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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
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung

Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!" SCHILLER.

HE sat in silence on the ground,

The old and haughty Czar,

Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war;
He had cast his jewell'd sabre,

That many a field had won,

To the earth beside his youthful dead--
His fair and first-born son.

With a robe of ermine for its bed

Was laid that form of clay,

Where the light a stormy sunset shed
Through the rich tent made way;

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,
From his full bosom broke-
A mournful thing it was to hear

How then the proud man spoke !
The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,

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-
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done-

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
Thus like a flower should fall?

"I will not bear that still cold lookRise up, thou fierce and free!

Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,

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
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart

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,
I look upon thee-dead!

"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;
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate

For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song! 'Tis well thou shouldst depart.

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset's light
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair,
And the wind's whisper in the mountain ash,
Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd,
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch
Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood
Waiting around, in silent earnestness,

Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song-
Many and graceful forms!-yet one alone
Seem'd present to his dream; and she, indeed,
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek,
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes,
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful,
E'en painfully!—a creature to behold

With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth
Too dim without its brightness! Did such fear
O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one,

..

[out

By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought
A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief-
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermaster'd him; but yielding then
To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he pour'd
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang-

"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!

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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:
All wept but one-and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before. So Morna heard
The minstrel's prophecy.

And spring return'd,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again—
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,
A young sweet spirit gone.

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
Whose tones thou shrink'st from-Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head-and die!

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,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life,

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife.
He reck'd no more of glory: grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls
Crept year by year: the minstrel pass'd their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute. Meantime the child {
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days;—
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair;
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light-
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and

prayer,

And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child's-and oh ! the brow above
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love
To gaze upon in silence! But she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on
heaven

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
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her? From the weeper's touch
She shrank-'twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone

She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone,
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no

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,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tigris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath,
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away,
Had so pass'd sentence: but man's chainless heart
Hides that within its depths which never yet
Th' oppressor's thought could reach.

'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,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate
On a white column's fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill,
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom,
Like waters in the waste; and calling up,
By song or high recital of their deeds,
Bright solemn shadows of its vanish'd race
To people their own halls: with these alone,
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
Rear'd in this lordly dwelling, and was now
The ivy of its ruins, unto which

His fading life seem'd bound. Day roll'd on day,
And from that scene the loneliness was fled;
For crowds around the gray-hair'd chronicler
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze
Wanders through forest branches, and is met
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lament,
As through their stricken souls it pass'd, awoke
One echoing murmur. But this might not be
Under a despot's rule, and, summon'd thence,
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne :
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale,
And with his white lips rigidly compress'd;
Till, in submissive tones, he ask'd to speak
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine
forth.

Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye,
And he was changed!—and thus, in rapid words,
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than
death, found way :-

"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!

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