A still, sad life was thine!-long years
With tasks unguerdoned fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervor poured,
Alms to the pilgrim given--
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb

With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stained window shed;
The records of thy name and race

Have faded from the stone,
Yet, through a cloud of years I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight,
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance

On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glanceChief! were not these things thine:

A lofty place where leaders sate

Around the council-board;

In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was poured
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;
Surely these things were all thine own,
So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the armed knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes arrayed;

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever;-it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may woundStriking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. Childe Harold.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no

more;

Is not this all a mystery?-Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanished things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by, A rippling wave-the dashing of an oarA flower scent floating past our narents' door

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;

Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes to the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear,—
These are night's mysteries-who shall make
them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus?—'t is mystery all!
Darkly we move-we press upon the brink

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think,
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made-
Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed!
Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismayed-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined? So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

THE PALM-TREE.*

Ir waved not through an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fanned by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas,
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew
Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Puroled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange looked it there!-the willow streamed
Where silvery waters near it gleamed;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the Desert's Tree,

This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem "Les Jardins"

And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music filled that garden's bowers;
Lamps that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colours flung,
And bright forms glanced-a fairy show-
Under the blossoms to and fro.

But one, a lone one, midst the throng,
Seemed reckless of all dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow, and long black hair-
A stranger, like the Palin-tree there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:
He passed the pale green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye;
But when to that sole Palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame!

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous leaves,

Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade,

And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass.

And the bright waters-they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall

Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day.

And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And penciling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem-yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire,
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I

passed through the streets; there were throngs on throngs

Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs.
There was music forth from each palace borne-
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;
The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.
Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain?
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain!
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell;
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,
And bowing the beauty of woman's head:
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender

moan,

For the many brave to their slumbers gone?

art,

What wak'st thou in the heart?

Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep ceil,

Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more,

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feetSpring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these?

Vain longings for the dead!-why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living

blooms?

Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there!

THE ILLUMINATED CITY. THE hills are glowed with a festive light For the royal city rejoiced by night:

The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it rolled on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by--
How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not wo.
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy
view

The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal-
So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joys visits when most brief.

Bernard Barton.

They that thy mantle wore,

As gods were seen

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise:

What hast thou left thee now ?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With coloured light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,
Lovely to hear,

While night, o'er tomb and shrine

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,
Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,

A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien :

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

Roma, Roma, Roma!

Non è piu come era prima.

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore
Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,

Leaders and sceptred men
Bowed at thy feet.

THE DISTANT SHIP.

THE sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast
Shoots like a glancing star,
While the red radiance of the west
Spreads kindling fast and far;
And yet that splendour wins thee not,-
Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark distant spot

Of all the main and skv