CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

The living cheek!-Oh! it was not vain,
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain;
She is there at rest in her place of pride,
In death how queen-like-a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed One!-she might not stay
When the crown had fallen from her life away;
She might not linger-a weary thing,

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A dove, with no home for its broken wing,
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,
That know not its own land's melodies.
From the long heart-withering early gone;
She hath lived—she hath loved-her task is done!

THE

CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

Tableau, où l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe: union redoutable de la mort et de la vie!

Madame de Stael.

THERE was music on the midnight;–

From a royal fane it roll'd,

And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,

It hush'd the listener's breath;

For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.

There was hurrying through the midnight

A sound of many feet:

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness,
Along the shadowy street:

And softer, fainter, grew their tread,

As it near'd the minster-gate,

Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state.

Full glow'd the strong red radiance,
In the centre of the nave,
Where the folds of a purple canopy
Swept down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom,

For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,
Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion,
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
'Midst the glare of light alone.
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still-
The drapery on her breast

Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,

So stone-like was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music

Shook e'en the dust below,

When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!
Then died away that haughty sound,
And from the encircling band

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CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand.

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering

Over each martial frame,

As one by one, to touch that hand,
Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair,
Sit on the pale still face?

Death! Death! canst thou be lovely
Unto the eye of Life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?

-It was a strange and fearful sight,

The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,
All gather'd round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,

And white lips rigidly compress'd,
Lest the strong heart should fail:
King Pedro, with a jealous eye,
Watching the homage done,
By the land's flower and chivalry,
To her, his martyr'd one.

But on the face he look'd not,

Which once his star had been;

To every form his glance was turn'd,
Save of the breathless queen:

Though something, won from the grave's embrace,

Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,
It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed:-bear back the Dead
Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,

Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight

A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,

And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train,

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again.

'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above,

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call'd thee strong as death, O Love?

Mightier thou wast and art.

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

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ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

O sanctissima, o purissima!

Dulcis Virgo Maria,
Mater amata, intemerata,

Ora, ora pro nobis!

Sicilian Mariner's Hymn.

In the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea,

And by the star-light gleams,

Mother of Sorrows! lo, I come to thee.

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie

All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move,

In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou know'st the grief, the love,

The fear of woman's soul; to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep-

Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress'd!

There is a wandering bark

Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves;
Oh! let thy soft eye mark

His course;-be with him, Holiest, guide and save!