And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay !

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lowered the dust again.
'Tis hushed at last the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart :

Who called thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier thou wast and art.

ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

"O sanctissima, O purissima!

Dulcis Virgo Maria,

Mater amata, intemerata,

Ora, ora pro nobis.

"

Sicilian Mariner's Hymn.

IN the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, And by the star-light gleams,

Mother of sorrows! lo, I come to thee!

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie

All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move,

In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou knowest the grief, the love,

The fear of woman's soul;-to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep-

Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppressed!

There is a wandering bark

Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave:

Oh! let thy soft eye mark

His course ;-be with him, holiest, guide and save!

My soul is on that way;

My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim;

Through the long weary day

I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him.

Aid him—and me, too, aid!

Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess!
On thy weak child is laid

The burden of too deep a tenderness.

Too much o'er him is poured

My being's hope-scarce leaving Heaven a part;
Too faithfully adored,

Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

I tremble with a sense

Of grief to be ;-I hear a warning low

Sweet mother! call me hence!

This wild idolatry must end in woe.

The troubled joy of life,

Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known;

And, worn with feverish strife,

Would fold its wings; take back, take back thine own!

Hark! how the wind swept by!

The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave-
Hope of the sailor's eye,

And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save!

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world unreached by human thought,
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,

Answer me, answer me!

Have we not communed here of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours,
Was not to perish as a rose's breath,

To melt away, like song from festal bowers?

Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that shone
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze-
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown,
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze!
Hear, hear, and answer me !

Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife,
Like a faint breeze :-oh, from that music flown,
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life,
But once, oh! answer me!

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush,
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep,
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush,
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep--

Spirit! then answer me !

By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet;
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ;—
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet;
Answer me, answer me !

The grave is silent :-and the far-off sky,

And the deep midnight-silent all, and lone!
Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,

What voice has earth!--Hear, pity, speak, mine own!
Answer me, answer me !

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE.

"For all his wildness and proud phantasies,
I love him!"

CROLY.

;

THY heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds; And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,

And where the Lauwine's1 peal is heard-Hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lovest me well, dear friend! but better, better far, Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at

war;

In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights,

With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights;
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will leave my blessèd home, my father's joyous hearth,
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth,
With all the kind and laughing eyes that in its firelight shine,
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine!

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart,
That I cast away for thee-for thee, all reckless as thou art!
With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell,
Yet, yet I would not change that lot, oh no! I love too well!
A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou,
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow!
Mournful!--but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.

1 Lauwine, the avalanche.

"We will rear new homes under trees that glow,
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough;
O'er our white walls we will train the vine,
And sit in its shadow at day's decline;

And watch our herds, as they range at will
Through the green savannas, all bright and still.

"But woe for that sweet shade

Of the flowering orchard-trees,
Where first our children played
'Midst the birds and honey-bees!"

"All, all our own shall the forests be,
As to the bound of the roebuck free!
None shall say, 'Hither, no further pass !'
We will track each step through the wavy glass;
We will chase the elk in his speed and might,
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night."

"But, oh! the grey church-tower,
And the sound of Sabbath-bell,
And the sheltered garden-bower,

We have bid them all farewell!"

"We will give the names of our fearless race
To each bright river whose course we trace;
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods,
And the path of our daring in boundless woods!
And our works unto many a lake's green shore,
Where the Indians' graves lay, alone, before."

"But who shall teach the flowers,

Which our children loved, to dwell,
In a soil that is not ours?

-Home, home and friends, farewell!"

THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.1

"If I could see him, it were well with me."

COLERIDGE's Wallenstein.

THERE were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquished city's halls,

As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls, And the conquerors filled the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed;

But their lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wailed the dead.

1 The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana. It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads in Lockhart's beautiful collection.

He looked down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below,

The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets-and a gloom came o'er his

brow:

The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's

tone;

But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.

And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city!, thou city of the sea! But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?

I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,

And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul. "My brother! oh, my brother! thou art gone-the true and

brave,

And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave;

There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I

lead on ;

There was one to love me in the world-my brother! thou art gone!

"In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath,

We stood together, side by side; one hope was ours-one path; Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, thou hast fenced me with thy breast;

Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain-oh! bravest heart, and best!

"I see the festive lights around-o'er a dull sad world they shine ; I hear the voice of victory-my Pedro ! where is thine?

The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply!—
Oh, brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!

"I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway,

And chiefs to lead them fearlessly-my friend hath passed away! For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain,

And the face that was as light to mine-it cannot come again!

"I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a

crown;

With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold

renown;

How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds of triumph die, When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!

"I am lonely-I am lonely! this rest is even as death!

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet's breath;

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner waveBut where art thou, my brother? where ?—in thy low and early grave!"