And the crown'd eagle spread again His pinion to the sun;

Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep
From cypress branches thrown;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined? A sculptured woman's form, Lovely, in perfect rest reclined,

As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle yet majestic grace

Throned on the matron brow; These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
A kingly emblem-nor unmeet

To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;
She was a mother-in her love
How sorrowfully true !
Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown Of olden glory spoil'd,

The standard of their sires borne down,

The shield's bright blazon soil'd: She met the tempest, meekly brave, Then turn'd o'erwearied to the grave.

She slumber'd: but it came-it came,
Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal flame

Sent on from tower to tower! Fast through the realm a spirit moved'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd
To sanctify th' avenger's sword

And the strong land shook off its chain-
So was the triumph won!

But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's !-She was gone!

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:-"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616."-See notes to the Pleasures of Memory.]

MOTHER and child! whose blending tears

Have sanctified the place,

Where, to the love of many years,

Was given one last embrace-
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power
Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought—
A still, small under tone,

That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled-of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone

Which marks your parting spot, Who but a mother's love hath known

The one love changing not? Alas! and haply learn'd its worth First with the sound of "Earth to earth !”

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, O'er whose bright honour'd head Blessings and tears of holiest flow

E'en here were fondly shedThou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For, oh! though painful be th' excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature's fount no bitterness

Of nature's mingling dwells;
And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poison'd the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more Which thy young heart first knew!

They bade her sing of her distant land-
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow-
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low;
But it swell'd into deeper power ere long,

As the breeze that swept o'er her soul grew strong.

They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee!

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful-sounding sea?

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul? In silence let me die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure, deep sapphire sky:

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth

Its tones of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more! My spirit shall awake,

And through the mists of death shine out, my country, for thy sake!

That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light,

And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's

yearning sight!

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again—yet once, my Sicily!

"There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence!

but, oh! their glorious blue !

413

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves;

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,

And the violets gleam like amethysts from the dewy moss beneath.

"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away;

They wander through the olive woods, and o'er the shining seas—

They mingle with the orange scents that load the sleepy breeze;

Lute, voice, and bird are blending there,-it were a bliss to die,

As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

"I may not thus depart-farewell! Yet no, my country! no!

Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!

My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main,

And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again.

Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my chain-I come

To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest-in thy sweet air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre-
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire-
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.

cloudless dome;

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore,

And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no more.

"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who may dream or tell

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell!

A silence fell o'er the warriors' hall;

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone: The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

["Ivan le Terrible, étant dejà devenu vieux, assiégait Novgorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne pût l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au désespoir, devint

Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?

I say to thee, arise!

"Didst thou not know I loved thee well?
Thou didst not! and art gone,
In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!

If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart

That seem'd to thee so stern.

"Thou wert the first, the first, fair child That in mine arms I press'd:

Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast!

I rear'd thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led,

I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee-dead!

"Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,

Chiefs! in my first-born's grave! And leave me !-I have conquer'd, I have slain: my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer notThou too art mute, my son!"

And thus his wild lament was pour'd

Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might.

He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sigh'd;

From the searching stars of heaven he shrankHumbly the conqueror died.

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.

["It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, 'Madam,' said he, I have often, from my great respect to