Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red
In the broad stormy firelight; savage brows,

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread, Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Looked through the branches as through dungeon bars, Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom

Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom

That happy hall in England! Idle fear!

Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear

The secret of the forests? To the stake

They bound him; and that proud young soldier strove His father's spirit in his breast to wake, Trusting to die in silence!

He, the love

Of many hearts !-the fondly reared-the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see! And fettered there
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand.
He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity-
A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?
A girl-a young slight girl-a fawn-like child
Of green savannas and the leafy wild,

Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower,
Happy because the sunshine is its dower;
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed,
For hers had mourned a playmate-brother dead.

She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And, by its passion's deepening fervour swayed,
Even to the stake she rushed, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye,
And clear-toned voice, that said, "He shall not die!"
"He shall not die !"—the gloomy forest thrilled

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were stilled,
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell.

They gazed: their dark souls bowed before the maid,
She of the dancing step in wood and glade!
And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue,
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew,
Something o'ermastered them from that young mien-
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen;
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath ;
From his pale lips they took the cup of death;

They quenched the brand beneath the cypress tree :

Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!"

COSTANZA.

"Art thou then desolate?

Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me!

I am thine own.

Have trusted hearts proved false? Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Knowest thou all

I would have borne, and called it joy to bear,

For thy sake? Knowest thou that thy voice hath power
To shake me with a thrill of happiness

By one kind tone?-to fill mine eyes with tears

Of yearning love? And thou-oh! thou didst throw
That crushed affection back upon my heart;
Yet come to me !—it died not.'

SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell
Through the stained window of her lonely cell,
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow,
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow,
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw
Bright waves of gold-the autumn forest's hue-
Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread
By painting's touch around some holy head,
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky,
What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe,
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below
The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal
What life had taught that chastened heart to feel,
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years,
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears!
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone,
And of the gentle saint no more was known,

Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made

A temple of the pine and chestnut shade,

Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim,

And ancient solitude; where hidden streams

Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams-
Music for weary hearts! 'Midst leaves and flowers
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers,

All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread

To the sick peasant on his lowly bed

Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal birth
He deemed the pale fair form that held on earth
Communion but with grief.

Ere long, a cell,

A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone

Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone,

Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there

Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer.

And now 'twas prayer's own hour.

That voice again

Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain,

That made the cypress quiver where it stood,
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set,
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met

The floating song. Strange sounds !—the trumpet's peal,
Made hollow by the rocks the clash of steel;
The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass
There had been combat; blood was on the grass,
Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying,
And the pine branches crashed before the flying.

And all was changed within the still retreat,
Costanza's home: there entered hurrying feet,
Dark looks of shame and sorrow-mail-clad men,
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen,
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword,
As there they laid their leader, and implored

The sweet saint's prayers to heal him: then for flight,
Through the wide forest and the mantling night,
Sped breathless again. They passed; but he,
The stateliest of a host-alas! to see

What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep,
Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep,
Thus changed!-a fearful thing! His golden crest
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his breast-
Some costly love-gift-rent: but what of these?
There were the clustering raven locks-the breeze,
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers,
Might scarcely lift them; steeped in bloody showers,
So heavily upon the pallid clay

Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray,
Where was it? And the lips!-they gasped apart,
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art,
Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue-
Was it not death's?-that stillness-that cold dew
On the scarred forehead? No! his spirit broke
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay,
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken,
The haughty chief of thousands-the forsaken
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 mourned the strong man's raving.
He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled 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 soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebbed from his hollow cheek.

At last faint gleams

Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams,
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,

And gazing round him from his leafy bed,

He murmured forth, "Where am I? What soft strain
Passed 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-unpardoned I depart.'

But then Costanza raised 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 rushed-the sudden shame,
The joy, the amaze! He bowed his head-it fell
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well;
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there-
His last faint breath just waved 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 leavest 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,
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 moonlit 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 woe
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 pillowed there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye

That still sought mine: these moments are gone by-
Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell
The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!"
This was a mother's parting with her child—
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled,
And wooed her with a voice of love away

From childhood's home: yet there, with fond delay,
She lingered on the threshold, heard the note

Of her caged bird through trellised rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.
But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long
Poured forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,

That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean solitudes were passed,

And the bright land was reached, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furled
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace
The map of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,

On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears!
That home was darkened soon: the summer breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas:
Death unto one, and anguish-how forlorn!
To her that, widowed in her marriage morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim,