One, 'midst the forest of the wesɩ,
By a dark stream is laid—

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sca, the blue lone sea, hath one--
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved 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 colors 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 pray'd Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth'

16*

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

SHE sat, where on each wind that siglı'd,
The citron's breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide
Burn'd in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full of sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,
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 gazed
Up to their mother's face,

With brows through parted ringlets raised.

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.

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 wayworn 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! e'en by thee!

"Am I so changed?-and yet we too Oft hand in hand have play'd ;This brow hath been all bathed in dew

From wreaths which thon hast made

We 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!

"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 gazed, 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?—

He was the bard of gift divine
To sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the sword and pen!

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep

Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!--
There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,

And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone,-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done?-
There slumber England's dead!