To sleep?-oh! ne'er on childhood's eye
And silken lashes pressed,

Did the warm living slumber lie
With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheeks' pure marble died-
'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow
Through roses heaped beside.

I stooped the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lips' breath was fled,

And the bright ringlets hung so still-
The lovely child was dead!

"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a woe, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low-
I turned, and near me sate

A woman with a mourner's brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,

A shadowed image I could trace
Of that young slumberer's mien.

"Stranger! thou pitiest me," she said
With lips that faintly smiled,
'As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.

"But know, the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,

Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to heaven!"

THE KAISER'S FEAST.

[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus' under the ban of the Empire in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. "After his decease, his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return to Germany; and by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened."-MISS BENGER'S Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia.]

THE Kaiser feasted in his hall-
The red wine mantled high;
Banners were trembling on the wall
To the peals of minstrelsy:

And many a gleam and sparkle came
From the armour hung around,

As it caught the glance of the torch's flame,
Or the hearth with pine-boughs crowned.
Why fell there silence on the chord
Beneath the harper's hand?

And suddenly from that rich board,
Why rose the wassail band?

The strings were hushed-the knights made way
For the queenly mother's tread,

As up the hall, in dark array,
Two fair-haired boys she led.

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face
Flushed the proud warrior-blood:
And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried,
"Wherefore this mourning vest:

And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest!"

"Well

may a mourning vest be mine, And theirs, my son, my son ! Look on the features of thy line

In each fair little one!

Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies-
Thy brother's children see!

"And where is he, thy brother-where?
He in thy home that grew,

And smiling with his sunny hair,

Ever to greet thee flew ?

How would his arms thy neck entwine,

His fond lips press thy brow!

My son! oh, call these orphans thine !—

Thou hast no brother now!

"What! from their gentle eyes doth nought Speak of thy childhood's hours,

And smite thee with a tender thought

Of thy dead father's towers?

Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When reared together there,

Through the old woods like fawns ye flew

Where is thy brother-where?

"Well didst thou love him then, and he

Still at thy side was seen!

How is it that such things can be
As though they ne'er had been?

Evil was this world's breath, which came
Between the good and brave!

Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offered to the grave

"And let them, let them there be poured!
Though all unfelt below-

Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.

Oh! death is mighty to make peace ;
Now bid his work be done!

So many an inward strife shall cease-
Take, take these babes, my son !"

His eye was dimmed-the strong man shook
With feelings long suppressed;

Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strained them to his breast.

And a shout from all in the royal hall

Burst forth to hail the sight;

And eyes were wet midst the brave that met
At the Kaiser's feast that night.

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la soeur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin demander à cette obscure ainie un asyle contre l'injustice des princes. -Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son génie."-Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sighed

The citron's breath went by,

While the red gold of eventide

Burned in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful at her knee
Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song and dancing glee
Hushed as by words of power.

With bright fixed wondering eyes, that gazed

Up to their mother's face,

With brows through parted ringlets raised,

They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread-

Forth from a poet's magic book
The glorious numbers read;

The proud undying lay, which poured
Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted pen and sword,1
The triumph, and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night
By many a gondolier.

Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;

Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glowed,
Young holy hearts were stirred;

And the meek tears of woman flowed

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,

Came sweet, each pause between,

When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turned-a wayworn man,
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,

Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud yet mournful eye.

But drops which would not stay for pride
From that dark eye gushed free,

As pressing his pale brow, he cried,

66

Forgotten! e'en by thee!

"Am I so changed?—and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have played;
This brow hath been all bathed in dew

From wreaths which thou hast made ;
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sunk one vesper strain;

My soul is dim with clouds of care—
Tell me those words again!

"Life hath been heavy on my head-
I come a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled,

To bleed in stillness here."

She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frame-
She fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother's name.

1 It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, that Tasso,

with his sword and pen, was superior to all men.

Her brother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, the unknown,
That came the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?

He was the bard of gifts divine
To sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the sword and pen!

THE RELEASE OF TASSO.

THERE came a bard to Rome; he brought a lyre
Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant sky,
To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre,

Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high;
For on each chord had fallen the gift of fire,
The living breath of Power and Victory,-
Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest,
Sighed but to flee away and be at rest.

He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth
Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been
Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth,

Wild fairy bowers, and groves of deathless green,
And fields where mail-clad bosoms prove their worth,
When flashing swords light up the stormy scene:
He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame,-
The Child of Visions from a dungeon came.

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep,
With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls—
On the blue waters of the Adrian deep

His numbers had been sung; and in the halls,
Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep,
It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured walls,
Had princes listened to those lofty strains,

While the high soul they burst from pined in chains.

And in the summer gardens, where the spray
Of founts, far glancing from their marble bed,
Rains on the flowering myrtles in its play,

And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that spread
Round the deep golden citrons, o'er his lay
Dark eyes, dark soft Italian eyes, had shed

Warm tears, fast glittering in that sun whose light
Was a forbidden glory to his sight.

Oh! if it be that wizard sign, and spell,
And talisman, had power of old to bind,
In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell,
Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind,