Of all save one !-She fled not. Day by day

Such hours are woman's birthright-she, unknown,

Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone;

Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving

His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong man's

raving.

He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form Still hovering nigh; yet sometimes, when that storm

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low

As a young mother's by the cradle singing,

Would sooth him with sweet aves, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow

Ebb'd from his hollow cheek.

At last faint gleams

Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams,

And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,

And gazing round him from his leafy bed,

He murmur'd forth, " Where am I? What soft strain

Pass'd, like a breeze, across my burning brain?

Back from my youth it floated, with a tone
Of life's first music, and a thought of one-
Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side?
All lost!-and this is death!-I cannot die
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye!
Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn?
My first, my holiest love!-her broken heart
Lies low, and I-unpardon'd I depart."

But then Costanza rais'd the shadowy veil
From her dark locks and features brightly pale,
And stood before him with a smile-oh! ne'er

Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear—
And said, "Cesario! look on me; I live

To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive.

I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust

As should be Heaven's alone and Heaven is just! I bless thee-be at peace!"

But o'er his frame

Too fast the strong tide rush'd-the sudden shame,
The joy, th' amaze !—he bow'd his head-it fell
On the wrong'd bosom which had lov'd so well;
And love still perfect, gave him refuge there,-
His last faint breath just wav'd her floating hair.

MADELINE.

A DOMESTIC TALE.*

Who should it be?-Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick where can we turn for succour,
When we are wretched where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,

Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?

JOANNA BAILLIE.

"My child, my child, thou leav'st me!-I shall hear

The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance; I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,

*

Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1828.

And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight's close,
And thy "Good-night" at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,

And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,

Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France,
Fading to air.-Yet blessings with thee go!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's wo
From thy young heart be far !—And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot,
God shall be with me.-Now farewell, farewell!
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye
That still sought mine :—those moments are gone by,
Thou too must go, my flower!-Yet with thee dwell
The peace of God!-One, one more gaze-farewell!”

G