And fell the moonlight vainly over trees,

Which had not even one rose,-although the breeze, Almost as if in mockery, had brought

Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught!

She entered in the cottage. None were there!

The hearth was dark, the walls looked cold and bare! All-all spoke poverty and suffering!

All--all was changed! and but one only thing

Kept its old place! Rosalie's mandolin

Hung on the wall, where it had ever been.
There was one other room,-and Rosalie
Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame
Gleamed from a dying lamp; a cold air came
Damp from the broken casement. There one lay,
Like marble seen but by the moonlight ray!
And Rosalie drew near. One withered hand
Was stretched, as it would reach a wretched stand
Where some cold water stood! And by the bed
She knelt-and gazed-and saw her mother-dead!

THE BAYADERE.

AN INDIAN TALE.

THERE were seventy pillars around the hall,
Of wreathed gold was each capital,

And the roof was fretted with amber and gems,
Such as light kingly diadems;

The floor was marble, white as the snow

Ere its pureness is stained by its fall below:

In the midst played a fountain, whose starry showers Fell, like beams, on the radiant flowers,

Whose colors were gleaming, as every one

Burnt from the kisses just caught from the sun;

And vases sent forth their silvery clouds,

Like those which the face of the young moon shrouds,

But sweet as the breath of the twilight hour

When the dew awakens the rose's power.

At the end of the hall was a sun-bright throne,

Rich with every glorious stone;

And the purple canopy overhead

Was like the shade o'er the day-fall shed;

And the couch beneath was of buds half blown,
Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone;

And round, like festoons, a vine was rolled,

Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of gola.
But though graced as for a festival,

There was something sad in that stately hall :
There floated the breath of the harp and flute,-
But the sweetest of every music is mute:

There are flowers of light, and spiced perfume,

But there wants the sweetest of breath and of bloom:

And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear,
For the smiling of woman shineth not here.
With urns of odor o'er him weeping,
Upon the couch a youth is sleeping:
His radiant hair is bound with stars,

Such as shine on the brow of night,
Filling the dome with diamond rays,

Only than his own curls less bright.
And such a brow, and such an eye
As fit a young divinity;

A brow like twilight's darkening line,
An eye like morning's first sunshine,
Now glancing through the veil of dreams
As sudden light at daybreak streams.
And richer than the mingled shade
By gem, and gold, and purple made,
His orient wings closed o'er his head;

Like that bird's, bright with every dye,
Whose home, as Persian bards have said,
Is fixed in scented Araby.

Some dream is passing o'er him now-
A sudden flash is on his brow;
And from his lip come murmured words,
Low, but sweet as the light lute chords
When o'er its strings the night winds glide
To woo the roses by its side.

He, the fair boy-god, whose nest

Is in the water-lily's breast;
He of the many-arrowed bow,
Of the joys that come and go
Like the leaves, and of the sighs
Like the winds of summer skies,

Blushes like the birds of spring,
Soon seen and soon vanishing;
He of hopes, and he of fears,
He of smiles, and he of tears—
Young Camdeo, he has brought
A sweet dream of colored thought,
One of love and woman's power,
To Mandalla's sleeping hour.

Joyless and dark was his jewelled throne,

When Mandalla awakened and found him alone.
He drank the perfume that around him swept,
'Twas not sweet as the sigh he drank as he slept;
There was music, but where was the voice at whose

thrill

Every pulse in his veins was throbbing still?
And dim was the home of his native star,
While the light of woman and love was afar;
And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes
Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise.
He veiled the light of his glorious race

In a mortal's form and a mortal's face;
And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one

Who might dwell in his hall and share in his throne

The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest
The bee from the midst of its honey quest,

And open the leaves of the lotus lay
To welcome the noon of the summer day.

It was glory, and light, and beauty all,
When Mandalla closed his wing in Bengal.
He stood in the midst of a stately square,

As the waves of the sea rolled the thousands there;

Their gathering was round the gorgeous car
Where sat in his triumph the Subadar;

For his sabre was red with the blood of the slain,
And his proudest foes were slaves in his chain;

And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of his name,
Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards he came.
With gems and gold on his ataghan,

A thousand warriors led the van,

Mounted on steeds black as the night,

But with foam and with stirrup gleaming in light;
And another thousand came in their rear,
On white horses, armed with bow and spear,
With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid,
And with crimson belt for each crooked blade.

Then followed the foot ranks,-their turbans showed
Like flashes of light from a mountain cloud,
For white were the turbans as winter snow,

And death-black the foreheads that darkened below;
Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest,
And each bore a lion of gold on his breast,
For this was the chosen band that bore
The lion standard,—it floated o'er
Their ranks like morning; at every wave
Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave
A martial salute to the radiant fold
That bore the lion king wrought in gold.
And last the elephant came, whose tower
Held the lord of this pomp and power:
And round that chariot of his pride,
Like chains of white sea-pearls,
Or braids enwove of summer flowers,
Glided fair dancing girls ;

And as the rose leaves fall to earth,

Their light feet touched the ground,—