Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth's flower-and she, the living, stood
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled-
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood
Had long since ebb'd-a meeting sad and strange!
-Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing-all her soul to fill
With the loved face once more-the young, fair face,
Midst that rude cavern, touch'd with sculpture's
grace,

By torchlight and by death: until at last
From her deep heart the spirit of the past
Gush'd in low broken tones:-"And there thou
art!

And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part
As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend!
First love, and only one! Is this the end

Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted! Yet thy brow
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek
Smiles-how unchanged!-while I, the worn, and
weak,

And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!-a wither'd leaf,
Sear'd-though for thy sake-by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call'd thee! With the morning light
How have I watch'd for thee !-wept, wander'd,
pray'd,

Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd,

In search of thee !-bound my worn life to one-
One torturing hope! Now let me die! "Tis gone.
Take thy betrothed!" And on his breast she fell,
Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love!—the true, the strong,
Joining in death whom life had parted long!
They had one grave-one lonely bridal-bed,
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed!
His name had ceased-her heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY.

TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!"

SING, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour'd!

Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
Our brethren of the sword!

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices Have mingled with our own;

Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices, Forget not who are gone.

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, On Albuera's plain;

They that beside us cheerily track'd the flying, Far o'er the hills of Spain;

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering
From old Rodrigo's wall,
[ing,
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle tower-
First, first at Victory's call;

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,
In Roncesvalles' dell,
[laving-
With England's blood the southern vineyards
Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,

Let song and wine be pour'd!

Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword!

HAUNTED GROUND.

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever-it may be a sound,

A tone of music, summer eve, or spring,

A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound." BYRON.

YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear not thou-for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, And spirits that dwell where the water plays? Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers, That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells, And learn'd in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book?

Have I not, under these whispering leaves, Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves? Shadows-yet unto which life seem'd bound; And is it not-is it not haunted ground?

Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought; Love, with its passionate visions fraught; Death, breathing stillness and sadness round; And is it not-is it not haunted ground?

Are there no phantoms, but such as come.

By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?

A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!

But I may not linger amidst them here!

Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,

And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.

Away, away!—that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast [past.
The chain by those spirits brought back from the

Doubt it not-smile not-but go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grewWhere thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee, Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged; When from the idols thy heart hath made, Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade.

Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.

THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.

WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF

JOHN HUNTER.

[On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludicrously disenchanted, through the medium of a North American Review, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, whose history (which suggested her little poem, "The Child of the Forests") she had read with unquestioning faith and lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians-by whom he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood

-were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably cal culated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:-"I send you a North American Review, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter-even our own John Dunn--the man of the panther's skin-the adopted of the Kansas-the shooter with the rifleno, with the long bow-is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one's faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself."-Memoir, pp. 95-6.]

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, Where the red Indian lays his father's dust, And, by the rushing of the torrent floods,

To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust? Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, To pour itself upon the wilds again?

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race,

By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe; But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,

With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair, And where art thou?-thine arrows are not there.

They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won

They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is doneThey hear the tales of old-but where art thou? The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, And there a place is fill'd that once was thine.

For thou art mingling with the city's throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,

E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. But will this be? and canst thou here find rest? Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear

From the savannah land, the land of streams? Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may hear?

Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again.

Hear them not! hear them not!-thou canst not find In the far wilderness what once was thine!

Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.

Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, [lies! Far down, and shining through their stillness Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd

Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.— Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play : Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely !-those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,

And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrownBut all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery

crown:

Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!Restore the dead, thou sea!

["The only public mention that I have made of Mrs Hemans," says Mr Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter regarding her, with which we have been favoured by that excellent man and distinguished poet, "was in a series of lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Royal Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of these, having to notice very briefly the Female Poets,' I said, 'Mrs Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out a new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that

sprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.' I gave The Treasures of the Deep' as an example; and, indeed, I know nothing in our language of the kind and the character I mean-comparable with it, either in conception or execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and commanding address:-The Ocean summoned to give an account of all that it has been doing through six thousand years, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which poetry alone, of the purest order, can discover them The last stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole."

We beg to remind the author of "The World before the Flood," and "The Pelican Island," that the lectures to which he alludes have never been published. They were flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal Institution, and before the literary societies of several of the principal provincial towns of England; and could not fail being acceptable to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who has himself written so much and so well, and who, in popularity as a lyrist, has no superior among contemporaries.]

BRING FLOWERS.

BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour'd!
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and

vale:

Their breath floats out on the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath:
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell-
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers,
wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side.
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!