Alas! the mountain eagle's heart, But I-your soft looks wake the thirst THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE.' "Thither where he lies buried! That single spot is the whole world to me." THY voice was in my soul! it called me on; Now speak to me again! we loved so well- Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom! I will not shrink; oh! mighty is the tomb, This lone, full, fragile heart !—the strong alone I hear the rustling banners; and I hear The wind's low singing through the fretted stone; I hear not thee; and yet I feel thee near What is this bound that keeps thee from thine own? Breathe it away! I wait thee-I adjure thee! hast thou known How I have loved thee? couldst thou dream it all? Am I not here, with night and death alone, And fearing not? and hath my spirit's call Thou canst not come! or thus I should not weep! 1 See Wallenstein, Act 6th. Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep But I shall come to thee! our soul's deep dreams, THE SISTERS OF SCIO. As are our hearts, our way is one, And cannot be divided. Strong affection Contends with all things and o'ercometh all things. "Sister, sweet sister! let me weep awhile! Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway; Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears! Oh! could my life melt from me in these tears! "Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye, Our brother's bounding step-where are they, where? Desolate, desolate our chambers lie! How hast thou won thy spirit from despair? O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep ;I sink away-bear with me-let me weep!" "Yes! weep, my sister! weep, till from thy heart The weight flow forth in tears! yet sink thou not I bind my sorrow to a lofty part, For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot "A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, A memory of our old victorious dead,— ; These mantle me with power! and though their fires In a frail censer briefly may be shed, Yet shall they light us onward, side by side; Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide? "Cheer, then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set A faint sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. [The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso, of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives; and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed, says the ancient chronicle, "Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?"—" Look where he is," replied the cruel King, "and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.' The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Benardo's history after this event.] The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord !-oh, break my father's chain!" "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day: Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." And lo! from afar, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went ; He reached that grey-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,- That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropped from his like lead, He looked up to the face above-the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow-the brow was fixed and white He met at last his father's eyes-but in them was no sight! Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze ; They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood, 米 "Father!" at length he murmured low-and wept like childhood then, Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men !— Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now. My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father-oh! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! "I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet, I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had Thou wouldst have known my spirit then-for thee my fields were won, And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; “Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold "Into these glassy eyes put light-be still! keep down thine ire, Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, Thou canst not?—and a king!-his dust be mountains on thy head!" He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell-upon the silent face place: His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain,- sent. THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.' "To a mysteriously consorted pair This place is consecrate; to death and life, WORDSWORTH. How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, Of mingled prayer they told of Sabbath hours; How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, As, kindling up the silent stone, I see The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past : THE EXILE'S DIRGE. "Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Cymbeline. ["I attended a funeral where there were a number of the German settlers preAfter I had performed such service as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and using the language and rites which they had brought with them over the sea from the Vaterland, a word which often occurred in this hymn. 1 At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from the sepulchre, with her infant in her arms, at the sound of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus :-"Here am I, O God! with the child whom thou hast given me." |