"The founts, the many gushing founts, which to the wild ye gave,

Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave;

And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim's way,

Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day.

"The very walls your bounty reared, for the stranger's homeless head,

Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead!

Though the grass be where ye feasted once,

lute and cittern rung,

where

And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst its young.

"It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees,

I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and to the breeze!

I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair,

And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs, are there!"

A dim and deeply-bosomed grove
Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest-bee.

The darkness of the chestnut bough
There on the waters lay,
The bright stream reverently below,
Checked its exulting play;

And bore a music all subdued,

And led a silvery sheen,
On through the breathing solitude
Of that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly around
Of solemn influence dwelt,
In the soft gloom, and whispery sound,
Not to be told, but felt:

While sending forth a quiet gleam

Across the wood's repose,

And o'er the twilight of the stream,

A lowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreat
Through many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight-how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,

Even at the threshold made,
As if to sleep through sultry hours,
A young fair child was laid.

To sleep?-oh! ne'er on childhood's eye,
And silken lashes pressed,
Did the warm living slumber lie,
With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow

Its cheek's pure marble dyed-
'T was but the light's faint streaming flow
Through roses heaped beside.

I stooped-the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lip's breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still-
The lovely child was dead!

"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing!

Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a wo, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low-
I turned, and near me sate
A woman with a mourner's brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,

A shadowed image I could trace

Of that young slumberer's mien.

THE KAISER'S FEAST.

Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire, (in the 12th century,) that unfortunate Prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. "After his decease, his mother, Matilda, privately invited his children to return to Germany; and by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened."-Miss Benger's Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia. `

THE Kaiser feasted in his hall,

The red wine mantled high; Banners were trembling on the wall, To the peals of minstrelsy:

And many a gleam and sparkle came

From the armour hung around,

As it caught the glance of the torch's flame,

Or the hearth with pine boughs crowned.

Why fell there silence on the chord

Beneath the harper's hand?
And suddenly, from that rich board,
Why rose the wassail-band?

The strings were hushed-the knights made way
For the queenly mother's tread,
As up the hall, in dark array,

Two fair-haired boys she led.

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face

Flushed the proud warrior-blood:
And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried,
"Wherefore this mourning vest?
And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest?"

"Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features of thy line
In each fair little one!
Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies-
Thy brother's children see?

"They are gone! they have all passed by! They in whose wars I had borne my part, They that I loved with a brother's heart,

They have left me here to die! Sound again, clarion! Clarion pour thy blast! Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past."

And where is he, thy brother, where? He, in thy home that grew, And smiling, with his sunny hair, Ever to greet thee flew?

How would his arms thy neck entwine,

His fond lips press thy brow! My son! oh, call these orphans thineThou hast no brother now!

"What! from their gentle eyes doth nought

Speak of thy childhood's hours,

And smite thee with a tender thought

Of thy dead father's towers?

Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When reared together there,

Through the old woods like fawns ye flewWhere is thy brother-where?

"Well didst thou love him then, and he

Still at thy side was seen!
How is it that such things can be,

As though they ne'er had been?
Evil was this world's breath, which came
Between the good and brave!

Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offered to the grave.

"And let them, let them there be poured!
Though all unfelt below,

Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.

Oh! death is mighty to make peace;
Now bid his work be done!

So many an inward strife shall cease-
Take, take these babes, my son!"

His eye was dimmed-the strong man shook
With feelings long suppressed;

Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strained them to his breast.

And a shout from all in the royal hall

Burst forth to hail the sight;

And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met At the Kaiser's feast that night.

"T was Ulla's voice-alone she stood

In the Iceland summer night,

For gazing o'er a glassy flood,
From a dark rock's beetling height.

"I know thou hast thy bed

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee: The storm sweeps o'er thy head,

But the depths are hushed around thee. What wind shall point the way

To the chambers where thou 'rt lying? Come to me thence, and say

If thou thought'st on me in dying?

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek

Come to me from the ocean's dead!-thou 'rt surely of them-speak!"

She listened-'t was the wind's low moan,
'T was the ripple of the wave,

'T was the wakening ospray's cry alone,
As it started from its cave.

"I know each fearful spell

Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose muttered words compel
The tempest to obey.
But I adjure not thee

By magic sign or song,
My voice shall stir the sea

By love, the deep, the strong!

By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of

her sighs,

Come to me from the ocean's dead by the vows we pledged-arise!"

Again she gazed with an eager glance,
Wandering and wildly bright;

She saw but the sparkling waters dance
To the arrowy northern light.

"By the slow and struggling death
Of hope that loathed to part,
By the fierce and withering breath

Of despair on youth's high heart;
By the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings
Nought lovely to the sight,

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung

of grief and fear,

Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, appear!"

Was it her yearning spirit's dream,

Or did a pale form rise,

And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam, With bright, still, mournful eyes?

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 wound-
Striking 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 parents' 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,
The 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

Hapy 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! Fearfuly, wondrously, our souls are madeLet 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,
Purpled 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,

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 Palm-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!

To him, to him, its rustling spoke,
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whispered of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Aye, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave's moan!

His mother's cabin home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay;
The dashing of his brethren's oar,
The conch-note heard along the shore;-
All through his wakening bosom swept :
He clasped his country's Tree and wept!

Oh! scorn him not!-the strength, whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,
Th' unconquerable power, which fills
The freeman battling on his hills,

These have one fountain deep and clear-
The same whence gushed that child-like tear!

BREATHINGS OF SPRING.

Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs;-bring back The love that I have lost!

of "Les Jardins."

Ev'n as our hearts may be.