indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Années d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL.] "Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss Ihn wieder haben! Trostlose allmacht, Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!" SCHILLER. HE sat in silence on the ground, The old and haughty Czar, Lonely, though princes girt him round, That many a field had won, To the earth beside his youthful dead-- With a robe of ermine for its bed Was laid that form of clay, Where the light a stormy sunset shed And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Which the lord of nations mutely watch'd, In the dust, with his renown. Low tones at last, of woe and fear, How then the proud man spoke ! Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burden'd with agony. "There is no crimson on thy check, And on thy lip no breath; I call thee, and thou dost not speak- For the honour of thy father's name, Look up, look up, my son! "Well might I know death's hue and mienBut on thine aspect, boy! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle, And bravest there of all-· How could I think a warrior's frame "I will not bear that still cold lookRise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook Once more thy kindling eyes! Hath my word lost its power on earth? I say to thee, arise! "Didst thou not know I loved thee well! Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell That seem'd to thee so stern. "Thou wert the first, the first, fair child That in mine arms I press'd: Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast! I rear'd thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, "Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave, And bury my red sword and spear, Chiefs in my first-born's grave! And leave me !-I have conquer'd, I have slain my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer notThou too art mute, my son!" And thus his wild lament was pour'd Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sigh'd; From the searching stars of heaven he shrankHumbly the conqueror died. CAROLAN'S PROPHECY. ["It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, 'Madam,' said he, I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,' said he emphatically, she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard."-Percy Anecdotes.] Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast; For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song! 'Tis well thou shouldst depart. A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song- With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen .. [out By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed "Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sere leaf's trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! Go-all undimm'd in thy glory, go! Young and crown'd bride of death! "Take hence to heaven Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track, This parting should not be ! But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee!" There was a burst of tears around the bard: And spring return'd, THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. FROM THE "PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED POEM. If there be but one spot on thy name, One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice THOU see'st her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o'er check and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, Than might beseem a mother's; on her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. These may be dreams-but how shall woman tell Of woman's shame, and not with tears? She fell! That mother left that child !-went hurrying by Its cradle-haply not without a sigh, Haply one moment o'er its rest serene She hung. But no! it could not thus have been, For she went on!-forsook her home, her hearth, Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. prayer, And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek To bless the young Isaure. One sunny morn With alms before her castle-gate she stood, Midst peasant groups: when, breathless and o'er. worn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid, With her sweet voice and proffer'd hand of aid, Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look Met hers-a gaze that all her spirit shook; And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion, in its gushing mood, Knelt at her fect, and bathed them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years [press'd From the heart's urn; and with her white lips The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-"O undefiled! I am thy mother-spurn me not, my child!" Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone, more Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd, And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o'er her-call'd her: 'twas too lateDead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard-— How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde ! THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. "O good old man! how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world! Thou art not for the fashion of these times." As You LIKE IT. FALLEN was the house of Giafar; and its name, 'Twas desolate Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased; The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice [courts, Was there the fountain's; through those Easterr Over the broken marble and the grass, Its low clear music shedding mournfully. And still another voice! An aged man, His fading life seem'd bound. Day roll'd on day, Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart "And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave, With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave? What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land? I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band! |