 
War ! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war ! 
The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the lake that flash'd through the plantain shade, 
As the light of the lances along it play'd ; 


And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay, like a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering Banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death, as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crush'd affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd, 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from her pale lips pour'd, 
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear. 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall. 


Back with the dust of her son she came, 

When her voice had kindled that lightning flame : 

She came in the might of a queenly foe, 

Banner, and javelin, and bended bow ; 

But a deeper power on her forehead sate 

There sought the warrior his star of fate ; 

Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 

Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign, 

And the faintest tone from her lip was caught, 

As a Sybil's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! the gift of grief, 
That lights up vengeance to find relief, 
Transient and faithless ! it cannot fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown, 
As a king in death might reject his crown : 


Slowly the strength of the walls gave way 
She withered faster from day to day. 
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain. 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born. 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing thro' darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, 
As on that eve when the fair boy died ; 
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell : 
She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone 
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown. 
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle song, 
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng, 
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek : 

"HIE INDIAN C1M . 91) 

But something which breathed from that mournful 


Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again, 
And starting as if from a dream, she cried 
" Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there our grave." 

And the temples fell, tho' the spirit pass'd, 
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the martyr-dead, 
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed. 

Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed 

Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 

Free swept the flame thro' the idol-fanes, 

And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior-veins, 

And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 

Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, 


Till a city of ruin begirt the shade, 

Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left, 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair. 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 



There is but one place in the world. 

Thither where he lies buried ! 


There, there is all that still remains of him, 
That single spot is the whole earth to me. 

COLERIDGE'S Wdlenstdn. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert. 

Clnlde Harold. 

THERE went a warrior's funeral thro' the night, 

A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 

Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 

From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 

Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, 

Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread 



In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 
As chieftains pass'd ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver, 
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; but of one 
Oh ! who shall speak ? What words his brow unveil ? 

A father following to the grave his son ! 
That is no grief to picture ! Sad and slow, 

Thro' the wood-shadows moved the knightly train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low, 

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reached the lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 
Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shuddered thro' the pile, 
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument. 


When dust to dust was given : and Aymer slept 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line, 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine : 
So the sad rite was clos'd. The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave, 
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. Then all was done, 
All still, around the dead. His name was heard. 
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts won.* 

By some old song, or tale of battle won, 
Told round the hearth : but in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd 


Mingled with theirs. Ev'n thus life's rushing tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side : 
Alas ! to think of this ! the heart's void place 

Filled up so soon ! so like a summer-cloud, 
All that we lov'd to pass and- leave no trace ! 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? not of all ! the sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, 
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness lying 

Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep, 
And all the music with that young voice dying, 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, 
Thro' the dim fane soft summer- odours breathing, 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 


And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Thro' storied windows down. The violet there 
Might speak of love a secret love and lowly. 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair, 
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand. 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band ? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells. 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells. 
To blush through every season ? Blight and chill . 
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, 
For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed, 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, 
Even thro' mid-winter, filled the solitude 

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness ! 


One spring-morn rose, 

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid 
Oh ! not as midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon a dark-hair'd peasant maid : 
Who could reveal her story ? That still face 

Had once been fair ; for on the clear arch'd brow, 
And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace 

As sculpture gives its dreams ; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye 
For death was on its lids fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimm'd the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! She grasp'd 8 

The tomb's last garland ! This was love in death ! 


An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of 
her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed 
if. down the Mississippi toward a cataract. Her voice was heard 
from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by 
the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related 
in Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's River. 



Non, je nc puis vivre avec un coeur brise. II faut que je retrouve 
la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits librcs de Pair. 

Bride of Messina, 
Translated by MADAME DE STAEL. 

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman. 

The Prairie. 

DOWN a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within. 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood : upon her Indian brow 


Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair wav'd 
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear, 
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death. 

Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream 

and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, 5 roll! and bear our li\e- 

with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have toss'd, would seek 

the sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to the 

woods of balm. 

Roll on ! my warrior's eye hath look'd upon another's 

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moon- 

'n f 



My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to 

his dream, 
He flings away the broken reed roll swifter yet, 

thou stream! 

The voice that spoke of other days is hush'd within 


his breast, 
But mine its lonely music haunts, anfl will not let 

me rest ; 
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 

is gone, 
I cannot live without that light Father of waves ! 

roll on ! 

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him 

from the chase ? 
The heart of love that made his home an ever sunny 

place ? 



The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck'd 

his couch of yore ? 
He will not! roll, dark foaming stream, on to the 

better shore! 

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright 

land must flow, 
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory 

of this wo ; 
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath 

may wail away 
.The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the 


And thou, my babe ! tho' born, like me, for woman's 

weary lot, 

ile ! to that wasting of the heart, my own ! I 
leave thee not ; 

112 iK!>.> O 

Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love 

Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn ! from sorrow 

and decay. 

She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are 

heard to weep, 
4nd where th' unkind one hath no power again to 

trouble sleep ; 
&nd where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening 

from a dream, 
One moment, and that realm is ours On, on, dark 

rolling stream ! 


Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons quel- 
ques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore 
1'attendait a Rheiius, au sein de son triomphe : Jacques 
d'Arc, son pere y se trouva, aussitot que de troupes de 
Charles VII. y furent entrees ; et comme les deux freres 
de notre Heroine Pavaient accompagnds, elle se vit, pour 
un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un 
pere vertueux. Vie de Jeanne (TArc. 


114 '->r.n?! 01 


Thou hast a charmed cup, Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away ! to me a woman bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring. 

THAT was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music roll'd 
Forth from her throng'd cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, tho' elate 
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate. 


And what was done within ? within, the light 

Thro' the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing, 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight, 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing 
In martial vassalage ! while midst that ring, 
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king 
Receiv'd his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn 

Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 

As thro' long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone, 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine streaming, 
And the gold helm, thro' clouds of fragrance gleaming, 
Silent and radiant stood ? the helm was rais'd, 
And the fair face reveal'd, that upward gaz'd, 

Intensely worshipping : a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek. 

Yet glorified with inspiration's trace 

116 RECORDS OP W031 

On its pure paleness ; while, enthron'd above. 

The pictur'd virgin, with her smile of love, 

Seem'd bending o'er her votaress. That slight form ! 

Was that the leader thro' the battle storm ? 

Had the soft light in that adoring eye, 

Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd high ? 

'Twas so, even so ! and thou, the shepherd's child, 

Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 

Never before, and never since that hour, 

Hath woman, mantled with victorious power, 

Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 

Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 

And beautiful with joy and with renown, 

Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 

Ransom'd for France by thee ! , 

The rites are done. 

Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken, 

And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing sun 


May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, 

Daughter of victory ! a triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gush'd thro' the portals of the antique fane, 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
I* there indeed such power ? far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! The shouts that fill'd 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown, 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. u Joanne !" Who 


Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew 
Under one roof? "Joanne !" that murmur broke 
With sounds of weeping forth! She turn'd sho 


Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, 

In the calm beauty of his silver hair, 

The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 

From his dark eye flash'd proudly ; and the boy, 

The youngest-born, that ever lov'd her best ; 

" Father ! and ye, my brothers !" On the breast 

Of that grey sire she sank and swiftly back, 

Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 

Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp no 


The plumes, the banners : to her cabin-door, 
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade, 6 
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turn'd. The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hung, 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt, 


Winning her back to nature. She unbound 
The helm of many battles from her head, 

And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the groundf 
Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, 

" Bless me, my father, bless me ! and with thee, 

To the still cabin and the beechen-tree, 

Let me return !" 

Oh ! never did thine eye 
Thro' the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all its loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



To die for what we love ! Oh! there is powt; 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this : 
It is to live without the vanish'd light 
That strength is needed. 

Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde. 


ALONG the star-lit Seine went music swelling, 
Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 

For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing *' 

PAULIiSl.. 12 i 

1'or in a palace of the land that night, 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung, 
And from the painted walls a stream of light 

On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung : 
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 
Was one, the lady from the Danube-side. 7 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! tho' now no more 

Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all tameless glee, 
Yet something holier than its day spring wore, 

There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 
A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught- 
The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Thro' the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky. 

Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair, 
As her young daughter in the dance went by. 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 


Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast ? 

Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest 

Midst the light laughter of festivity : 
Whence come those tones ! Alas ! enough we know, 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 
In fairy rings around the echoing hall ? 

Soft airs thro' braided locks in perfume sighing. 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call ? 

Silence ! the minstrels pause and hark ! a sound, 

A strange quick rustling which their notes had drown'd ! 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaking 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed ! 

From the gay dream of revelry awaking, 

One moment holds them still in breathless dread : 


The wild fierce lustre grows then bursts a cry 
Fire ! thro' the hall and round it gathering fly ! 

And forth they rush as chased by sword and spear 
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers ; 

A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, 

Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers 

While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 

Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she, Pauline? the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along - 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 

Calling her child but no sweet voice replies* 


'Bertha! where art thou ] Speak, oh! speak, my 
own !" 

Alas ! unconscious of her pangs the while, 

The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, 

Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile ; 
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death, 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

But oh ! thy strength, deep love ! there is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 

Tho' fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 

And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave ; 

Back, back she rushes thro' a host combined 

Mighty is anguish, with affection twined ! 

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? 

None ! Courage there stood still and never more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eye? ! 


Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? 
And died they heart to heart? Oh! who can tell? 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 

On that sad palace, midst its pleasure-shades ; 
Its painted roofs had sunk yet black with smoke 


And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 
But y ester-eve their shafts with wreaths were bound !- 
Now lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around ! 


And bore the ruins no recording trace 

Of all that woman's heart had dared and done ? 

Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone ! 

Those had the mother on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest, 


i _!(> -MI P:S or WOM \\ . 

\iul \hc\- wore all ! the tender and the triu- 

Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 
Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, 

To deep, lone, chasten'd thoughts of grief and love. 
Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries of such wo ! 


Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the 
death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, 
who had treated her with uniform neglect, had lu's body 
laid upon a bed of state in a magnificent dress, and being 
possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it 
for a length of time incessantly, waiting for the moment 
of returning life. 



It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave 1 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we givr 
Unto the things that perish. 

THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved thro' the 

gorgeous gloom, 
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams 

and red, 
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by 

the dead. 


Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious 

still to see, 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart 

and step were free ; 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay, 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the cold 

slumberer's side, 
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb 

no pride ; 

Only her full impassion'd eyes as o'er that clay she bent, 
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence 


And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like shadows 

of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke 

aloud : 


She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, belov'd one ! 

for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew it 

could not be ; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of death 

for thee ? 
They would have wrapt the funeral shroud thy gallant 

form around, 
But I forbade and there thou art, a monarch, rob'd 

and crown'd ! 

" With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal 

And thy brow so proudly beautiful who said that 

this was death? 

JUANA. 131 


Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round 

thee long, 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd 

and strong. 

" I know thou hast not lov'd me yet ; I am not fair 

like thee, 
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a 

light of glee ! 
A frail and drooping form is mine a cold unsmiling 

Oh ! I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy heart 

to seek. 

" But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord ! and 

hear'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and 

wept : 



How in one long deep dream of thee my nights and 

days have past, 
Surely that humble, patient love must win back love 

at last! 

u And thou wilt smile my own, my own, shall be 

the sunny smile, 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me 

erewhile ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine 
Oh ! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 

u Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou 

comest from the chase, 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face ! 

JliANA. 133 

Thou'lt reck no more tho' beauty's gift mine aspect 

may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give me 


w ' But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of 

thy voice : 

Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone, 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes may all be 

mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth 

day by day, 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way, 



Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every 

Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form 

and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watch- 
er's breast, 

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems 
to his rest, 

With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in 
the wind 

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair 



A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 
Woman ! a power to suffer and to love, 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke ; 
" Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son ; tho' from his cheek had flown 

The mantling crimson of the island-blood, 
And his press'd lips look'd marble. Fiercely bright, 
And high around him, blaz'd the fires of night, 


Hocking beneath the cedars to and iro, 

As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow 

Lighting the victim's face : But who could tell 

Of what within his secret heart befel, 

Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought 

Of his far home then so intensely wrought. 

That its full image, pictured to his eye 

On the dark ground of mortal agony, 

Rose clear as day ! and he might see the band, 

Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 

Where the laburnums droop'd ; or haply binding 

The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding ; 

Or, as day clos'd upon their gentle mirth, 

Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth 

Where sat their mother ; and that mother's face 

Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 

Where so it ever smiled ! Perchance the prayer 

Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair : 


The blessing from her voice, the very tone 

Of her " Good-night" might hreathe from boyhood 

gone ! 
He started and look'd up : thick cypress boughs 

Full of strange sound, wav'd o'er him, darkly red 
In the broad stormy firelight ; savage brows, 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Look'd thro* the branches as thro' dungeon bars, 
Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it ] Who might dream or hear 
The secret of the forests ? To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young soldier 

His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! the fondly rear'd, the fair, 

Gladdening all eyes to see ! And fetter'd there 

I v\. 


He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. Hush ! hark ! a cry 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, 
A step hath pierc'd the ring ! Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? 
A girl a young slight girl a fawn-like child 
Of green Savannas and the leafy wild, 
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, 
For hers had mourn'd a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd, 
Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 


Like close Liannes ; then rais'd her glittering eye 
.\nd clear-toned voice that said, " He shalt not die !" 

" He shall not die !" the gloomy forest thrill'd 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were still'd, 

Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gaz'd, their dark souls bow'd before the maid, 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 
Vnd, as her cheek flushed thro' its olive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, 
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young mien 
Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; 
And, seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loos'd the bonds that held their captive's breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress tree ; 
"Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free !" 



Art thou then desolate? 

Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me ! 

I am thine own. Have trusted hearts prov'd false/ 

Flatterers deceiv'd thee 1 Wanderer, come to me ! 

Why didst thou ever leave me ? Know'st thou all 

I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear, 

For thy sake ? Know'st thou that thy voice had power 

To shake me with a thrill of happiness 

By one kind tone ? to fill mine eyes with tears 

Of yearning love ? And thou oh ! thou didst throw 

That crush'd affection back upon my heart 

Yet come to me ! it died not. 

SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Thro' the stain'd window of her lonely cell, 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow, 



While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright waves of gold the autumn forest's hue 
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervour lived ! And yet what wo. 
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh ! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel, 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known, 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made 
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose thro' each murmur of the green, and dim, 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
\Vent moaning thro' the grass, like sounds in dreams, 

OF \\ <. 

.Mu>i: lor \vcaiv hoart> ! I\lid.-t lr.i\os and ilov. 

She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers. 

All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 

To the sick peasant on his lowly bed, 

Came, and brought hope ; while scarce of mortal birth 

He deem'd the pale fair form, that held on earth 

Communion but with grief. 

Ere long a cell, 

A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleam'd thro' the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, 

And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone. 
Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there 
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again 
Thro' the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met 


The flouting song. Strange sounds ! the trumpet's peal, 
Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel, 
The rallying war-cry. In the mountain-pass, 
There had been combat ; blood was on the grass, 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 
And the pine-branches crashed before the flying. 

And all was chang'd within the still retreat, 

Costanza's home : there enter'd hurrying feet, 

Dark looks of shame and sorrow ; mail-clad men. 

Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, 

Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore 

A wounded warrior in : the rocky floor 

Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 

As there they laid their leader, and implor'd 

The sweet saint's prayers to heal him ; then for flight. 

Thro' the wide forest and the mantling night, 

Sped breathlessly again, They pass'd but he, 

The stateliest of a host a^as ! to ge 


What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep 
Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep, 
Thus changed ! a fearful thing ! His golden crest 
"Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast 
Some costly love-gift rent : but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven-locks the breeze 
As it came in thro' lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them steep'd in bloody showers 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung ! the eye's dark ray 
Where was it 1 and the lips ! they gasp'd apart, 
With their light cufve, as from the chisel's., art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! but that white hue 
Was it not death's ? that stillness that cold dew 
On the scarr'd forehead ? No ! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, 
The haughty chief of thousands the forsaken 

CO/STAN 145 

Of all save one ! She fled not. Day by day- 
Such hours are woman's birthright she, unknown. 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong man's 


He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form 
Still hovering nigh ; yet sometimes, when that storm 

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing, 
Would sooth him with sweet aves, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebb'd from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleam > 

Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams. 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmur'd forth, " Where am I ? What soft strain 
Pass'd, like a breeze, across my burning bram ? 


Back i'roin my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one 
"Where is she now ? and where the gauds of pride 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side ? 
All lost ! and this is death ! I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 
Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
My first, my holiest love ! her broken heart 
Lies low, and I unpardon'd I depart." 

But then Costanza rais'd the shadowy v< ii 
From her dark locks and features brightly pal*-. 
And stood before him with a smile oh ! ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear 
And said, " Cesario ! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust 
As should be Heaven's alone and Heaven is jus? 
I bless thee be at peace !" 

^ /. A . 1"17 

But o'er his frame 

Too fast the strong tide rush'd the sudden shame, 
The joy, th' amaze ! he bow'd his head it fell 
On the wrong'd bosom which had lov'd so well : 
And love still perfect, gave him refuge there, 
His last faint breath just wav'd her floating hair. 



Who should it be ? Where shouldst thou look for kindness ? 
When ive arc sick where can we turn for succour, 
When we are wretched where can we complain ; 
And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 

With such sure confidence as to a mother ? 


" MY child, my child, thou leav'st me ! I shall hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 
"With its first utterance ; I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 

* Orisinallv published in the Literary Souvenir for 1828. 



And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 

And thy " Good-night" at parting for repose. 

Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 

And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 

Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 

My child ! and thou, along the moonlight sea, 

With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 

Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, 

Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go ! 

Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's wo 

From thy young heart be far ! And sorrow not 

For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 

God shall be with me. Now farewell, farewell ! 

Thou that hast been what words may never tell 

Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 

When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise 

In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 

That still sought mine : these moments are gone by, 

Thou too must go, my flower ! Yet with thee dwell 

The peace of God ! One, one more gaze farewell !" 

150 RL CORDS 01 AVO.\iA.N. 

This was a mother's parting with her child, 

A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune sinil'd. 

And wooed her with a voice of love away 

From childhood's home ; yet there, with fond delay 

She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note 

Of her caged bird thro 3 trellis'd rose-leaves float, 

And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, 

Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 

Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day. 

As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heav'd in sunset's golden sleep. 
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long 
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song. 
Breathing of home : thro' stillness heard afar, 
And duly rising with the first pale star, 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
Tho sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd, 

MADELi: 151 

And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furl'd 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. ila- ! \\<. LJ.CC 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
"With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears. 
That home was darken'd soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas, 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn ! 
To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, 

Her bosom's first belov'd, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side, 
By the close veil of misery ! Oh ! but ill, 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught 3 the young high heart 

Bears its first blow ! it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teachto suffer and be still, 


And with submissive love to count the flower.- 
Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hour*? 
To send no busy dream ! She had nt learn'd 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd, 
In weariness from life : then came th ? unrest, 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, 
The haunting sounds of voices far away, 
And household steps ; until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing stream y 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. 
To strangers ? Oh ! could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was rais'd ? did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bath'd that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow 1 
Something was there, that thro' the lingering night 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light. 

Something that taints not thro' the day's distress, 

That fears not toil, that knows not weariness ; 

Love, true and perfect love ! Whence came that power. 

Uprearing thro' the storm the drooping flower 1 

Whence 1 who can ask 1 the wild delirium pass'd, 

And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last 

Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 

The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 

The kind sweet smile of old ! and had she come, 

Thus in life's evening, from her distant home, 

To save her child ? Ev'n so nor yet in vain : 

In that young heart a light sprung up again, 

And lovely still, with so much love to give, 

SeemM this fair world, tho' faded ; still to live 

Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 

That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 

" Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it be ?" 

The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee ? 

Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore, 

Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more," 


" This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgb, near Berlin. 
It was not without surprise tbat I came suddenly, among trees, 
upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, and should have 
deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and 
the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarco- 
phagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human 
form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me 
reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his Queen. 
It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resem- 
blance not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be bless- 
ed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of 
her features. The hands are folded on the bosom ; the limbs arc 

sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the King 

brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. 
These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of 
their departed mother." SHERER'S Notes and Reflections during 
a Ramble in Germany. 



In sweet pride upon that insult keen 

She smiled ; then drooping mute and broken-hearted, 

To Ihe cold comfort of the grave departed. 


IT stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep, 

From cypress-branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread, 
Thou feePst the presence of the dead. 


And what within is richly shrined '? 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely in perfect rest reclined, 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face. 

The mantle's quiet flow, 
The gentle, yet majestic grace. 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom. 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 
Of the fair image wrought ; 

A kingly emblem nor unmeet 
To wake yet deeper thought : 

She whose high heart finds rest below. 

Was royal in her birth and wo. 


There are pale garlands hung above, 

Of dying scent and hue ; 
She was a mother in her lovo 

How sorrowfully true ! 
Oh ! hallow'd long be every leaf, 
The record of her children's grief ! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

Of olden glory spoil'd, 
The standard of their sires borne down, 

The shield's bright blazon soiled : 
She met the tempest meekly brave, 
Then turn'd, overwearied, to the grave. 

She slumber' (1 ; but it came it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour, 
With the glad shout, and signal-flame, 

Sent on from tower to tower ! 
Fast thro' the realm a spirit moved-- 
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. 


Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep, 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the crown'd eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its chain 

So was the triumph won ! 
But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's ! She was gone !* 

* Originally published in the Monthly Magazine. 


On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small 
pillar, with this inscription: "This pillar was erected in the 
year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a me- 
morial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious 
mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2cl 
April, 1616." See Notes to the " Pleasures of Memory." 

RECORDS 01' u 


Hast tiiou, thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude, 
Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered 
That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear'd, 
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ? 


MOTHER and child ! whose blending tears 

Have sanctified the place, 
Where, to the love of many years. 

Was given one last embrace ; 
Oh ! ye have shrin'd a spell of power. 
Beep in your record of that hour ! 


A spell to waken solemn thought, 

A still, small under-tone, 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Tho' long untroubled of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 

Which marks your parting spot, 
Who but a mother's love hath known, 

The one love changing not ? 
Alas ! and haply learn'd its worth 
First with the sound of "Earth to earth 1" 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou, 

O'er whose bright, honour'd head, 
Blessings and tears of holiest flow, 

Ev'n here were fondly shed, 
Thou from the passion of thy grief, 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 


For oh ! tho' painful be th' excess, 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling, dwells ; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, 

Poison'd the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more. 
Which thy young heart first knew ? 

And all was all in this world o'er, 
With ties thus close and true ? 

It was ! On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy. 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of other days, 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladd'ning, like the breath of spring. 


Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps, 
While on thy name, midst wood and hill, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign ; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead, 
Think of the love embodied there, 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perish'd thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthly hour ? 

Not so \ I will not bow me so, 
To thoughts that breathe despair ! 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child ! Your tears are 

Surely your hearts have met at last ! 

iir.conns or 


" Ne me plaignez pas si TOUS saviez 
Combien de peines ce tombeau ra'a epargn&s!" 

I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; 

Spring-odours breath'd around. 
And music, in the river- wave, 

Pass'd with a lulling sound. 

* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of 
Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the 
last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many 
in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. 
The ruins of an ancient abbey that have been partially converted 
into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow 
over it, Talcs by the CPHura Family. 


All happy things that love the sun 

In the bright air glanc'd by, 
And a glad murmur seem'd to run 

Thro 7 the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bougli 

That fring'd the ruins near ; 
Young voices were abroad but thou 

Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for thee, 

Thou in whose woman's mind 
The ray that brightens earth and sea, 

The light of song was shrined. 

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between thee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 


Parted from all the song and bloom 
Thou wouldst have lov'd so well, 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing, 
In their bright reckless play, 

Might feel the flush and life of spring,- 
Andihou wert pass'd away ! 

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought 
O'er my vain sadness came ; 

Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 
Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said, 
Thou must have look'd ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odours and hues below. 


The shadows of the tomb are here, 

Yet beautiful is earth ! 
What seest thou then where no dim fear, 

No haunting dream hath birth ? 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 

Thou gav'st but where thou art, 
The sway is not with changeful hours, 

There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud, but deep ! 
The glorious bowers of earth among, 

How often didst thou weep ! 

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 

Thy tender thoughts and high ? 
Now peace the woman's heart hath found. 

And joy the poet'? 

N O T E S 



Note 1, page 12, lines 6 and 7. 
When darkness from the vainly-doting sight, 
Covers its beautiful ! 

" Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, 
it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel icept, and would not 
be comforted, because her children were no ?nore. And that, 
indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else !" From 
a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband. See Curiosi- 
ties of Literature. 

Note 2, page 21, lines 9 and 10. 
Death ! wliat, is death a locked and treasured thing, 
Guarded by swords of fire ? 

" And if you remember of old, I dare die. Consider 

what the world would conceive, if I should be violentH' 
enforced to do it." Fragments of 


170 NOTES. 

Note 3, page 27, lines 17 and lb. 
.2nd her lovely thoughts from their cells found way, 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 

A Greek Bride, on leaving her father's house, takes 
leave of her friends and relatives frequently in extempo- 
raneous verse. See Fauriel's Chants Populaires de la 
Grece Modcrnc. 

Note 4, page 65, line 3. 
Jlnd lov'd when they should hate like thee, Imelda. 

The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Historic 
cles Republiques Italienne. Vol. iii. p. 443. 

Note 5, page 109, line 8. 
Father of ancient waters, roll ! 

"Father of waters," the Indian name for the Missis- 

Note 6, page 118, line 11. 
Jlnd to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. 

A beautiful fountain near Domremi, believed to be 
haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc 
in her childhood. 

Note 7, page 121, lines 5 and 6. 
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride, 
Was she, the Lady from the Danube-side. 

The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her 
fate is beautifully related in L'Allemagne. Vol. iii. p. 336. 




Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? 

THE stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand ! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound 

Thro' shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 


The merry Homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet, in the ruddy light ! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats thro' their woods at mom ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 


The Cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Thro' glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves, 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be rear'd 

To guard each hallo w'd wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God !* 

* Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine. 



1 have dreamt thou wert 

A captive in thy hopelessness ; afar 

From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 

Whose image unto thee is as a dream 

Of fire and slaughter ; I can see thee wasting, 

Sick for thy native air. 


THE champions had come from their fields of war, 
Over the crests of the billows far, 
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores- 
Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars. 

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's board, 
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour'd. 
The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high, 
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. 


The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme, 
Their songs of the sword and the olden time, 
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung, 
Had breath'd frcrm the walls where the bright spears 

But the swell was gone from the quivering string, 
They had summen'd a softer voice to sing, 
And a captive girl, at the warriors' call, 
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall. 

Lonely she stood : in her mournful eyes 

Lay the clear midnight of southern skies, 

And the drooping fringe of their lashes low. 

Half veil'd a depth of unfathom'd wo. 

Stately she stood tho' her fragile frame 
Seem'd struck witli the blight of some inward flame, 
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, 
Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 


And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze, 
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze ; 
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath. 
But a token of fever, at strife with death. 

She had been torn from her home away, 
With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day. 
And brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 

They bade her sing of her distant land 
She held its lyre with a trembling hand, 
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke. 
And the stream of her voice into music broke. 

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow, 

Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low ; 

But it swell'd into deeper power^re long, 

As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong. 


They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! 
of thee ! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful- 
sounding sea ? 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ? in silence let me 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure 
deep sapphire sky ; 

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried 
sweetness forth ? 

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild 
winds of the north ? 

;< Yet thus it shall be once, once more !* my spirit 

shall awake, 
And thro' the mists of death shine out, my country! for 

thy sake ! 


That I may make thee known, with all the beauty aim 
the light, 

Vnd the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearn- 
ing sight ! 

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams 
warble by, 

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again yet once, my Sicily I 

' There are blue heavens far hence, far hence ! but 

oh ! their glorious blue ! 
Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep 

hue ! 
It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing 

And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their 

cloudless dome, 
And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the 



And steeping happy hearts in joy that now is mine no 


" And there are haunts in that green land oh! who 

may dream or tell, 

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell ! 
By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy 

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled 

weaves ; 
The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of 

its breath, 
And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy 

moss beneath. 

' And there are floating sounds that fill the skies thro' 

night and day, 
Sweet sounds ! the soul to hear them faints in dreams 

of heaven away ! 
They wander thro' the olive-woods, and o'er the shining 

They mingle with the orange- scents that load the sleepy 

breeze ; 



Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there ; it were a 

bliss to die, 
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily ! 

"/may n t thus depart farewell! yet no, my country! 

no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave ] I feel it must be 

My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the 

And in thy tender starlight rove, and thro' thy woods 

Its passion deepens it prevails ! I break my chain 

I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest in thy sweet air, 

my home !" 


And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre, 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire, 
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold, 
Loos'd from their braids, down her bosom roll'd. 

For her head sank back on the rugged wall, 

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall ; 

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone ; 

The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ! . 



"Ivan le Terrible, etant deja devenu vieux, assiegoit Novogorod. 
Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demanderent s'il ne voulait pas 
donner le commandement de 1'assaut a son fils. Sa fureur fut si 
grande a cette proposition, que rien ne put 1'appaiser ; son fils se 
prosterna a ses pieds j il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle vio- 
lence, que deux jours apres le malheureux en mourut. Le pere, 
alors au desespoir, devint indifferent a la guerre comme au pouvoir, et 
ne surveeut que peu de mois a son fils." Dix Annees d'Exil, par 

1VAJS THE CZAR. ' 185 


Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 
Ilm wieder haben ! * * * * 
* * * * Trostlose allmacht, 
Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm 
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 
Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann ! 


HE sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar ; 
Lonely, tho princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war : 
He had cast his jewell'd sabre, 

That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead, 

His fair and first-born son. 


With a robe of ermine for its bed, 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset sin 

Thro* the rich tent made way : 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the Lord of nations mutely watch'd. 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones at last of wo and fear 

From his full bosom broke ; 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke I 
The voice that thro' the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones. 

Burdened with agony. 


' There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath, 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done 
For the honour of thy father's name, 

Look up, look up, my son ! 

" Well might I know death's hue and mien. 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen, 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 


'' I will not bear that still, cold look 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, arise ! 

" Didst thou not know I lov'd thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart, 

That seem'd to thee so stern. 


" Thou wert the first, the first fair child, 

That in mine arms I press'd ; 
Thou wert the hright one, that hast smil'd 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I reared thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave, 
And bury my red sword and spear, 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! I have conquer'd, 

I have slain my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? ye answer not 

Thou too art mute, my son !" 


And thus his wild lament was pour'd 

Thro' the dark resounding night, 
And the battle knew no more his sword. 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sigh'd ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank- 

Humbly the conqueror died.* 

* Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827. 



Thy cheek too swiftly flushes ; o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast, 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth , oh ! therefore, child of song I 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart. 

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, 
Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, 
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard, 
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 
Flashing thro' rock and wood ; the sunset's light 
Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair, 
And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, 

* Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the 
Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." 


WTiose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd, 

His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 

Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood, 

"Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 

Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song ; 

Many, and graceful forms ! yet one alone, 

Seem'd present to his dream ; and she indeed, 

With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, 

And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, 

Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 

And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, 

Ev'n painfully ! a creature to behold 

With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen 

Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 

Too dim without its brightness ! Did such fear 

O'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one, 

By his own rushing stream ? Once more he gaz'd 

Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more 

From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out 

A few short festive notes, an opening strain 


Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief, 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Mt and o'ermaster'd him : but yielding then 
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully, 
Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he pour'd 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang 

Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sear leaf's trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree, 

I hear thee, thou voice ! 
And I would thy warning were but for me, 

That my spirit might rejoice. 

I5ut thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 



They hear the wind's low sigh, 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily, 

And the woods but they hear not thee ! 

Long have I striven 

With my deep foreboding soul, 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roll. 
There's a young brow smiling near, 

With a bridal white-rose wreath, 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 

Touch'd solemnly by death ! 

Fair art thou Morna ! 
The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 
On the dark-blue summer sky ! 


And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill, 
fThat makes the dim woods tuneful round 

But soon it must be still ! 

Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie, 
Make not the strength of love thy trust, 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That my hand for thee hath tried, 
But into dirge-notes wild and low, 

Its ringing tones have died. 

Young art thou, Morna ! 
Yet on thy gentle head, 
Like heavy dew on the lily's leav 
A spirit hath been shed ! 


And the glance is thine which sees 

Thro' nature's awful heart 
But bright things go with the summer-breeze, 

And thou too, must depart ! 

Yet shall I weep ? 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep, 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And the bitterness I know, 

And the chill of this world's breath- 
Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go ! 

Young and crown'd bride of death ! 

Take hence to heaven 
Thy holy thoughts and bright, 
And soaring hopes, that were not given 
For the touch of mortal blight ! 


Might we follow in thy track, 

This parting should not be ! 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee ! 

There was a burst of tears around the bard : 
All wept but one, and she serenely stood, 
With her clear brow and dark religious eye, 
Rais'd to the first faint star above the hills, 
And cloudless ; though it might be that her cheek 
Was paler than before. So Morna heard 
The minstrePs prophecy. 

And spring returned, 

Bringing the earth her lovely things again, 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 


i.i !.\NF,<"K 


From the " Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poew, 

If there be but one spot upon thy name, 
One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice 
Whose tones thou shrink'st from Woman ! veil thy face, 
And bow thy head and die ! 

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair, > 
(Famed were those tresses in Provensal song,} 
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair 
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving 
Midst the rich curls, and oh ! how meekly loving 
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face, 
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing 


Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, 
Than might beseem a mother's ; on her brow 

Something too much there sits of native scorn, 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow, 

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. 
These may be dreams but how shall woman tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears ? She fell ! 
That mother left that child ! went hurrying by 
Its cradle haply, not without a sigh, 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung but no ! it could not thus have been, 
For she went on ! forsook her home, her hearth. 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth. 
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life, 

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife ; 


He-reck'd no more of glory grief and shame 

Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name 

Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls 

Crept year by year ; the minstrel pass'd their walls ; 

The warder's horn hung mute ;- meantime the child, 

On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, 

A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 

Into sad youth ; for well, too well, she knew 

Her mother's tale ! Its memory made the sky 

Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye ; 

Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain 

Would there have linger'd ; flush'd her cheek to pain. 

If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, 

Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low, 

And plaintive oh ! there lie such depths of wo 

In a young blighted spirit ! Manhood rears 

A haughty brow, and age has done with tears ; 

But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 

At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days, 


And thus it was with her. A mournful sight 

In one so fair for she indeed was fair 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light, 

Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and 


And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek, 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, 
Still that fond child's and oh ! the brow above, 
So pale and pure ! so form'd for holy love 
To gaze upon in silence ! but she felt 
& That love was not for her, tho' hearts would melt 
Where'er she mov'd, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn, 

With alms before her castle gate she stood, 
Midst peasant-groups ; when breathless and o'erworn, 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood. 


A stranger thro' them broke : the orphan maid 
With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid, 
Turn'd to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers ; a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion in its gushing mood, 
Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears 
As rain the hoarded agonies of years 
From the heart's urn ; and with her white lips press'd 
The ground they trod ; then, burying in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out " Oh ! undefiled ! 
I am thy mother spurn me not, my child !" 

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother ; wept 
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept 
In the hush'd midnight ; stood with mournful gazo 
Before yon picture's smile of other days. 
But never breath'd in human ear the name 
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with sham- . 


What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, 
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, 
Awhile o'erpower'd her ? from the weeper's touch 
She shrank 'twas but a moment yet too much 
For that all humbled one ; its mortal stroke 
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke 
At once in silence. Heavily and prone 
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, 
Those long fair tresses they still brightly wore 
Their early pride, tho' bound with pearls no more 
Bursting their fillet in sad beauty roll'd, 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 

Her child bent o'er her call'd her 'twas too late 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate ! 
The joy of Courts, the star of knight and bard, 
How didst thou fall, bright-hair'd Ermengarde ! 



good old man ! how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times. 

.is You Like It, 

FALLEN was the House of Giafar ; and its name, 

The high romantic name of Barmecide, 

A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, 

By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath. 

Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 

Had so pass'd sentence : but man's chainless heart 

Hides that within its depths, which never yet 

Th' oppressor's thought could reach. 


'Twas desolate 

Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceas'd ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii-tales, 
Had ceas'd ; the guests were gone. Yet still one 


Was there the fountain's ; thro' those eastern courts. 
Over the broken marble and the grass, 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! an aged man, 
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 
His silvery hair, came, day by day, and sate 
On a white column's fragment ; and drew forth. 
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 
A tone mat shook them with its answering thrill 
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 
lie told that sad yet stately solitude, 
Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom. 

Like waters in the waste ; and calling up, 



By song or high recital of their deeds, 
Bright solemn shadows of its vanish'd race 
To people their own halls : with these alone, 
In all this rich and breathing world, his thought;-' 
Held still unbroken converse. He had been 
Rear'd in this lordly dwelling, and was now 
The ivy of its ruins ; unto which 
His fading life seem'd bound. Day roll'd on day. 
And from that scene the loneliness was fled ; 
For crowds around the grey-hair'd chronicler 
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts 
Fear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a breeze 
Wanders thro' forest-branches, and is met 
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves. 
The spirit of his passionate lament, 
As thro' their stricken souls it pass'd, awoke 
One echoing murmur. But this might not be 
Under a despot's rule, and summon'd thence, 
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 


And with his white lips rigidly compressed ; 
Till, in submissive tones, he ask'd to speak 
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine forth. 
Was it to sue for grace ? his burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, 
And he was changed ! and thus, in rapid words, 
Th' overmastering thoughts, more strong than death 
found way. 

"' And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the 

With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to 

the grave ? 
What is there left to look on now, what brightness in 

the land ? 
I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely 



" My chiefs ! my chiefs ! the old man comes, that in 

your halls was nurs'd, 
That follow'd you to many a fight, where flash'd your 

sabres first ; 
That bore your children in his arms, your name upon 

his heart 
Oh ! must the music of that name with him from earth 

depart ? 

<; It shall not be! a thousand tongues, tho' human 

voice were still, 
With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall 

The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wandering 

seeds are sown, 
And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and 

thrilling tone. 


v{ For it is not as a flower whose scent with the drop- 
ping leaves expires, 

And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should 
quench its fires ; 

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the 

It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings 

:; The founts, the many gushing founts, which to the 

wild ye gave, 
Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour a 

joyous wave ; 
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung 

the pilgrim's way, 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on 

the day. 



fci The very walls your bounty rear'd, for the stranger's 

homeless head, 
Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious 

Tho' the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute 

and cittern rung, 
And the serpent in your palaces He coil'd amidst its 


" It is enough ! mine eye no more of joy or splendour 


I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and to the 

breeze ! 
I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright 

and fair, 
And call the grave a kingly ho^-e, for ye, my chiefs. 

are there !" 


JBut while the old man sang, a mist of tears 

O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a thought 

Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought 

Of his youth's once-lov'd friends, the martyr'd race 

O'erflowed his softening heart. " Live, live !" he 


k ' Thou faithful unto death ! live on, and still 
Speak of thy lords ; they were a princely band !" 



Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes, 

Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom, 
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies. 


I MADE a mountain-brook my guide. 
Thro' a wild Spanish glen, 

And wandered, on its grassy side. 
Far from the homes of men. 

It lured me with a singing tone, 
And many a sunny glance, 

To a green spot of beauty lone, 
A haunt for old romance. 

* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the " Recollections 
of the Peninsula." 


A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove 

Of many an aged tree, 
Such as the shadowy violets love, 

The fawn and forest-bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut bough 

There on the waters lay, 
The bright stream reverently below. 

Check'd its exulting play : 

And bore a music all subdued, 

And led a silvery sheen, 
On thro' the breathing solitude 

Of that rich leafy scene. 

For something viewlessly around 

Of solemn influence dwelt, 
In the soft gloom, and whispery sound, 

Not to be told, but felt : 


While sending forth a quiet gleam 

Across the wood's repose, 
And o'er the twilight of the stream, 

A lowly chapel rose. 

A pathway to that still retreat 
Thro' many a myrtle wound, 

And there a sight how strangely sweet ! 
My steps in wonder bound. 

For on a brilliant bed of flowers, 
Even at the threshold made, 

As if to sleep thro' sultry hours, 
A young fair child was laid. 

To sleep? oh! ne'er on childhood's eye, 

And silken lashes press'd, 
Did the warm living slumber lie, 

With such a weight of rest ! 


Yet still a tender crimson glow 
Its cheek's pure marble dyed 

'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow 
Thro' roses heap'd beside. 

I stoop'd the smooth round arm was chill, 
The soft lip's breath was fled, 

And the bright ringlets hung so still 
The lovely child was dead ! 

;i Alas !" I cried, " fair faded thing ! 

Thou hast wrung bitter tears, 
And thou hast left a wo, to cling 

Round yearning hearts for years !" 

But then a voice came sweet and low 

I turn'd, and near me sate 
A woman with a mourner's brow, 

Pale, yet not desolate. 


And ill her still, clear, matron face, 
All solemnly serene, 

A shadow'd image I could trace 

Of that young slumberer's mien. 

Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said, 
With lips that faintly smiled, 

" As here I watch beside my dead, 
My fair and precious child. 

" But know, the time-worn heart may be 
By pangs in this world riven, 

Keener than theirs who yield, like me. 
An angel thus to Heaven !" 



The prisoned thrush may brook the cage, 
The captive eagle dies for rage. 

Lady of Iht Lake. 

'TWAS a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower, 
And a Christian host in its pride and power, 

Thro' the pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice be still ! 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam. 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream, 

And their plumes to the glad wind float ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 

Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice be still ! 

M I 

" I am here, with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
And an eagle rushing to the sky, 

And a host, to its battle-plain ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice be still '. 

" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight. 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear ? 
Cease awhile, clarion !. Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice be still ! 

" They are gone ! they have all pass'd by ! 
They in whose \vars I had borne my part, 
They that I lov'd with a brother's heart, 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! Clarion pour thy blast ! 
Sound ! for the captive's dream of hope is past. v 


Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the 
Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire, (in the 12th 
century,) that unfortunate Prince fled to England, where he 
died in neglect and poverty. " After his decease, his mother, 
Matilda, privately invited his children to return to Germany ; 
and by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis 
kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family of his bro- 
ther presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, 
imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor 
*oftened." Miss BENGER'S Memoirs of the Queen of Be! i. 



THE Kaiser feasted in his hall, 

The red wine mantled high ; 
Banners were trembling on the wall, 

To the peals of minstrelsy : 
And many a gleam and sparkle came 

From the armour hung around, 
As it caught the glance of the torch's flame, 

Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown'd. 

"Why fell there silence on the chord 

Beneath the harper's hand ? 
And suddenly, from that rich board, 

"Why rose tho wassail-band ? 

i HI. K.A 

The strings were hush'd the knights made way 

For the queenly mother's tread, 
As up the hall, in dark array, 

Two fair-hair'd boys she led. 

She led them ev'n to the Kaiser's place, 

And still before him stood ; 
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 

Flush'd the proud warrior-blood : 
And " Speak, my mother ! speak !" he cried, 

" Wherefore this mourning vest ? 
And the clinging children by thy side. 

In weeds of sadness drest ?" 

" Well may a mourning vest be mine, 

And theirs, my son, my son ! 
Look on the features of thy line 

In each fair little one ! 



Tho' grief awhile witftin their eyes 

Hath tamed the dancing glee, 
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies 

Thy brother's children see ? 

* ; And where is he, thy brother, where ? 

He, in thy home that grew, 
And smiling, with his sunny hair, 

Ever to greet thee flew ? 
How would his arms thy neck entwine, 

His fond lips press thy brow ! 
My son ! oh, call these orphans thine 

Thou hast no brother now ! 

" What ! from their gentle eyes doth nought 
Speak of thy childhood's hours, 

And smite thee with a tender thought 
Of thy dead father's towers ? 


Kind was thy boyish heart and true, 

When rear'd together there, 
Thro' the old woods like fawns ye flew 

Where is thy brother where ? 

" Well didst thou love him then, and he 

Still at thy side was seen ! 
How is it that such things can be, 

As tho' they near had been? 
Evil was this world's breath, which came 

Between the good and brave ! 
Now must the tears of grief and shame 

Be offer'd to the grave. 

" And let them, let them there be pour'd ! 

Tho' all unfelt below, 
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored, 

Shall soften as they flow. 


Oh ! death is mighty to make peace ; 

Now bid his work be done ! 
So many an inward strife shall cease 

Take, take these babes, my son !" 

His eye was dimm'd the strong man shook 

With feelings long suppress'd ; 
Up in his arms the boys he took, 

And strain'd them to his breast. 
And a shout from all in the royal hall 

Burst forth to hail the sight ; 
And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met 

At the Kaiser's feast that night. 



" Devant vous est Sorrente ; la demeuroit la soeur de Tasse, 
quand il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure amic, un asyle 
contre 1'injustice des princes, Ses longues douleurs avaient pres- 
que egar^ sa raison j il ne lui restoit plus que son genie." Corinne. 

SHE sat, where on each wind that sighed, 

The citron's breath went by, 
While the red gold of eventide 

Burn'd in th' Italian sky. 
Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full oft sweet laughter found, 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

1*20 MISCEL1 

But still and thoughtful, at her knco. 

Her children stood that hour, 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee, 

Hush'd as by words of power. 
With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd 

Up to their mother's face, 
With brows thro' parted ringlets rais'd, 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread 
Forth from a poet's magic book, 

The glorious numbers read ; 
The proud undying lay, which pour'd 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword,* 

The triumph and the tears. 

* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian say- 
ir, that Tosso with his sword and pen was superior to all men. 


She read of fair Erminia's flight, 

Which Venice once might hear 
Sung on her glittering seas at night, 

By many a Gondolier ; 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm. 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, 

Young holy hearts were stirr'd ; 
And the meek tears of woman flow'd 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf. 

Came sweet, each pause between ; 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 



The mother turn'd a way-worn man, 

In pilgrim-garb stood nigh, 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud yet mournful eye. 
But drops which would not stay for pride, 

From that dark eye gush'd free, 
As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 

" Forgotten ! ev'n by thee ! 

" Am I so changed ? and yet we two 

Oft hand in hand have play'd ; 
This brow hath been all bath'd in dew, 

From wreaths which thou hast made : 
\Ve have knelt down and said one prayer, 

And sung one vesper-strain ; 
My soul is dim with clouds of care 

Tell me those words again ! 


v * Life hath been heavy on my head, 

I come a stricken deer, 
Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, 

To bleed in stillness here." 
She gaz'd till thoughts that long had slept, 

Shook all her thrilling frame 
She fell upon his neck and wept, 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! and who was he, 

The weary one, th' unknown, 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own 1 
He was the bard of gifts divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine, 

He of the sword and pen ! 


Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gaz'd o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander' d o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me ! 
This once once more ! 


" THOU'RT gone ! thou'rt slumbering low. 

With the sounding seas above thee : 

It is but a restless wo, 

But a haunting dream to love thee ! 
Thrice the glad swan has sung, 

To greet the spring-time hours, 


Since thine oar at parting flung 
The white spray up in showers. 


There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and round 

thy home ; 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! thou'rt surely of 

them come !" 

'Twas Ulla's voice alone she stood 

In the Iceland summer night, 
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood, 

From a dark rock's beetling height. 

" I know thou hast thy bed 

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee : 
The storm sweeps o'er thy head, 

But the depths are hush'd around thee. 
What wind shall point the way 

To the chambers where thou'rt lying ? 
Come to me thence, and say 

If thou thought's t on me in dyii> 


I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and 

Come to me from the ocean's dead ! thou'rt surely of 

them speak !" 

She listened 'twas the wind's low moan, 

'Twas the ripple of the wave, 
'Twas the wakening ospray's cry alone, 

As it started from its cave. 

" I know each fearful spell 

Of the ancient Runic lay, 
Wh >se mutter'd words compel 

The tempest to obey. 
But I adjure not thee 

By magic sign or song, 
My voice shall stir the sea 

By love, the deep, the strong ! 


By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her 

Come to me from the ocean's dead by the vows we 

pledg'd arise !" 

Again she gaz'd with an eager glance, 

Wandering and wildly bright ; 
She saw but the sparkling waters dance 

To the arrowy northern light. 

' ; By the slow and struggling death 

Of hope that loath'd to part, 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart ; 
By the weight of gloom which clings 

To the mantle of the night, 
By the heavy dawn which brings 

Nought lovely to the sight, 



By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief 

and fear, 
Come to me from the ocean's dead awake, arise, 

appear !" 

Was it her yearning spirit's dream, 

Or did a pale form rise, 
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam. 

With bright, still, mournful eyes ? 

" Have the depths heard ? they have ! 

My voice prevails thou'rt there. 
Dim from thy watery grave, 

Oh ! thou that wert so fair ! 
Yet take me to thy rest ! 

There dwells no fear with love : 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 

While the billows roll above ! 


Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright 

ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead stay for me, 

stay !- I come !" 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main, 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's wo, 

Shut and grew still again. 


THINE is a strain to read among the hills, 
The old and full of voices ; by the source 

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills 
The solitude with sound ; for in its course 

Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 

Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, 

Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken. 
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 

There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 

Sinks with a golden and serene dec ' 


Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 

When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, 

There from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 
As antique music, link'd with household words. 

While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, 

And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, 

Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around ; 

From its own glow of hope and courage high, 

And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard, and holy ! thou art ev'n as one 
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, 

In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 

Sees where the springs of living waters lie : 

Unseen awhile they sleep till, touch'd by thee, 

Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wan- 
derer free. 


The Emperor Albert of Hapsburgh, who was assassinated by 
his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die 
by the way-side, and only supported in his last moments by a fe- 
male peasant, who happened to be passing. 

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay 

Did censers waft perfume, 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, 

Thro' his proud chamber's gloom ? 
He lay upon a greensward bed, 

Beneath a darkening sky 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 


Had he then fall'n as warriors fall, 

Where spear strikes fire with spear 1 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier 1 
Not so ; nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod, 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms ; 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends with words of cheer, 

And princely vassals nigh 1 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the glazing eye ? 
A peasant girl that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid, 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread, 

The face of death survey'd. 


Alone she sat : from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood. 

Treason its worst had done ! 
With her long hair she vainly press'd 

The wounds to staunch their tide 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 

Imperial Albert died! 

i O THE 31EMOHY OF HEBEll. 241 


Umile in tanta gloria. PETRARCH 

IF it be sad to speak of treasures gone, 
Of sainted genius called too soon away, 

Of light, from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day ; 

How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, 

Flow forth, oh, Thou of many gifts ! for thee ? 

Hath not thy voice been here among us heard ? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power, 
Have we not felt its breath in every word, 

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower ? 
Yes ! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd, 

Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd. 


How shall we mourn thee ? With a lofty trust, 
Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
Thro' shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, 

And yet can weep ! for nature thus deplores 

The friend that leaves us, tho 3 for happier shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd ! 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, 
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd : 

In those bright regions of the rising sun, 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. 

Praise ! for yet one more name with power endow'd, 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; 

Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd, 
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness ! 

Thine, Heber, thine ! whose memory from the dead. 

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led. 
ASAPH, Sept. 1826. 



" WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh ! gentle child ? 

Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 

A straw-roof 'd cabin with lowly wall 

Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall, 

Where many an image of marble gleams, 

And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Thro' the long bright hours of the summer-day, 
They find the red cup- moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

Lady, kind lady ! qh ! let me go," 


" Content thcc, boy ! in my bower to dwell, 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune ; 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low 
Lady ! kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more. 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest r! 


" Is my mother gone from her home away? 

But I know that my brothers are there at play. 

I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 

Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well, 

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams 

Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go. " 

" Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow, 
They have left the fern by the spring's green side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ? 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the! waters leap, and the fresh winds blow, 

Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

Ml-'l I.U.AM.OI.S 1M: 


I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
That which is veil'd from waking thought, conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer. 


ANSWER me, burning stars of night ! 

Where is the spirit gone, 
That past the reach of human sight, 

As a swift breeze hath flown ? 
And the stars answered me " We roll 

In light and power on high ; 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask that which cannot die." 


Oil ! many-toned "and chainless wind ! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and sea ? 
And the wind murmur'd in reply, 

" The blue deep I have cross'd, 
And met its barks and billows high. 

But not what thou hast lost." 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run ? 
The bright clouds answered " We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart. 

For that which cannot die." 


Speak then, thou voice of God within. 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me, thro' life's restless din, 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered " Be thou still ! 

Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil. 

Thine is to trust in Heaven," 


Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young German poet 
and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment oi 
French troops, on the 20th of August, 1813, a few hours after 
the composition of his popular piece, " The Sword-song." He 
was buried at the village of Wobbelin in Mecklenburgh, under 
a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited 
verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The 
monument erected to his memory is of cast iron, and the upper 
part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favourite emblem of 
Korner's, from which one of his works had been entitled. 
Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of 
grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to com- 
plete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the 
.rate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines : 
" Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht." 
Forget not the faithful dead. 

See Richardson's translation of Korner's Life and Works, and 
Dowries Letters from Mecklenburgh. 



GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, 

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
Thy place of memory, as an altar keepest : 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd, 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 

Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! by the father's hand 
Here shall the child of after-years be led, 

With his wreath-offering silently to stand, 
In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. 

Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 


The oak wav'd proudly o'er thy burial-rite, 

On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, 

And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
Wept as they veil'd their drooping banners o'er thee. 

And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token, 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 

Thou hast a hero's tomb : a lowlier bed 

Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, 
The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head, 

When thou \vert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 
Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; but for her, 
To whom the wide world held that only spot, 

She lov'd thee ! lovely in your lives yc were, 
And in your early deaths divided not. 

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy : what hath she ? 
Her own blest place by thee ! 


It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 

The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye, 

Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd. 

And sent glad singing thro' the free blue sky. 
Ye were but two and when that spirit pass'd. 
Wo to the one, the last ! 

Wo, yet not long ! She linger'd but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast, 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er. 
It answer'd hers no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled ; 

What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted ? 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead \ 

Softly she perish'd : be the Flower deplor'd 
Here with the Lyre and Sword ! 


Have ye not met ere now ? so let those trust 
That meet for moments but to part for years, 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 

Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell 
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell !* 

* The following lines recently addressed to the author of the 
above, by the venerable father of Korner, who, with the mother, still 
survives the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower" here commemorated, may 
not be uninteresting to the German reader. 

Wohllaut tont aus der Feme von freundlichen Lviften getragen, 
Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauerndcn Ohr, 
Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelea Verwandschaft, 
Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wiirdige weihn. 
Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling 
Hingezogen gefiihlt, wird ihm cin glanzender Lohn. 
Heil dem Britfischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist ! 
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand. 

Theodor Korner's Valer, 




To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree, 
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, 
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
Its morning incense, is my friend. 


THERE were thick leaves above me and around, 

And low sweet sighs, like those--of childhood's 

Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 

As of soft showers on water ; dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still, 
They seem'd but pictur'd glooms : a hidden rill 
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream, 
Under the fern-tufts ; and a tender gleam 


Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, 
Came pouring thro' the woven beech-boughs down, 

And steep'd the magic page wherein I read 
Of royal chivalry and old renown, 

A tale of Palestine.* Meanwhile the bee 
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, 
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 

Blue skies and amber sunshine : brightly frer, 

On filmy wings the purple dragon-fly 

Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by ; 

And a iSweet voice of sorrow told the dell 
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon : 
But ere long, 

All sense of these things faded, as the spell 

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong 

On my chain'd soul : 'twas not the leaves I heard 

A Syrian wind the Lion-banner sthr'd, 

* The Talisman Tales of the Crusaders. 


Thro' its proud floating folds : 'twas not the brook, 
Singing in secret thro' its grassy glen 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high. 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, 
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout 
Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out, 
Sent thro' an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue ; 
And harps were there I heard their sounding strings, 
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. 
The bright masque faded. Unto life's worn track. 
What call'd me from its flood of glory, back ? 
A voice of happy childhood ! and they pass'd, 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast ; 
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone, 
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tono. 

'.EU'rj PllEAM OF LANP. 257 


His very heart athirst 
To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 
With Visions prompted by intense desire ; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. 


THE hollow dash of waves ! the ceaseless roar !- 
Silence, ye billows ! vex my soul no more. 

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, 

Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ; 

Oh ! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 

As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear ! 


And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws, 

Thro' the feathery fern and the olive boughs, 

And the gleam on its path as it steals away 

Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 

And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 

Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, 

They haunt me ! I dream of that bright spring's flow, 

I thirst for its rills, like a wounded roe ! 

Be still thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry ! 
My spirit sickens, as thy wing sweeps by. 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round ? 
Know ye it, brethren ! where bower'd it lies, 
Under the purple of southern skies ? 
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 
In thro' the cloud of its clustering vines, 
And the summer-breath of the myrtle-flowers ; 
Borne from the mountains in dewy hours. 


And the fire-fly's glance thro' the darkening shades, 
Like shooting stars in the forest-glades, 
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall 
Speak ! have ye known, have ye felt them all ? 

The heavy rolling surge ! the rocking mast ! 

Hush ! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast ! 

Oh ! the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, 
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, 
The sighing of reeds as the day declines, 
The wings flitting home thro' the crimson glow 
That steeps the woods when the sun is low, 
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still 
I hear them ! around me they rise, they swell, 
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell, 
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, 
And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 


The white foam dashes high away, away ! 

Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray ! 

It is there ! down the mountains I see the sweep 

Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 

With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear. 

Floating upborne on the blue summer-air, 

And the light pouring thro' them in tender gleams, 

And the flashing forth of a thousand streams ! 

Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go, 

To the hills of my youth where the myrtles blow, 

To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, 

Massy and still, on the greensward's breast, 

To the rocks that resound with the water's play 

I hear the sweet laugh of my fount give way ! 

Give way ! the booming surge, the tempest's roar. 
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more. 

THE EFFIi 261 


Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann : 
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen 
Der iiberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau, 
Zahlt keine Nachwelt. 


WARRIOR ! whose image on thy tomb, 

With shield and crested head, 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stain'd window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet, thro' a cloud of years I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 


A banner, from its flashing spear 

Flung out o'er many a fight, 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance 

Chief! were not these things thine : 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council-board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood-red wine was pour'd : 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard ; 
Surely these things were all thine own. 

So hadst thou thy reward. 


Woman ! whose sculptur'd form at rest 

By the armed knight is laid, 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes array'd ; 
What was thy tale ? Oh ! gentle mate 

Of him, the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate, 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He wooed a bright and burning star 

Thine was the void, the gloom, 
The straining eye that follow'd far 

His fast receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang but when did Fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these ? 


Thy silent and secluded hours 

Thro' many a lonely day, 
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains, 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine ! long years 

With tasks unguerdon'd fraught, 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd, 

Alms to the pilgrim given 
Oh ! happy, happier than thy lord. 

In that lone path to heaven ! 



Look now abroad another race has fill'd 

Those populous borders wide the wood recedes, 

And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd ; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads. 


THE breaking waves dash'd high 

On a stem and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches toss'd ; 


And the heavy night hung dark. 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New-England shore, 


Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd 

This was their welcome home ! 



There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that pilgrim band ; 
Why had they come to wither there, 
Away from their childhood's land ? 


There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 
Bright jewels of the mine 1 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ] 
They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstain'd what there they found 
Freedom to worship God. 



And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside forever ; it may be a sound 
A tone of music summer's breath, or spring 

A flower a leaf the ocean which may wound 
Striking th electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 

Chiide Harold 

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailors for the shore, 

And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no more : 

Is not this all a mystery '? Who shall say 

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their 
wav ? 



The sudden images of vanish'd things, 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why ; 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, 
Warm sunset hues of summers TOng gone by, 

A rippling wave the dashing of an oiar 

A flower scent floating past our parents' door ; 

A word scarce noted in its hour perchance, 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile a sunny or a mournful glance, 

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown : 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start, 

And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ? 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 

And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 
Familiar objects brightly to o'efspread ; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear, 

These are night's mysteries who shall make them clear ? 



\nd the strange inborn sense of "coming ill, 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, 

In a low tone which nought can drown or still, 

Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 
Whence doth thaWnurmur wake, that shadow fall ? 

Why shakes the spirit thus ? 'tis mystery all ! 


Darkly we move we press upon the brink 
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 

Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think, 

Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd ! 

Humbly for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 

Yet undismay'd for do they not reveal 

Th' immortal being with our dust entwin'd ? 

So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake 

Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 




Thou shall lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, 
The powerful of the earth the wise the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. 


AND shrink ye from the way 
To the spirit's distant shore ? 

Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array, 
Are thither gone before. 

The warrior kings, whose banner 

Flew far as eagles fly, 
They are gone where swords avail them not, 

From the feast of victory. 


And the seers who sat of yore 

By orient palm or wave, 
They have pass'd with all their starry lore 

Can ye still fear the grave ? 

We fear ! we fear ! the sunshine 

Is joyous to behold, 
And we reck not the buried kings, 

Nor the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink ! the bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts burn, 

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, 
For the land whence none return. 

And the beautiful, whose record 

Is the verse that cannot die, 
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, 

From the love of human eye. 

TUB DEPART i: I >. 273 

Would ye not join that throng 

Of the earth's departed flowers, 
And the masters of the mighty song 

In their far and fadeless bowers ? 

Those songs are high and holy, 

But they vanquish not our fear ; 
Not from our path those flowers are gone 

We fain would linger here ! 


Linger then yet awhile, 

As the last leaves on the bough ! 
Ye have lov'd the light of many a smile. 

That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 

In your walks that now are still, 

There are seats left void in your earthly homes, 
Which none again may fill. 


Soft eyes are seen no more, 

That made spring-time in your heart ; 
Kindred and friends are gone before 

And ye still fear to part ? 

We fear not now, we fear not ! 

Though the way thro' darkness bends ; 
Our souls are strong to follow //tew, 

Our own familiar friends ! 



IT wav'd not thro' an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fann'd by southern breeze j 
In some green isle of Indian seas, 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiPd Palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Thro' the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould, 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

* This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of 
Lrs Jnrdins." 


Strange look'd it there ! the willow stream'd 
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd ; 
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the Desert's Tree, 
And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre hi its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours 
Rich music fill'd that garden's bovvers : 
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung. 
On sparks of dew soft colours flung, 
And bright forms glanc'd a fairy show 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng, 
Seem'd reckless all of dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow, and long black hair- 
\ stranger, like the Palm-tree there. 

THE 1'ALM-TREE. 277 

And slowly, sadly, mov'd his plumes, 

Glittering athwart the leafy glooms : 

He pass'd the pale green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole Palm he came, 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him, its rustling spoke, 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whisper'd of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Aye, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fring'd the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar, 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; 
All thro' his wakening bosom swept : 

He clasp'd his country's Tree and wept ! 


Oh ! scorn him not ! the strength, whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

Th' unconquerable power, which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills, 

These have one fountain deep and clear 

The same whence gush'd that child-like tear ! 




THOU sleepest but when wilt thou wake, fair child ? 
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild ? 
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn ? 
When the first rich breath of the rose is born ? 
Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes, 
Mournful, tho' sweet, is thy rest to see 
When will the hour of thy rising be ? 

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark- 


Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet 

The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet ; 

Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd 

Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast ; 

And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, 

Shall colour all blossoms, fair child ! but thee. 

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one ! that thou shouldst 


And life be left to the butterfly !* 
Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the 


Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! 
How may we love but in doubt and fear, 
How may we anchor our fond hearts here, 
How should e'en joy but a trembler be, 
Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee 1 

* A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monu- 



THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles 
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, 
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on thro' their green arcades, 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, 

Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 



I look'd on the mountains a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth ami the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

1 look'd on the peasant's lowly cot 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy way, 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold. 


And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, 
Where a flower to the Sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh ! what is like thee ? 

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! 

One, tiling is like thee to mortals given, 

The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven ! 



Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs ; bring back 
The love that I have lost ! 

WHAT wak'st thou, Spring ? sweet voices in the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute ; 

Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 

Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, 
Ev'n as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee, Spring ! the joyous leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, 

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 

When thy south- wind hath pierc'd the whispery shade, 

And happy murmurs, running thro' the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 


And the bright waters they too hear thy call, 

Spring, the avvakener ! thou hast burst their sleep ! 

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And pencilling the wood-anemone ; 
Silent they seem yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O, Spring ! 

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs ? 
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art, 

What wak'st thou in the heart ? 


Too much, oh ! there too much! we know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet rous'd by thee, 

What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, 
Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 

How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that nevtr more, 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 

Past words of welcome to our household door, 
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet 

Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why reviv'st thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms ? 

Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 

Yes ! gentle spring ; no sorrow dims thine air. 
Breath'd by our lov'd ones /// 



THE hills all glow'd with a festive light, 

For the royal cityrejoic'd by night : 

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, 

Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 

Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire, 

Like a shooting meteor was every spire ; 

And the outline of many a dome on high 

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. 

I pass'd thro' the streets ; there were throngs on 


Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs ; 
There was music forth from each palace borne 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn ; 


The forests heard it, the mountains rang, 

The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 


Rich and victorious was every tone, 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ? 

Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain ! 

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell 

Grief in the homes they have left must dwell ; 

Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, 

And bowing the beauty of woman's head : 

Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender 

For the many brave to their slumbers gone ? 

I saw not the face of a weeper there 
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare ! 
I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd 
The music of victory was all too loud ! 


Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar, 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car ; 
Thro' torches and streamers its flood swept by 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn, 

If its deep story ihy heart would learn ! 

Ever too bright is that outward show, 

Dazzling the eyes till they see not wo. 

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view 

The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true ; 

Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal 

So must thy spirit be taught to feel ! 



There blend the tics that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits nhen most brief. 


BY the soft green light in the woody giade, 
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd ; 
By the household tree thro' which thine eye 
First lookM in love to the summer-sky ; 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious oh ! guard it well ! 


By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream ; 
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves, 
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes, 
By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 

When twilight call'd unto household mirth : 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind " Good-night ;' 

By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 

Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! it hath gentle might, 
V guardian power and a guiding light. 


It hath led the freeman forth to stand 

In the mountain-battles of his land ; 

It' hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 

To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 

And back to the gates of his father's hall, 

It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home ; 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made, 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! 



Koma, Roma, Roma ! 
Non e piu come era prima. 

ROME, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satst a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street, 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bow'd at thy feet. 


VEOUfe V- 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now 1 

Thou hast thy skies ! 

Blue, deeply blue, they are. 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With colour'd light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome, for thy dower, 
Flushing tall cypress-bough. 

Temple and tower ! 


And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear, 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine, 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung, 
Sweeps thro' the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell, 

On thy soft air 
Lingers, and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the South's rich gift 

Of sudden song, 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous, and strong. 


Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above- 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 



THE sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast 

Shoots like a glancing star, 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far ; 
And yet that splendour wins thee not, 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells but on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and sky. 

Look round thee ! o'er the slumbering deep 

A solemn glory broods ; 
A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep, 

And all the golden woods : 


A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 
Burn with the amber light ; 

What spell, from that rich pageantry, 
Chains down thy gazing sight ? 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling link'd to earth ! 
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears 

The lov'd of many a hearth ? 
Oh ! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, 

Crowd her frail world even now, 
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear, 

Follow her venturous prow ? 

Bright are the floating clouds above, 

The glittering seas below ; 
But we are bound by cords of love 

TQ kindred weal and wo. 


Therefore, amidst this wide array 
Of glorious things and fair, 

My soul is on that bark's lone way, 
For human hearts are there. 



BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing ! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ! 
" We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 
From the palms that wave thro' the Indian sky, 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 

" We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd 

Silent they lie, with the deserts round ! 

We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd 

All dark with the warrior-blood of old ; 

And each worn wing hath regain'd its home, 

Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome." 


And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
Since last ye travers'd the blue sea's foam ? 
" We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt, 
Nought looks the same save the nest we built !" 

Oh ! joyous birds, it hath still been so ; 
Thro' the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot 1 

" A change we have found there and many a change ! 

Faces and footsteps and all things strange ! 

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 

And the young that were, have a brow of care, 

And the place is hush'd where the children play'd, 

looks the same, save the nest we made !" 


Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 
Yet thro' the wastes of the trackless air, 
Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair ? 
Ye over desert and deep have pass'd, 
So may we reach our bright home at last ! 



THEY grew in beauty, side by side, 
They fill'd one home with glee ; 

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight, 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, midst the forests of the west, 
By a dark stream is laid 

The Indian knows his place of rest. 
Far in the cedar shado. 


The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one. 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the lov'd of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapt his colours round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; 

She faded midst Italian flowers, 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they prav'd 
Around one parent kneo ! 


They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheer' d with song the hearth, 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 
And nought beyond, oh, earth ! 



A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarka- 
ble appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, 
and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the 
funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the 
composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of 
his own fate j and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to 
fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died 
within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, 
which was performed at his interment. 



These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion. 

Prophecy of Dante. 

A REQUIEM ! and for whom? 

For beauty in its bloom 1 
For valour fall'n a broken rose or sword I 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplor'd ? 

Not so, it is not so ! 

The warning voice I know, 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 

A solemn fuueral air 

It call'd me to prepare, 
And my heart answered secretly my own ! 


One more then, one more^strain. 

In links of joy and pain 
Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay the last of all ! 

The last ! and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound 

Must leave its festal skies. 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 

Yet have I known it long : 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been th' overmastering flame 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent, 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 


Like perfumes on the wind, 

Which none may stay or bind, 
The beautiful comes floating thro' my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain, 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that overflow my breast ; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. 

Shall T then fear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown ? 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire, 

And this unsettled fire, 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 


One more then, one more strain, 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought 

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er mv dust shall swell. 



THOU thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by, 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony ! 

Temple and tower have moulder'd, 

Empires from earth have pass'd, 
Vnd woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 

* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the 
bosom, found at, the uncovering of Herculaneum. 


And childhood's fragile image 

Thus fearfully enshrin'd, 
Survives the proud memorials rear'd 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 
Upon thy mother's breast, 

When suddenly the fiery tomb 
Shut round each gentle guest 1 

A. strange dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs 
Yet better than to part ! 

Haply of that fond bosom, 

On ashes here impress'd, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 


Perchance all vainly lavish'd, 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, nought remain'd 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better then to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 

From that impassion'd grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument, 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love, human love ! what art thou '? 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 



Immortal, oh ! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness 
It must, it must be so ! 



" Well may I weep to leave this world thee all these beautiful 
woods, and plains, and hills." 

Lights and Shadows. 

Go to the forest-shade, 

Seek thou the well-known glade, 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 
Gleaming thro* moss-tufts deep, 
Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep, 

And bath'd in hues of summer's midnight sky. 

Bring me their buds, to shed 
Around my dying bed, 


A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ; 

For I in sooth depart, 

With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 

Fain would I stay with thee 

Alas ! this may not be ; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 

Go where the fountain's breast 

Catches in glassy rest 
The dim green light that pours thro' laurel bowers. 

I know how softly bright, 
Steep'd in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there ev'n now ; 


Go to the pure stream's edge, 
And from its vvhisp'ring sedge, 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow ! 


Then, as in Hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above ; 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower 
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 
Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark, 
When by the hamlet last, 
Thro' dim wood-lanes we pass'd, 

While dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark. 



Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve, 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life, youth, summer, all thai I must leave ! 

And oh ! if thou would'st ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the Stream, the hamlet-vale to trace ; 

'Tis that some thought of me. 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell, 

(Oh ! break not thou the spell !) 
In the deep wood, and by the fountain-side ; 

Thou must not, my belov'd ! 

Rove where we two have rov'd, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died ! 



Give me but 

Something whereunto I may bind my heart ; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round. 

WOULDST thou wear the gift, of immortal bloom ? 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb ? 
Drink of this cup ! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought ; 
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee by, 
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves lie. 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
If the lov'd had left me, one by one ? 
Take back the cup that may never bless, 
The gift that would make me brotherless ! 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ? 


Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell. 
Over the mighty in air that dwell 1 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep 1 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 

And would not fear, at my coming then, 
Hush every voice in the homes of men ? 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ? 
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale ? 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 

Wouldst thou then read thro' the hearts of those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose ? 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charm'd to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow : 
Look on its flushing or fading hue, 
And learn if the trusted be false or true ! 


Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, 
Tho' my heart's wealth be but pour'd on dust ! 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place, 
To dim the light of a lov'd one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile 
That glory would pass could I look on guile ! 

Say then what boon of my power shall be 
Favour'd of spirits ! pour'd forth on thee ? 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine. 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, 
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best ? 

Oh ! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen. 

But a human heart where my own may lean ! 

A friend, one tender and faithful friend, 

"Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend, 

And leaving not either on earth alone, 

Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one ! 



" Oh ! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelquefois mcs vers ; mon ame 
y est empreinte." CORINNE. 

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? - 
W T hen the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away, 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought 

Then let it be ! 


When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime ; 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread ; 

Then let it be ! 

W r hen will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me 1 
When the sudden tears overflow your eye 
A.t the sound of some olden melody ; 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream ; 

Then let it be ! 


Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone ; 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found : 

So let it be. 




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