Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams,
Tender and sadly sweet;-

Tell her my heart within me burns

Once more that gaze to meet.

And tell our white-hair'd father,
That in the paths he trod,
The child he lov'd, the last on earth,
Yet walks and worships God.
Say, that his last fond blessing yet
Rests on my soul like dew,
And by its hallowing might I trust
Once more his face to view.

And tell our gentle mother,

That on her grave pour
The sorrows of my spirit forth,
As on her breast of yore.
Happy thou art that soon, how soon,
Our good and bright will see!
O brother, brother! may I dwell,
Erelong, with them and thee!

THE RETURN.

"HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? The free, the pure, the kind?”

-So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track,
As they play'd to the mountain-wind.

"Hath thy soul been true to its early love?"

Whisper'd my native streams;

THE RETURN.

"Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?"

"Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer
Of the child in his parent-halls?"

Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air,
From the old ancestral walls.

"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead.
Whose place of rest is nigh?

With the father's blessing o'er thee shed,
With the mother's trusting eye?"

Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain,

As I answer'd-"O ye shades!

I bring not my childhood's heart again
To the freedom of your glades.

"I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams!

Light after light, in my soul have died

The day-spring's glorious dreams.

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd

The prayer at my mother's knee;

Darken'd and troubled I come at last,

Home of my boyish glee!

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears,

To soften and atone;

And oh ye scenes of those bless'd years,
They shall make me again your own."

MITFORD.

RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER.

Rienzi. Claudia-nay, start not! Thou art sad; to-day I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids,

A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied
Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale
As marble; those unseeing eyes were fix'd
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent
As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought-
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought-
Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain.

Claudia.

Nay, father,

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice,
Prattling; and that light busy foot astir

In her small housewifery, the blithest bee
That ever wrought in hive.

Cla.

Oh! mine old home!

Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird?

Cla. Mine own dear home!

Father, I love not this new state; these halls,

Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!

My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown

With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;

My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse;

And old Camillo. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rien. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse,

And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,

Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province

Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask Orient gems,
Diamonds and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit
Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo !
Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! not a bachelor

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel
To my fair daughter.

Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rien. Wilt have a list to choose from?

Listen, sweet!

If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,

And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall?

And if, at eventide, they heard not oft

A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments; and then
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales.

Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart,
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil,

I cannot hear thy words. He is return'd
To Rome; he left thee on mine errand, dear one
And now-Is there no casement myrtle-wreath'd,
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night
The lover's song?