And thy voice comes like the sound

Of a sweet and hidden rill,

That makes the dim woods tuneful round

But soon it must be still!

Silence and dust

On thy sunny lips must lie,

Make not the strength of love thy trust,

A stronger yet is nigh!

No strain of festal flow

That my hand for thee hath tried,

But into dirge-notes wild and low,

Its ringing tones have died.

Young art thou, Morna!

Yet on thy gentle head,

Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,

A spirit hath been shed!

And the glance is thine which sees

Thro' nature's awful heart

But bright things go with the summer-breeze, And thou too, must depart!

Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!

Young and crown'd bride of death!

Take hence to heaven

Thy holy thoughts and bright,

And soaring hopes, that were not given

For the touch of mortal blight!

Might we follow in thy track,

This parting should not be !

But the spring shall give us violets back,
every flower but thee!

And

There was a burst of tears around the bard:

All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye,
Rais'd to the first faint star above the hills,

And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek

Was paler than before.-So Morna heard

The minstrel's prophecy.

And spring return'd,

Bringing the earth her lovely things again,
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,

A young sweet spirit gone.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

From the "Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poem.

If there be but one spot upon thy name,

One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice

Whose tones thou shrink'st from-Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head-and die!

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,

Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!

Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, aud pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's;-on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
These may
be dreams-but how shall woman tell

Of woman's shame, and not with tears ?-She fell!
That mother left that child!-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply, not without a sigh,

Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-but no! it could not thus have been, For she went on!-forsook her home, her hearth, All

pure affection, all sweet household mirth,

To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,

Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life,

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;