FROM A GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT.
SHE leant beneath an alma tree, which flung
A shower of leaves and blossoms o'er her head,-
But faded all of them: this made the place
A fitting temple for her; like her joys,
The fresh sweet flowers grew far above her reach;
But, like her griefs, the withered ones were strewed
Beneath her feet, and mingled with her hair,
Her long black hair, which swept round like a cloud,
And had no other wreath than those sad leaves.
Her brow was bowed upon a marble urn,
Pale as its cold, white pillow; on her cheek
Lingered the grace which beauty ever leaves,
Although herself he gone; her large dark eye
Was as a picture's, fixed and motionless,
With only one expression.-There are griefs
That hunt, like hounds, our happiness away;
And cares that, ivy-like, fix on our hopes.
But these are nothing-though they waste the heart-
To when one single sorrow, like the rod,
The serpent rod, has swallowed up the rest.
Her history was on every lip; they told,
At first, a common tale ;-she loved, was loved,
And love was destiny and happiness.
But red war was abroad; and there are charms
In the bright sabre, flashing to the sun,
The banner, crimson as the morning sky
It seems to meet, the thunder of the drum,
The clashing atabal, the haughty steed
Impatient for the battle, and the ranks,
Glittering and glorious in their armed array :
Aye, these have charms-but not for woman's dreams.
The youth went to the warfare, where he fell,
Unknown, unnamed, unmissed;--it is the fate
Of thousands, swept away like autumn leaves,
Young, brave, with heart and hand, and all that makes
The hero, but in vain. And where is she,
Not in her bower,
His lovely, lonely one?
Not in her father's hall; no more they see
Her white veil floating on the evening air,
The moon-light shining on the mystic bark
She watched so anxiously. Again she came;
But not the same, as when, with summer flowers
And scented lamp, she sought the river side;
But pale and silent, like a shadowy thing
That has looked on the other world, and known
The secrets of the grave, but forced, awhile,
To linger on the earth it loathes. She held
Within her arms an urn; beneath the shade
Of the tree which had been the favourite haunt
Of her young lover, at the twilight hour-
For then they met-she placed her treasure down.
It was a tale of wonder, and soon spread. She had been to the distant battle field, And wandered 'mid the dying and the dead, Gazing on many a ghastly face; at last, She found her lover, and this was his urn.And leaving on that urn is her employ : And still, at the lone hour, when the first star Rises o'er the blue Ganges, will she sing A low and plaining melancholy song. At other times, she leans beside the urn, As she were but a statue placed by grief In memory of love!
Linda. O, rare philosophy!—
Eyes-nose-and mouth!-Tut, thou dost pay more
Unto the house's walls, than to its master.
Bating the outside fashioning of form,
Timanthe stands a wonder among women!
A mass of excellence-a cunning piece-work
Of divers virtues woven into one!
And yet, no sexless angel she, I ween;
She hath a loving spirit, and a loveable;
She hath her beauty in her soul, Montalto!
Montalto. Go to, go to-I never saw her soul,
The gate to the heart's mansion is the eye;
Love must be born of beauty, my fair coz!
No fable that makes Cupid Venus' son.
Linda. Are there not answering fires then-love for love?
A flame can ne'er be wanting a reflexiou :
Oh! could you see Timanthe's mighty anguish,-
The unsung, unpictured battle of the bosom,
Where weakness is the strongest in the fight,-
Mark all the gradual mastery of passion!
-For woman's heart has throbbings of its own;
Feelings, man's sterner nature never felt;
Pulses of pain that beat without an echo!
Read, here, this scroll, obtained from 'neath her pillow.
Love rages fiercest in the bravest minds,
As trees are shaken most that dare the winds;
Ah! who can guess, or who, by guessing, know
What woman's pride, unthroned, must undergo!
Montalto. Thunder and storm!-I hate these coming
Their saucy passion rings a bell before it ;
Give me the maid whose soul sits still within her,
Less full of life, than full of consciousness;
Her love shall seem a night-mare of the heart;
Her voice compose the ear in measured murmurs,
Like distant ocean's breathing, in its sleep;
Her cheek a pale transparency, revealing
The fitful flashing of the light within;
Her broad blue eye the drowsy lid shall curtain-
Linda. No more of this!-Say of my suit-Ti-
Her wither worth-her wealth-her boundless
Montalto. Ay, that's a story worth the listening to; A wealthy widow is a beggar's bargain,
And many a thriftless wight shall court her coffers;
But for me,-
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