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And thus it was with her.-A mournful sight
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven
To bless the young Isaure.
One sunny morn, With alms before her castle gate she stood, 'Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'er
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out, "Oh! undefiled! I am thy mother!-spurn me not, my child!"
Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, Those long fair tresses—they still brightly wore Their early pride, though bound with pearls no
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,
Her child bent o'er her call'd her-'twas too late! Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate.The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard— How didst thou fall, oh! bright-hair'd Ermengarde!
TO THE IVY.
OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.
OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,
And bid thee at the banquet be,
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
The Roman, on his battle plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee, with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Wreath of the tomb! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Save thy wild tapestry.
And rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air, look down
But thou art there-thy foliage bright,
Unchanged, the mountain-storm can brave-
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
The breathing forms of Parian stone,
The vivid hues by painting thrown
Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptured beauty waving fair,These perish all-and what remains ?— Thou, thou alone art there.
"Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled,
Left to Decay and thee.
August in beauty, grace, and strengthDays pass, thou "Ivy never sere,' And all is thine at length.
* "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."