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
O’er her stain'd memory, when the happy slept,
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days ;
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh’d her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish of surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her ?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank—'twas but a moment—yet too much
For that all humbled one-its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke
At once in silence.—Heavily and prone
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

more

Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll’d,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

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,

In ancient days, the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be,

Companion of the vine ?
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er;
Where song's full notes once peald around,

But now are heard no more.

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,

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,-
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,

Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,

The bards and heroes of the past,

Where, through the halls of glory goné,

Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair-
Thou in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb ! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,

Beneath a blue, Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,

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

Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown

Hath pass’d and left no trace.
But thou art there-thy foliage bright,

Unchanged, the mountain-storm can braveThou that wilt climb the loftiest height,

And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round Grandeur's marble halls ; The vivid hues by painting thrown

Rich o'er the glowing walls ;

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.
And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strengthDays pass, thou "Ivy never sere," *

And all is thine at length.

*"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."

Lycidas. ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

And was thy home, pale wither'd thing,

Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, The winds, and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light, e’en now,

Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,

May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.

Thy place is void-oh! none on earth,

This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf ere now hath sprung,

On the green stem which once was thineWhen shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ?