And the drooping fringe of their lashes low,
Half veiled a depth of unfathomed wo.

Stately she stood-though her fragile frame Seemed struck with the blight of some inward flame,

And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, Under the waves of her dark hair worn.

And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze,
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze;
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath,
But a token of fever, at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crowned for her bridal day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land—
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow,
Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low;
But it swelled into deeper power ere long,
As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong.

"They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny

land! of thee!

It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home,

And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their cloudless dome,

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore,

And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no more.

"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who may dream or tell,

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves;

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath.

"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day,

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away!

They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas,

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there ;—it were sleepy breeze; a bliss to die,

ful-sounding sea?

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?-in silence let me die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy pure deep sapphire sky;

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit shall awake,

And through the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake!

That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light,

And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my Sicily!

cily!

"I may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my

country! no!

Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!

My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main,

And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again.

Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet chain-I come air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire,
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom rolled.

but oh! their glorious blue!

Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue!

She had poured out her soul with her song's last

tone;

The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

"Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assiégoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL.

Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss Ihn wieder haben!

Tros lose allmacht,

Die nicht einmal in Gráber ihren arm

Verlängern, eine kleine Ubereilung

Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!

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 jewelled 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

Schiller.

On the pallid face came down,
Which the Lord of nations mutely watched,
In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last of wo 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,
Burdened with agony.

"There is no crimson on thy cheek,

And on thy lip no breath,

I call thee, and dost thou 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!

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.*

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 drooped above. His head was
bowed,

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,
Seemed 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,
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

out

A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief,
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermastered him: but yielding then
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he poured
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 sear leaf's trembling fall!

In the shiver of the tree,

I hear thee, O thou voice!

And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice.

• Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination."

But thou art sent

For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind's low sigh,

And the river sweeping free,

And the green reeds murmuring heavily And the woods—but they hear not thee!

Long have I striven

With my deep foreboding soul,

But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll.
There's a young brow smiling near,

With a bridal white-rose wreath,-
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touched solemnly by death!

Fair art thou Morna!
The sadness of thine eye

Is beautiful as silvery clouds

On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound

Of a sweet and hidden rill,

That makes the dim woods tuneful roundBut soon it must be still!

Silence and dust

On thy sunny lips must lie,

Make not the strength of love thy trust,

A stronger yet is nigh!

No strain of festal flow

That my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes wild and low,
Its ranging tones have died.

Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,

A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees

Through nature's awful heart-
But bright things go with the summer-breeze,
And thou too, must depart!

Yet shall I weep?

I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,

Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,

And the chill of this world's breathGo, all undimmed, in thy glory go! Young and crowned 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!