IVAN THE CZAR. Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assićgoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL. Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss Ihn wieder haben! Trostlose allmacht, Die nicht einmal in Gråber ihren arm Verlängern, eine kleine Ubereilung Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann! He sat in silence on the ground, The old and haughty Czar; Lonely, though princes girt him round, 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 shed, Through the rich tent made way: And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Schiller. Which the Lord of nations mutely watched, Low tones at last of wo and fear Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, "There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath, I call thee, and dost thou not speak- For the honour of thy father's name, CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye The lights and shadows coine 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! "Tis well thou shouldst depart. A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, Whose clusters drooped above. His head was bowed, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song; With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain 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, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." But 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, Touched 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, That makes the dim woods tuneful roundBut 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, Young art thou, Morna! A spirit hath been shed! And the glance is thine which sees Through 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 Too powerful for thy rest! And the chill of this world's breathGo, all undimmed, in thy glory go! Young and crowned 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! The ivy of its ruins; unto which There was a burst of tears around the bard: And spring returned, THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. O good old man! how well in thee appears FALLEN was the House of Giafar; and its name, Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 'Twas desolate Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, Was there the fountain's; through those eastern courts, Over the broken marble and the grass, And still another voice!-an aged man, His fading life seemed bound. Day rolled on day, As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke Was it to sue for grace?-his burning heart "And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave, 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 band! My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes, that in your halls was nursed, That followed you to many a fight, where flashed 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, though human voice were still, With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill; 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. "For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping 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 sword, It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in oles ings poured. "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. "The very walls your bounty reared, for the stranger's homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern rung, And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst its young. "It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees, 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 house, for ye, my chiefs, are there!" A dim and deeply-bosomed grove Such as the shadowy violets love, The darkness of the chestnut bough And bore a music all subdued, And led a silvery sheen, For something viewlessly around Of solemn influence dwelt, While sending forth a quiet gleam A lowly chapel rose. A pathway to that still retreat For on a brilliant bed of flowers, Even at the threshold made, To sleep?-oh! ne'er on childhood's eye, Yet still a tender crimson glow Its cheek's pure marble dyed"T was but the light's faint streaming flow Through roses heaped beside. I stooped-the smooth round arm was chili, "Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing! Thou hast wrung bitter tears, But then a voice came sweet and low- A woman with a mourner's brow, And in her still, clear, matron face, A shadowed image I could trace Of that young slumberer's mien "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 pluies to the glad wind float! Jease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still! "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! THE KAISER'S FEAST. 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 tc Germany; and by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appea the victor softened."-Miss Benger's Memoirs of t Queen of Bohemia. 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, Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, "They are gone! they have all passed by! They in whose wars I had borne my part, They that I loved 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." 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 crowned. Why fell there silence on the chord Beneath the harper's hand? The strings were hushed-the knights made wey Two fair-haired boys she led. She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, Well may a mourning vest be mine, And where is he, thy brother, where? And smiling, with his sunny hair, How would his arms thy neck entwine, His fond lips press thy brow! My son! oh, call these orphans thine- |