Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less,

To the green memory of thy loveliness,

Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height, In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!

THE VOICE OF SPRING.*

I COME, 1 come ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ;-
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!

* Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.

RECORDS OF WOMAN.

Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But ye!-you are changed since ye met me last!
There is something bright from your features pass'd:
There is that come over your brow and eye,

Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet-
Oh! what have you look'd on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!—and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year!

There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light,
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;

There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky
And had not a sound of mortality!

Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd ?—

Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace-
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!
They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!

But I know of a land where there falls no blight,
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!

Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne,

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!

For me, I depar to a brighter shore,

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more;

I

go where the loved who have left you dwell,

And the flowers are not Death's-fare ye well, farewell!

23

RECORDS OF WOMAN.

ARABELLA STUART.

["THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella. though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," says D'Israeli, "occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. "What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known-that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death, Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers.”—D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affec tion, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

ARABELLA STEWART.

"And is not love in vain,

Torture enough without a living tomb ?”—Byron.
"Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto."-Pindemonte.

I.

Iwas but a dream!-I saw the stag leap free,
Under the boughs where early birds were singing,
I stood o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree,
And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing
Far through a royal forest: then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook
And lillies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance
Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by
Save one-I met the smile of one clear eye,
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there.
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted,
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted,
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath
Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breath
Of hidden forest-flowers.

II.

'Tis past I wake,

A captive, and alone, and far from thee,

My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake,
A quenchless hope of happiness to be;

And feeling still my woman-spirit strong,

In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong

A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love
Shall yet call gentle angels from above,

By its undying fervor, and prevail

Sending a breath, as of the Spring's first gale,

Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face,
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase

The characters of anguish in this trust,

I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,

That I may bring thee back no faded form,
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm,

But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by cummunion, sweet.

VOL. II.-8

85

III.

And thou too art in bonds!-yet droop thou not,
O my beloved-there is one hopeless lot,
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead
There sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful! If thou wert gone

To the grave's boson, with thy radiant brow-
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone
Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now
Seems floating through my soul, where music taken
For ever from this world-oh! thus forsaken,

Could I bear on ?-thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine!
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn,
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return.

IV.

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven-1 wait
The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.
Oh! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate
As a star shoots!-but on the breezy sea
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour!
Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss,
Faint and give way within me, as a flower
Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss?
Yet shall I fear that lot-the perfect rest,
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast,
After long suffering won? So rich a close
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.

V.

Sunset!-I tell each moment-from the skies
The last red splendor floats along my wall,
Like a king's banner!-Now it melts, it dies!
I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call,

Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too soon.
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon

Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream

Of summer-lands afar, where holy love,

Under the vine or in the citron grove,

May breathe from terror.

Now the night grows deep,

And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.

I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell's slow chime!
My heart strikes with it.-Yet again-'tis time!