To thy beloved, my daughter!" "Sorrow not For me, kind mother!" with meek smiles once

more

She murmur'd in low tones: "one happy lot

Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore;
For we have pray'd together in one trust,
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust

To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own,
Under the cedar shade: where he is gone,
Thither I go. There will my sisters be,
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee
My childhood's prayer was learn'd-the Saviour's
prayer

Which now ye know—and I shall meet you there.
Father and gentle mother! ye have bound
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply.
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep
Solemnly beautiful-a stillness deep,
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in woe,
"Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old,
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd.

"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, And the hunter's hearth away:

For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, Daughter! thou canst not stay.

"Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear:
The corn-month's golden hours will come,
But they shall not find thee here.

"And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;
Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

"A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, Telling of winter gone,

Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still A farewell in its tone.

"But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be
Where farewell sounds are o'er;
Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see
No fear of parting more.

"The mossy grave thy tears have wet, And the wind's wild moanings by, Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, Midst flowers-not such as die.

ROYAL in splendour went down the day
On the plain where an Indian city lay,
With its crown of domes o'er the forest high,
Red, as if fused in the burning sky;
And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made
A bright stream's way through each long arcade,
Till the pillar'd vaults of the banian stood
Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood;
And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold,
As a tree midst the genii gardens old,
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire,
And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire.
Many a white pagoda's gleam
Slept lovely round upon lake and stream,
Broken alone by the lotus flowers,

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours,
Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed
Its glory forth on their crystal bed.
Many a graceful Hindoo maid,
With the water-vase from the palmy shade,
Came gliding light as the desert's roe,
Down marble steps, to the tanks below;
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard,
As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd,
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air,
Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer.

1 From a tale in Forbes's Oriental Memoirs.

-There wander'd a noble Moslem boy Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy; He gazed where the stately city rose, Like a pageant of clouds, in its red repose; He turn'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom Of the woods went glancing on starry plume; He track'd the brink of the shining lake, By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake; Till the path he chose, in its mazes, wound To the very heart of the holy ground.

And there lay the water, as if enshrined
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind,
Bearing the hues of the grove on high,
Far down through its dark still purity.
The flood beyond, to the fiery west,
Spread out like a metal mirror's breast;
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep,
Seem'd made for the swimmer's joyous leap,
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase,
For all free things of the wild wood's race.

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky,
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye;
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave,
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave;
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white,
O'er the glossy leaves in its young delight,
And bowing his locks to the waters clear-
Alas! he dreamt not that fate was near.

His mother look'd from her tent the while,
O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile:
She, on her way unto Mecca's fane,
Had stay'd the march of her pilgrim train,
Calmly to linger a few brief hours

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers;

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall, The red gold of sunset-she loved them all.

II.

The moon rose clear in the splendour given
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven;
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came back—
Oh! what had he met in his lonely track?

The serpent's glance, through the long reeds bright?

The arrowy spring of the tiger's might?
No! yet as one by a conflict worn,
With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn,
And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye,
And a gash on his bosom-he came to die!
He look'd for the face to his young heart sweet,
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet.

"Speak to me ! whence doth the swift blood run?
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son?"
The mist of death on his brow lay pale,
But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale,
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn,
And wounds from the children of Brahma borne.
This was the doom for a Moslem found
With a foot profane on their holy ground-
This was for sullying the pure waves, free
Unto them alone-'twas their god's decree.

A change came o'er his wandering look-
The mother shriek'd not then nor shook:
Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood,
Rending her mantle to stanch its flood;
But it rush'd like a river which none may stay,
Bearing a flower to the deep away.

That which our love to the earth would chain,
Fearfully striving with heaven in vain-
That which fades from us, while yet we hold,
Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould,
Was fleeting before her, afar and fast;
One moment-the soul from the face had pass'd!
Are there no words for that common woe?
Ask of the thousands its depth that know!
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest,
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast;
He had stood, when she sorrow'd, beside her knee,
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee;

He had kiss'd from her cheek the widow's tears,
With the loving lip of his infant years:

He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring

day

Now in his blood on the earth he lay !
Murder'd! Alas! and we love so well
In a world where anguish like this can dwell!

She bow'd down mutely o'er her dead—
They that stood round her watch'd in dread;
They watch'd-she knew not they were by—
Her soul sat veil'd in its agony.

On the silent lip she press'd no kiss-
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this:
She shed no tear, as her face bent low
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow;
She look'd but into the half-shut eye
With a gaze that found there no reply,
And, shrieking, mantled her head from sight,
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might.

And what deep change, what work of power,
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour?
How rose the lonely one? She rose
Like a prophetess from dark repose!

And proudly flung from her face the veil,
And shook the hair from her forehead pale,
And midst her wondering handmaids stood,
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood-
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky
A brow in its regal passion high,
With a close and rigid grasp she press'd

The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast,
And said "Not yet, not yet I weep,
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep!
Not till yon city, in ruins rent,
Be piled for its victim's monument.
Cover his dust! bear it on before!

It shall visit those temple gates once more."

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd, The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd; And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child.

III.

Hark! a wild sound of the desert's horn
Through the woods round the Indian city borne,
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar-
War! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war!
The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers-
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers;
And the lake that flash'd through the plantain
shade,

As the light of the lances along it play'd;
And the canes that shook as if winds were high,
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by;
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea,
Wide round the sheltering banian-tree.

There stood one tent from the rest apart-
That was the place of a wounded heart.
Oh! deep is a wounded heart, and strong
A voice that cries against mighty wrong;
And full of death as a hot wind's blight,
Doth the ire of a crush'd affection light.

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd,
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast.
There had been words from her pale lips pour'd,
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword.

The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear,
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear,
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall,
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall.
Back with the dust of her son she came,
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame;
She came in the might of a queenly foe,
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow;

But a deeper power on her forehead sate-
There sought the warrior his star of fate:
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line
Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign,
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught
As a sibyl's breath of prophetic thought.

Vain, bitter glory!--the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless! It cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die !

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown.
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way—
She wither'd faster from day to day:
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain,
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ;
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn
The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born,
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come
For its fearful rushing through darkness home.

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride,
As on that eve when the fair boy died:
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell;
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone,
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown.
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle-song,
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng—
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek.
But something which breathed from that mourn-
ful strain

Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again;

And starting, as if from a dream, she cried-
"Give him proud burial at my side!
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave,
When the temples are fallen, make there our
grave."

And the temples fell, though the spirit pass'd,
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last;
When the day was won for the martyr dead,
For the broken heart and the bright blood shed.

Through the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed;
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes,
And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior veins;
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay,
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey,

Till a city of ruin begirt the shade
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid.

Palace and tower on that plain were left,
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft;
The wild vine mantled the stately square,
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair,
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung-
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

"There is but one place in the worldThither, where he lies buried!

There, there is all that still remains of him : That single spot is the whole earth to me." COLERIDGE'S "Wallenstein." "Alas! our young affections run to waste,

Or water but the desert."-CHILDE HAROLD.

THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass'd; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
Wore man's mute anguish sternly ;-but of one,
Oh, who shall speak? What words his brow unveil?
A father following to the grave his son !-
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly
train,

With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low

Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain, Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd the lone

Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, A strange deep echo shudder'd through the pile, Till crested heads at last in silence bent Round the De Coucis' antique monument, When dust to dust was given :—and Aymer slept Beneath the drooping banners of his line, Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine.

So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, array'd
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid

In slumber on his shield. Then all was doneAll still around the dead. His name was heard Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd

By some old song, or tale of battle won Told round the hearth. But in his father's breast Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; And with the brethren of his fields, the feast Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide Bears back affection from the grave's dark side; Alas! to think of this !-the heart's void place Fill'd up so soon !—so like a summer cloud, All that we loved to pass and leave no trace !— He lay forgotten in his early shroud. Forgotten?-not of all! The sunny smile Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep, And all the music with that young voice dying,

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap As at a hunter's bugle-these things lived Still in one breast, whose silent love survived The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, [ing, Through the dim fane soft summer odours breathAnd all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing Through storied windows down. The violet there Might speak of love-a secret love and lowly; And the rose image all things fleet and fair;

And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, As for an altar, wove the radiant band? Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, To blush through every season? Blight and chill Might touch the changing woods; but duly still For years those gorgeous coronals renew'd,

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, Even through mid-winter, fill'd the solitude

With a strange smile-a glow of summer's realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness!

One spring morn rose, And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid

Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose

From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid.

Who could reveal her story? That still face

Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow And the curved lip there linger'd yet such grace As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eyeFor death was on its lids-fell mournfully. But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; [wreath,

Yet there her shrine had been! She grasp'd a The tomb's last garland !-This was love in death.

INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's" Expedition to the Source of St Peter's River."]

"Non, je ne puis vivre avec un cœur brise. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air."

"Bride of Messina." Translated by MADAME DE STAEL. "Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman." "The Prairie."

Down a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood ! Upon her Indian brow
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain-a song of death.

"Roll swiftly to the spirits' land, thou mighty stream and free!

Father of ancient waters,1 roll! and bear our lives with thee!

1 "Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi.