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!

DIRGE.

WHERE shall we make her grave? -Oh! where the wild flowers wave In the free air!

Where shower and singing bird 'Midst the young leaves are heardThere-lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her-
Now may sleep minister

Balm for each ill:

Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest.

Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er

That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,
Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring rain,
Plays the soft wind?

Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise
Gracious and kind.

Therefore, let song and dew
Thence, in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow!

And o'er that holy earth
Scents of the violet's birth

Still come and go!

Oh! then where wild flowers wave, Make ye her mossy grave

In the free air!

Where shower and singing bird 'Midst the young leaves are heardThere, lay her there!

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

THERE was music on the midnight ;-
From a royal fane it roll'd,

And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.

There was hurrying through the midnight

A sound of many feet:

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness,

Along the shadowy street:

And softer, fainter, grew their tread,

As it near'd the minster-gate,

Whence a broad and solemn light was slied From a scene of royal state.

Full glow'd the strong red radiance,
In the centre of the nave,
Where the folds of a purple canopy
Swept down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom,

For something lay 'midst their fretted gold
Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion,
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
'Midst the glare of light alone.
Her jewel'd robes fell strangely still-
The drapery on her breast

Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,
So stone-like was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music

Shook e'en the dust below,
When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!
Then died away that haughty sound,
And from the encircling band

Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound,
With homage to her hand.

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering

Over each mortal frame,

As one by one, to touch that hand,
Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,

Under the parted ebon hair,
Sit on the pale still face?

Death! Death! canst thou be lovely

Unto the eye of Life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?

-It was a strange and fearful sight,
The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,
All gather'd round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,

And white lips rigidly compress'd,
Lest the strong heart should fail :
King Pedro, with a jealous eye,
Watching the homage done,
By the land's flower and chivalry,
To her, his martyr'd one.

But on the face he look'd not,

Which once his star had been ;

To every form his glance was turn'd,
Save of the breathless queen :

Though something won from the grave's embrace
Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place
It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts. Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed :-bear back the Dead

Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,

Dust with the dust to sleep!