* But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hear'st how I have kept

A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and wept

How in one long deep dream of thee my nights

and days have past

Surely that humble patient love must win back love at last!

And thou wilt smile-my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,

Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!

No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine

Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine !

"Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase

For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face!

Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless;

In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness.

"But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice

In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of thy voice.

Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,

And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone."

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day,

The passion of that loving dream from a troubled

soul found way,

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er

every grace,

Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the

watcher's breast,

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,

With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, Woman!-a power to suffer and to love; Therefore thou so canst pity.

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum

66

On the deep hush of moonlight forests brokeSing us a death-song, for thine hour is come"So the red warriors to their captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, Like a king's son; though from his cheek had flown

The mantling crimson of the island blood, And his press'd lips look'd marble. Fiercely bright And high around him blazed the fires of night, Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow Lighting the victim's face: but who could tell Of what within his secret heart befell, [thought Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a Of his far home then so intensely wrought, That its full image, pictured to his eye On the dark ground of mortal agony, Rose clear as day!—and he might see the band Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, Where the laburnums droop'd; or haply binding The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding; Or, as day closed upon their gentle firth, Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth, Where sat their mother; and that mother's face Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place Where so it ever smiled! Perchance the prayer Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair; The blessing from her voice, the very tone [gone! Of her "Good-night" might breathe from boyhood -He started and look'd up: thick cypress boughs, Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red In the broad stormy firelight; savage brows,

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread,

Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Look'd through the branches as through dungeon

bars,

Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom-
Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom
That happy hall in England. Idle fear!
Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear
The secret of the forests? To the stake [strove
They bound him; and that proud young
soldier
His father's spirit in his breast to wake,

Trusting to die in silence! He, the love
Of many hearts!—the fondly rear'd-the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see! And fetter'd there

He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand.
He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity-
A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?
A girl-a young slight girl-a fawn-like child
Of green savannas and the leafy wild,
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower,
Happy because the sunshine is its dower;
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed,
For hers had mourn'd a playmate-brother dead.

She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd,
Even to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye,
And clear-toned voice, that said, "He shall not die!"
"He shall not die!"-the gloomy forest thrill'd

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and handwere still'd,
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell.
They gazed: their dark souls bow'd before the maid,
She of the dancing step in wood and glade !
And, as her cheek flush'd through its olive hue,
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew,
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young

mien

Something of heaven in silence felt and seen; And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath;

From his pale lips they took the cup of death; They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress tree: "Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!"

COSTANZA.

Art thou then desolate ?

of friends, of hopes forsaken ? Come to me!

I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false?
Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me!
Why didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all
I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear,
For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice hath power
To shake me with a thrill of happiness

By one kind tone?-to fill mine eyes with tears
Of yearning love? And thou-oh! thou didst throw
That crush'd affection back upon my heart
Yet come to me it died not

SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell,

And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow,
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow,
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw
Bright waves of gold-the autumn forest's hue---
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread
By painting's touch around some holy head,
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky,
What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe,
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below
The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel,
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years,
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears!
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone,
And of the gentle saint no more was known,
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade,
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim,
And ancient solitude; where hidden streams
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in
dreams-

Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers,
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed
Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal
He deem'd the pale fair form that held on earth
Communion but with grief.

Ere long, a cell,

[birth

A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam'd through the dark trees o'era sparkling well; And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood, In day's last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!—the trumpet's Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel; The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine branches crash'd before the flying.

[peal,

And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza's home: there enter'd hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow-mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen,

Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword,
As there they laid their leader, and implored
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him: then for flight,
Through the wide forest and the mantling night,
Sped breathlessly again. They pass'd; but he,
The stateliest of a host-alas! to see
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep,
Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep,
Thus changed!—a fearful thing! His golden crest
Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast-
Some costly love-gift-rent: but what of these?
There were the clustering raven locks-the breeze,
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers,
Might scarcely lift them; steep'd in bloody showers,
So heavily upon the pallid clay

Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray,
Where was it? And the lips!-they gasp'd apart,
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art,
Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue-
Was it not death's?-that stillness-that cold dew
On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay,
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken,
The haughty chief of thousands-the forsaken
Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day-
Such hours are woman's birthright-she, unknown,
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone;
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving
His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong
man's raving.

He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form Still hovering nigh! yet sometimes, when that storm

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother's by the cradle singing, Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebb'd from his hollow cheek.

At last faint gleams

Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams;
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,
And gazing round him from his leafy bed,
He murmur'd forth, "Where am I? What soft strain
Pass'd like a breeze across my burning brain?
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone
Of life's first music, and a thought of one-
Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride,
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side?
All lost!-and this is death !-I cannot die
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye!

Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love!-her broken heart Lies low, and I-unpardon'd I depart."

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil
From her dark locks and features brightly pale,
And stood before him with a smile-oh! ne'er
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear-
And said, "Cesario! look on me; I live
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive.
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust,
As should be heaven's alone-and heaven is just!
I bless thee-be at peace!"

But o'er his frame

Too fast the strong tide rush'd-the sudden shame, The joy, th' amaze! He bow'd his head-it fell On the wrong'd bosom which had loved so well; And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there— His last faint breath just waved her floating hair.

MADELINE.

A DOMESTIC TALE.

"Who should it be ?-Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye

With such sure confidence as to a mother ?"-JOANNA BAILLIS.

"My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight's close,
And thy 'Good-night' at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moon-light sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France,
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's woe
From thy young heart be far! And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot,
God shall be with me. Now, farewell! farewell!
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye [by-
That still sought mine: these moments are gone

Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!"

This was a mother's parting with her child-
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled,
And woo'd her with a voice of love away
From childhood's home: yet there, with fond delay,
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird through trellis'd rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour'd forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean solitudes were pass'd,
And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furl'd
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace

The map of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, [tears!
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with
That home was darken'd soon: the summer breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas:
Death unto one, and anguish-how forlorn!
To her that, widow'd in her marriage morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, As from the sun shut out on every side By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill, [heart When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part Which life will teach-to suffer and be still, And with submissive love to count the flowers Which yet are spared, and through the future hours To send no busy dream! She had not learn'd Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd In weariness from life. Then came th' unrest, The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps: until at last she lay On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft,

To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow? Something was there that, through the lingering night,

Outwatches patiently the taper's light

Something that faints not through the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness-
Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that
power,

Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence?-who can ask? The wild delirium pass'd,
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old !—and had she come,
Thus in life's evening from her distant home,
To save her child? Even so-nor yet in vain ;
In that young heart a light sprang up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem'd this fair world, though faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
"Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?"
The lorn one cried, "and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore :
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more."

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

["This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance-not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the king brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother."-SHERER's Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.]

"In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed."

MILMAN.

It stands where northern willows weep, A temple fair and lone;