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From love's wane-a death in life

Yet, perchance, a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment,—
"From the home of childhood's glee
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears!
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!

Bright one! oh! there well may be
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee.”
Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
'Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
'Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quivered to some bosom storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love's unfinished vow;
When, like scattered rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sank heavily;
Was that drooping but th' excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might.
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest shower,
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?
-Who shall tell us?-on thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek

Rushed again the crimson streak
Never to thine eye returned

That which there had beamed and burned!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy wo,
With thy marriage-robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair,
Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust,
Into darkness-terror-dust!

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral-wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell;
-"From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;

But to watch-a mortal strife:
From the secret fevers known

To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, away-

Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Comfort 'midst our tears for thee!"

THE ANCESTRAL SONG.

A long war disturbed your mind-
Here your perfect peace is signed,
"T is now full tide 'twixt night and day,
End your moan, and come away!
Webster-Duchess of Matfy.

THERE were faint sounds of weeping;-fear and gloom

And midnight vigil in a stately room

Of Lusignan's old halls:-rich odours there
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver thrown,
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch:-there emeralds gleamed,
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine.—Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly;-for there one lay
Passing from all Earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands,
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now-
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow,
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed,
Though not from Earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! her handmaids watched around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-swayed lamps, made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn
train,

Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,

Yet say,

from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,

Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky; What kingly vision shall obey my call?

And thus it seemed, in that low thrilling tone,
Th' ancestral shadows called away their own.
Come, come, come!

Long thy fainting soul hath yearned
For the step that ne'er returned;

Long thine anxious ear hath listened,
And thy watchful eye hath glistened
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life-
Now the heavy day is done,
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!

From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the sealed heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain,
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Thronged with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!

On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness!

We have wept, that weep not now—
Calm is each once beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose!

Come, come, come!

Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,

Come away!-'t is hushed 't is well!
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever-thirst is stilled,
All the air with peace is filled,-
Come, come, come!

And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay,
She passed, as twilight melts to night, away!

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The deep grave knows it well!

"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall
they pass

Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array!

Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn
Robed for the feast of victory shall return
As on their proudest day.

"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?—
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!

Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel boughs,
But silent as a dream."

"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their
lays

Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallowed for evermore!

And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!

"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled
With peace, if human love hath ever stilled
The yearning human breast."

"Away, fond youth!—An idle quest is thine;
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and

low,

Have passed, and left no trace.

"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,

Their covering turf may bloom;

But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers,-
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,
Or poet hailed their tomb."

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may
tell

That which I pine to know!

"THE Dead! the glorious Dead!-And shall they I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, rise? Records of joy and wo."*

Shall they look on thee with their proud bright

eyes?

Thou ask'st a fearful spell!

'Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1830.

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie, d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse.

Madame de Stael.

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath rolled
Where the conquerors passed of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.
Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,

Touched with many a gemlike stain.

Thou hast gained the summit now
Music hails thee from below;-
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!
Now afar it rolls-it dies-
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touched as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lips flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.
Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.

Crowned of Rome!-Oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?—
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,

She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

• The trebly hundred triumphs.-Byron.

THE RUIN.

Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life
Making a truth and beauty of its own.

Wordsworth. Birth has gladdened it: Death has sanctified it. Guesses at Truth.

No dower of storied song is thine,
O desolate abode!

Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flowed.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
Nor bugle notes to battle rung

Through thy resounding halls.

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here
By courtly hands been dressed,
For Princes, from the chase of deer,

Under green leaves to rest:
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of delight

Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty's lot,

House of quenched light and silent board!
For me thou needest not.

It is enough to know that here,

Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have linked one kindred band.

Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
-A solemnizing breath,

A presence all around thee dwells,
Of human life and death.

I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,
To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth
Deserted now by all!

Voices at eve here met in mirth

Which eve may ne'er recall.
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And childhood's laughing glee,

And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured
Upon the infant head,

As if in every fervent word

The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away-
Alas! for love in changeful air,

Where nought beloved can stay!

Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept,
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept :
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,

The breathless influence, shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been marked and mourned,
And time hath filled the vacant place,

And gladness hath returned;
Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropped one by one!
And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause,
then-cause for thought,
Fixed eye and lingering tread,
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst

For draughts of purer day,

Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?

Holy to human nature seems

The long-forsaken spot;
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!
Therefore in silent reverence here,

Hearth of the dead! I stand,

Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have linked one household band.

THE MINSTER.

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of immortality.-Byron.

SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer;
Tread lightly-for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:
Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!

-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high;
Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageant-
ry:--

Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have
poured

Their anguish forth, are with me and around;-
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!
That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head;
And thou still battling with the tempest's force-
Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has

bled

Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace!
-Does not this hush give answer to my quest?
Surely the dread religion of the place

By every grief hath made its might confest!
-Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and
deep!

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

O night,

And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!-Byron.

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew,
In bell and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give me but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace;-I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young
glee,

The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

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MRS. HEMANS' WORKS.

I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent?-I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alono

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crushed affections, which, though long o'er-
borne,

Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb;

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love

The fixed and solemn stars
Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!
Gleam through my dungeon bars—

Ye watch-fires of the skies!
The stillness of your eyes

Looks too intensely through my troubled soul:
I feel this weight of rest

An earth-load on my breast-
Wake, rushing winds,awake! and, dark clouds, roll!
I am your own, your child,
O ye, the fierce and wild

And kingly tempests!-will ye not arise?
Hear the bold spirit's voice,

That knows not to rejoice

But in the peal of your strong harmonies.

By sounding ocean-waves,
And dim Calabrian caves,

And flashing torrents, I have been your mate;
And with the rocking pines

Of the olden Apennines,

They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-In your dark path stood fearless and elate :

Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train:

Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful,-the dead,Of
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes

These are my lightnings!-filled with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,

They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control,

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one! the armed-the strong,
The searcher of the soul!

I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest-birth

Of memory, thought, remorse :-Be holy, earth!
I am the solemn night!*

THE STORM PAINTER+ IN HIS DUNGEON.

Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal?

Are ye like those that shake the human breast }
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?

Childe Harold.

MIDNIGHT, and silence deep!

The air is filled with sleep,

Your lightnings were as rods,

thought and vision-and the stream gushed free; Come, that my soul again

That smote the deep abodes

May swell to burst its chain

Bring me the music of the sweeping sea!

Within me dwells a flame,
An eagle caged and tame,
Till called forth by the harping of the blast;
Then is its triumph's hour,
It springs to sudden power,
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast.

Then, then, the canvass o'er,
With hurried hand I pour
The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul!
Kindling to fiery life

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife;-
Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!

Wake, rise! the reed may bend,
The shivering leaf descend,

The forest branch give way before your might
But I, your strong compeer,

Call, summon, wait you here,-
Answer, my spirit!-answer, storm and night!

tures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness; fired by lightning; now rising on the mountain wave, and again submerged in the

With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath; abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment of five years in

* Originally published in the Winter's Wreath, for 1830.

⚫ Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pic-tory of Painting, translated by Roscoe.

Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.-See Lanzi's Hs

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