It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm

Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song.-"Alas!" she cried,

"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me; The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver chords again to earth have won me; And like a vine thou claspest my full heartHow shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late along the mountains, at my side?
And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wore, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the nome whence thy bright smile hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering, weary hearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm trees thou no more shalt

meet me,

When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me,

As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake.
And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound

thee,

To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child!-Will He not hear thee,

Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill thy dreams with joy?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee,

A well-spring of deep gladness, to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,

My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell!-I go, my soul may fail me,

As the hart panteth for the water brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet lookss

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;

Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!"

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee ;--
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight--
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, 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 sigh'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.