Under one roof?

"Joanne !"-that murmur broke
With sounds of weeping forth! She turned-she knew
Beside her, marked from all the thousands there,
In the calm beauty of his silver hair,

The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy,
From his dark eye flashed proudly; and the boy,
The youngest born, that ever loved her best :-
"Father! and ye, my brothers!" On the breast
Of that grey sire she sank—and swiftly back,
Even in an instant, to their native track

Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp no more,
The plumes, the banners: to her cabin-door,

And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,

Where her young sisters by her side had played,
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose,

Her spirit turned. The very wood-note, sung
In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt
Where o'er her father's roof the beech leaves hung,
Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,
Winning her back to nature.

She unbound

The helm of many battles from her head,

And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the ground, Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said—

"Bless me, my father! bless me ! and with thee, To the still cabin and the beechen tree,

Let me return! "

Oh! never did thine eye
Through the green haunts of happy infancy
Wander again, Joanne! Too much of fame
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name;
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price-
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise
Of home, with all its loves-doth fate allow
The crown of glory unto woman's brow.

PAULINE.

"To die for what we love! Oh! there is power
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this:
It is to live without the vanished light
That strength is needed."

"Così trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno
Della vita mortal il fiore e'l verde."

TASSO.

ALONG the starlit Seine went music swelling,
Till the air thrilled with its exulting mirth;

Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling

For cares of stricken hearts were found on earth; And a glad sound the measure lightly beat,

A happy chime of many dancing feet.

For in a palace of the land that night,

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung, And from the painted walls a stream of light

On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung;
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride
Was one-the lady from the Danube side.

Pauline, the meekly bright! though now no more
Her clear eye flashed with youth's all-tameless glee,
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore,
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see;

A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught—
The blending of deep love and matron thought.
Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair,
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky
Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair,

As her young daughter in the dance went by,
With the fleet step of one that yet hath known
Smiles and kind voices in this world alone.

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast?
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh?

Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest
Midst the light laughter of festivity.

Whence come those tones? Alas! enough we know
To mingle fear with all triumphal show!

Who spoke of evil when young feet were flying
In fairy rings around the echoing hall?

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing,
Glad pulses beating unto music's call?

Silence!-the minstrels pause-and hark! a sound,
A strange quick rustling which their notes had drowned!

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking—

Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed!
From the gay dream of revelry awaking,

One moment holds them still in breathless dread.
The wild fierce lustre grows: then bursts a cry-
Fire! through the hall and round it gathering-fly!
And forth they rush, as chased by sword and spear,
To the green coverts of the garden bowers-
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear,

Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers:
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven.
And where is she-Pauline? the hurrying throng
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast
Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along-
Till now the threshold of that death is past,
And free she stands beneath the starry skies,
Calling her child--but no sweet voice replies.

"Bertha ! where art thou? Speak! oh, speak, my own!"
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while,
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone,

Powerless had sunk within the blazing pile;

A young bright form, decked gloriously for death,
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce breath!
But oh! thy strength, deep love! There is no power
To stay the mother from that rolling grave,
Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower,

And forth like banners from each lattice wave:
Back, back she rushes through a host combined—
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined!

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise?
None!-Courage there stood still-and never more
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes!
Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild farewell?
And died they heart to heart?-Oh! who can tell?
Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke

On that sad palace, midst its pleasure shades;
Its painted roofs had sunk-yet black with smoke
And lonely stood its marble colonnades :
But yester eve their shafts with wreaths were bound,
Now lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around!

And bore the ruins no recording trace

Of all that woman's keart had dared and done?
Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place,
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone!
Those had the mother, on her gentle breast,
Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest.
And they were all !-the tender and the true
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove,
Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew,
To deep lone chastened thoughts of grief and love.
Oh! we have need of patient faith below,

To clear away the mysteries of such woe!

JUANA.

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.]

This love,

"It is but dust thou lookst upon.
This wild and passionate idolatry,
What doth it in the shadow of the grave?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart,

So must it ever end: too much we give
Unto the things that perish."

THE night wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace room,
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom,

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red, Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see,

Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free:

No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay,
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array.

But she that with the dark hair watched by the cold slumberer's side,

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;
Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that clay she bent,
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.

And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like shadows of a cloud,
Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke aloud;

She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, "Thou yet wilt wake,

And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one! for thy sake. "They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be ; Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for thee? They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,

But I forbade—and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crowned!
"With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,
And thy brow so proudly beautiful--who said that this was death?
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed and strong.
"I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like thee,
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of glee!
A frail and drooping form is mine-a cold unsmiling cheek-
Oh have but a woman's heart wherewith thy heart to seek.

་

"B. when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hearest how I have kept

A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed and wept-
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights and days have

past

Surely that humble patient love must win back love at last!

And thou wilt smile-my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine—
Oh! years of hope deferred were paid by one fond glance of
thine!

"Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase

For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face!
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may not

bless;

In thy kind eyes, this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness.

"But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice
In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of thy voice.
Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone."
In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured forth day by day,
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every grace,
Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.
And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast,
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind-
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

"A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Woman! power to suffer and to love;
Therefore thou so canst pity."

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum
On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke-
"Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come
So the red warriors to their captive spoke.
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,

A youth, a fair-haired youth of England stood,
Like a king's son; though from his cheek had flown
The mantling crimson of the island blood,

And his pressed lips looked marble. Fiercely bright
And high around him blazed the fires of night,
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,

As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow

Lighting the victim's face but who could tell

Of what within his secret heart befell,

Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought
Of his far home then so intensely wrought,

That its full image, pictured to his eye
On the dark ground of mortal agony,

Rose clear as day!--and he might see the band
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand,
Where the laburnums drooped; or haply binding
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding;
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth,
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth,
Where sat their mother; and that mother's face
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place
Where so it ever smiled! Perchance the prayer
Learned at her knee came back on his despair;
The blessing from her voice, the very tone

Of her "Good-night" might breathe from boyhood gone
-He started and looked up: thick cypress boughs,