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Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
'Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,

'Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver'd to some bosom storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love's unfinish'd vow ;
When like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sank heavily;
Was that drooping but the excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower,
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?

-Who shall tell us?-on thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!

Never to thy lip and cheek

Rush'd again the crimson streak,

Never to thine eye return'd

That which there had beam'd and burn'd!

With the secret none might know,

With thy rapture or thy woe,

With thy marriage-robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair,
Beauty, splendor, hope, and trust,
Into darkness-terror-dust!

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail,
Yet perchance a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering while the stern, sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell;
-"From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;

From love's wane-a death in life
But to watch-a mortal strife

From the secret fevers known

To the burning heart alone,

Thou art fled—afar, away

Where these blights no more have sway

THE ANCESTRAL SONG.

Bright one! oh! there well may be
Comfort 'midst our tears for thee ""

THE ANCESTRAL SONG.

"A long war disturb'd your mind-
Here your perfect peace is sign'd;
Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day,
End your moan, and come away!"

WEBSTER-Duchess of Malfy.

THERE were faint sounds of weeping-fear and gloom And midnight vigil in a stately room

Of Lusignan's old halls :-rich odors there

Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone

Over a gorgeous couch :-there emeralds gleam'd,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine,-Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain.
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly;-for there one lay,
Passing from all earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands,
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press'd them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now-
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow,
Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seem'd removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! her handmaids watch'd around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway'd lamps, made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,

Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear

Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
Sweet, yet profoudly mournful, as the sigh

Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky;

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And thus it seem'd, in that low thrilling tone,
Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own.
Come, come, come!

'd

Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'
For the step that ne'er return'd
Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life-
Now the heavy day is done,

Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!

From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the scal'd heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain,
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!

On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!

We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness!

We have wept, that weep not now-
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose!

Come, come, come!

Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,

Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'tis hush'd, tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever thirst is still'd,

All the air with peace is fill'd,—
Come, come, come!

And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay,
She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away!

THE MAGIC GLASS.

"How lived, how loved, how died they ?"-Byron. THE dead! the glorious dead!--and shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes? Thou ask'st a fearful spell!

THE MAGIC GLASS.

Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?

The deep grave knows it well!

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'Would'st thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass

With triumph's long array?

Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.

“Or would'st thou look upon the lords of song?-
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream.'

"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow'd for evermore!

And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!

"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,

Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd
With peace, if human love hath ever still'd

The yearning human breast."

"Away, fond youth!-An idle quest is thine;
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.

"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,

Their covering turf may bloom ; But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowersNever hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hail'd their tomb."

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!

Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
Records of joy and woe.

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VOL. u.-21

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

"Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse."-Madame de Staël

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!

Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conquerors pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.

*

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,

Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.
Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre ;

Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls-it dies---
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky

Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown'd of Rome !-Oh! art thou not

Happy in that glorious lot ?—

*The trebly hundred triumphs.-Byron.

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