But thou to my thoughts are a pure-blazing shrine, THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. I LAY upon the solemn plain, Where those who died not there in vain, 'Twas silent where the free blood gushed, So many a voice had there been hushed, I slumbered on the lonely spot I slumbered-but my rest was not For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, I saw their spears, on that red field, Chased to the seas without his shield, I woke the sudden trumpet's blast TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY. WHAT wish can friendship form for thee, And every rose is thine! Life hath no purer joy in store, Time hath no sorrow to efface; Hope cannot paint one blessing more Some hearts a boding fear might own, Is taught to gaze on Heaven! And there are virtues oft concealed, But fear not thou the lesson fraught With Sorrow's chastening power to know; Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM WHAT first should consecrate as thine, It should be, what a loftier strain For kindness, which hath soothed the hour Long shall that fervent blessing rest On thee and thine, and heavenwards borne, TO THE SAME, ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER. SAY not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear, By earthly sorrow strengthened for the skies, But grief will claim her hour,—and He, whose eye He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep, Once borne by Him, their inmost source who knows, And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke, By fire and storm Heaven tries the Christian's worth, Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost, Shall Faith rejoice when Nature grieves the most; Then comes her triumph! through the shadowy gloom, Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below, And the pale brow is sealed to Heaven at last!1 O cherished and revered! fond memory well "Till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads."—Rev. vii. 3. He came- A DIRGE. WEEP for the early lost!- How many flowers were mingled in the crown How many hopes have withered-they that bow Did the young mother's eye, Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn! For there is hushed on earth A voice of gladness-there is veiled a face, A smile hath passed, which filled its home with light, But there is power with faith! Power, e'en though nature o'er the untimely grave And with a yearning heart we linger on, When they, whose glance unlocked its founts, are gone! But glory from the dust, And praise to Him, the merciful, for those Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, ["NELLO DELLA PIETRA had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits; one was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him with these words : 'Recorditi di me; che son la Pia, Disposando m' avea con la sua gemma.' -Edinburgh Review, No. LVIII.] Purgatorio, cant. "Mais elle etait du monde, ou les plus belles choses, Ont le pire destin; Et Rose elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses, L'espace d'un Matin.' " MALHERBE. THERE are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, He, in the vine-clad bowers, unseen is dwelling, |