The Coronation of Inez de Castro.

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 jewell'd robes fell strangely still—
The drapery on her breast

Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,
So stonelike 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

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

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering
Over each martial 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:

435

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!

There is music on the midnight—
A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train,

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again.

'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above,

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier thou wast and art.

ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

"O SANCTISSIMA, O purissima!
Dulcis Virgo Maria,
Mater amata, intemerata,
Ora, ora pro nobis."

Sicilian Mariner's Hymn.

IN the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea,
And by the starlight gleams,

Mother of Sorrows! lo, I come to thee.

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie
All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move,

In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou know'st the grief, the love,

The fear of woman's soul;-to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep-
Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart opprest!

There is a wandering bark

Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves;
Oh let thy soft eye mark

His course ;-be with him, Holiest, guide and save!

My soul is on that way;

My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim;
Through the long weary day,

I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him.

Aid him,-and me, too, aid!

Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess!
On thy weak child is laid

The burden of too deep a tenderness.

Too much o'er him is pour'd

My being's hope-scarce leaving Heaven a part;
Too fearfully adored,

Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

I tremble with a sense

Of grief to be ;-I hear a warning low

Sweet mother! call me hence!

This wild idolatry must end in woe.

The troubled joy of life,

Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known;

And, worn with feverish strife,

Would fold its wings;-take back, take back thine own!

Hark! how the wind swept by!

The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave

Hope of the sailor's eye,

And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save!

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world unreach'd by human thought,
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,

Answer me, answer me !

Have we not communed here of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours,
Was not to perish as a rose's breath,

To melt away, like song from festal bowers?

Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that shone
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze---
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown,
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze?

Hear, hear, and answer me !

Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife,
Like a faint breeze :-oh! from that music flown,
Send back, one sound, if love's be quenchless life,

But once, oh! answer me !

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush,

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep,
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush,
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep-

Spirit! then answer me !

By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet;
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ;—

Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet;

Answer me, answer me!

The grave is silent :-and the far-off sky,

And the deep midnight-silent all, and lone!

Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,

What voice has Earth ?-Hear, pity, speak, mine own!
Answer me, answer me!

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE.

"For all his wildness and proud fantasies,

I love him!"-CROLY.

THY heart is in the upper world, where fleet the Chamois bounds, Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds; And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,

And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard-Hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lov'st me well, dear friend! but better, better far, Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at

war;

In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine-
And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights,
With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights;
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine-
And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine.

*Laurine, the avalanche.