Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that poured those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed:-bear back the Dead
Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight

A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train,

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lowered the dust again.

'T is hushed at last the tomb above,

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who called thee strong as Death, O Love? Mightier thou wast and art.

ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

O sanctissima, o purissima! Dulcis Virgo Maria, Mater amata, intemerata,

Ora, ora pro nobis,

Sicilian Mariner's Hymn.

IN the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods and past the moaning

sea,

And by the star-light gleams,

Mother of Sorrows! lo, I come to thee.

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie

All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move, In thy still beauty, through an early home, Thou know'st the grief, the love, The fear of woman's soul;-to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep-
Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart opprest!

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world unreached by human thought,
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,
Answer me, answer me!
Have we not communed here of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours,
Was not to perish as a rose's breath,
To melt away, like song from festal bowers?
Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that si.one

intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze? Hear, hear, and answer me!

Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife,

Like a faint breeze :-oh! from that music flown, Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life. But once, oh! answer me!

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep,

When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush,

Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep-
Spirit! then answer me!

By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet,
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair;-
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings mect;
Answer me, answer me!

The grave is silent:-and the far-off sky,
And the deep midnight-silent all, and lone!
Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,
What voice has Earth ?-Hear, pity, speak, mine
own!

Answer me, answer me!

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE.

For all his wildness and proud fantasies, I love him!

Croly.

THY heart is in the upper world, where fleet the Chamois bounds,

Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds;

And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,

And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard-Hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend! but better, better far,

Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war;

In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine

And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights,

With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights;

• Lauwine, the avalanche.

For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine

And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine.

And I will leave my blessed home, my Father's joyous hearth,

With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth,

With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its

fire-light shine,

To sit forsaken in thy hut,-yet know that thou art mine!

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart,

That I cast away for thee-for thee-all reckless as thou art!

With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell

Yet, yet I would not change that lot,-oh no! I love too well!

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou,

With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow!

Mournful!--but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,

And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath,

To watch through long long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death,

To wake in doubt and loneliness-this doom 1 know is mine,—

And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine!

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou com'st at last,

That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er cach danger past,

'That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine,

For this I will be thine, my Love! for this I will be thine!

In the darkness of the forest-boughs,
A lonely path I tread.

But my heart is high and fearless,
As by mighty wings upborne;
The mountain eagle hath not plumes
So strong as Love and Scorn.

I have raised thee from the grave-sod,
By the white man's path defiled;
On to th' ancestral wilderness,
I bear thy dust, my child!

I have asked the ancient deserts
To give my dead a place,
Where the stately footsteps of the free
Alone should leave a trace.

And the tossing pines made answer—
"Go, bring us back thine own!”
And the streams from all the hunters' hilis,
Rushed with an echoing tone.

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters
That yet untamed may roll;
The voices of that chainless host
With joy shall fill thy soul.
In the silence of the midnight
I journey with the dead,

Where the arrows of my father's bow
Their falcon flight have sped.

I have left the spoiler's dwellings,
For evermore, behind;

Unmingled with their household sourds,
For me shall sweep the wind.
Alone, amidst their hearth-fires,
I watched my child's decay,
Uncheered, I saw the spirit-light.
From his young eyes fade away.
When his head sank on my bosom,

When the death-sleep o'er him fell, Was there one to say, "A friend is near?" There was none!-pale race, farewell!

To the forests, to the cedars,

To the warrior and his bow,

Back, back!-I bore thee laughing thence, I bear thee slumbering now!

I bear thee unto burial

With the mighty hunters gone;

I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze,
Thou wilt speak of joy, my son!

In the silence of the midnight

I journey with the dead;

But my heart is strong, my step is fleet,

My father's path I tread.

miles through the forests to join the Canadian Indians.-See Tudor's Letters on the Eastern States of America.

SONG OF EMIGRATION. THERE was heard a song on the chiming sea, A mingled breathing of grief and glee; Men's voice, unbroken by sighs was there, Filling with triumph the sunny air;

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new,

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew.

But ever and anon

A murmur of farewell

Told, by its plaintive tone,

That from woman's lip it fell. "Away, away o'er the foaming main!"

This was the free and the joyous strain"There are clearer skies than ours, afar, We will shape our course by a brighter star; There are plains whose verdure no foot hath pressed, And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest."

"But alas! that we should go"

-Sang the farewell voices then-
"From the homesteads, warm and low,
By the brook and in the glen!"

"We will rear new homes under trees that glow,
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough;
O'er our white walls we will train the vine,
And sit in its shadow at day's decline;
And watch our herds, as they range at will
Through the green savannas, all bright and still."

"But wo for that sweet shade
Of the flowering orchard-trees,
Where first our children played

'Midst the birds and honey bees!"

"All, all our own shall the forests be,
As to the bound of the roebuck free!
None shall say, 'Hither, no further pass !'
We will track each step through the wavy grass;
We will chase the elk in his speed and might,
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night."

"But, oh! the gray church-tower,
And the sound of Sabbath-bell,
And the sheltered garden-bower,——
We have bid them all farewell!"

"We will give the names of our fearless race
To each bright river whose course we trace;
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods,
And the path of our daring in boundless woods!
And our works unto many a lake's green shore,
Where the Indian's graves lay, alone, before"

"But who shall teach the flowers,
Which our children loved, te dwell
In a soil that is not ours?

-Home, home and friends, farewell!"