Thine eye's last light was mine-The soul that shone
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze-
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown,
Naught of what lived in that long earnest gaze?
Hear, hear, and answer me !

Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife,
Like a faint breeze-oh! from that music flown,
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life,

But once, oh! answer me !

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush,

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep

Spirit! then answer me!

By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet;
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair;
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ;
Answer me, answer me!

The grave is silent:- and the far-off sky,
And the deep midnight-silent all, and lone!
Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,

What voice has Earth? - Hear, pity, speak, mine own!
Answer me, answer me!

IVAN THE CZAR.

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 cheek,
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 honor of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son!

"Well might I know death's hue and mien,

But 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 look
Rise 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 kindred 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 seeem'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,

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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 not
Thou 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 shrank Humbly the conqueror died.

THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.

THERE were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish'd city's halls,

As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls; And the conquerors filled the wine cup high, after years of bright blood shed;

But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wail'd the dead.

He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below,

The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, and a gloom came

o'er his brow:

The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's tone;

But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly

alone.

And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!

But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee? -I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,

And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul.

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My brother! oh! my brother! thou art gone,

and brave,

And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave,