While one bright hope remain'd-who now shall tell

Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved one fell?

To clasp her child, to ransom and to save,
The mother came-and she hath found his grave!
And by that grave, transfix'd in speechless grief,
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief,
Awhile she kneels-till roused at length to know
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe,
On the still air a voice of anguish wild,

A mother's cry is heard-"My Conradin! my child!"

THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.

THERE were light sounds of revelling in the vanquish'd city's halls,

As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls;

And the conquerors filled the wine cup high, after years of bright blood shed;

But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wail'd the dead.

He look'd down from the fortress won on the tents and towers below,

The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, and a gloom came o'er his brow;

The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's tone;

But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.

And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!

But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?

-I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,

And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul.

"My brother! oh! my brother! thou art gone,the true and brave,

And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave,

There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead on;

There was one to love me in the world,-my brother! thou art gone!

"In the desert, in the battle, in the oceantempest's wrath,

We stood together side by side; one hope was ours, one path;

Thou hast wrapt me in the soldier's cloak, thou hast fenced me with thy breast; Thou hast watch'd beside my couch of painoh! bravest heart, and best!

I see the festive lights around ;-o'er a dull sad world they shine;

I hear the voice of victory-my Pedio! where is thine?

The only voice in whose kind tone ny spirit found reply!

brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!

"I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway,

And chiefs to lead them fearlessly;-my friend hath pass'd away!

For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain,

And the face that was as light as mine—it cannot come again!

"I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a crown;

With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold renown;

How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds of triumph die,

When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!

"I am lonely-I am lonely! this rest is even as death!

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet's breath:

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave—

But where art thou, my brother? where?— in thy low and early grave!"

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that victorious night,

And faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' and torches' light;

But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror's moan

'My brother! oh! my brother! best and bravest thou art gone!

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across then greensward bound,
Through 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-bells chime Floats through their woods at morn; 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.
Through 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 hallow'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!