REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

THE darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls
Had long been remember'd with awe and dismay;
For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls,
And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam,
Yet none could the woods of that castle illume;
And the lightning, which flash'd on the neighbouring
stream,

Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!

"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!" Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave; "It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"

And who was the bright star of chivalry then?
Who could be but Reuben, the flow'r of the age?
For Reuben was first in the combat of men,

Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat,For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, It walks o'er the flow'rs of the mountain and lawn,

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ?
Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,
That darkness should cover that castle for ever,
Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell!
Shall my Reuben no more be restor❜d to my eyes?"
"Yes, yes-when a spirit shall toll the great bell
Of the mould'ring abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"

Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise! "
And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain;
And wip'd, while she listen'd, the tears from her eyes,
And hop'd she might yet see her hero again.

That hero could smile at the terrors of death,

When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath, In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.

How strangely the order of destiny falls!

Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray!

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,

There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:
Two days did she wander, and all the long night,
In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,
And heard but the breathings of night in the air;
Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,

And saw but the foam of the white billow there.

And often as midnight its veil would undraw,
As she look'd at the light of the moon in the stream,
She thought 't was his helmet of silver she saw,

As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the beam.
And now the third night was begemming the sky;
Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclin'd,
There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,
When-hark!-'twas the bell that came deep in the
wind!

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade, A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;

She knew 't was her love, though his cheek was decay'd, And his helmet of silver was wash'd by the tide.

Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold ? Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;

'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold, And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavour!

Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught,
And sunk to repose on its bosom for ever!

THE WREATH YOU WOVE.

THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Is fair but oh, how fair,

If Pity's hand had stol'n from Love
One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,

Did gems for dewdrops fall,

One faded leaf where Love had sigh'd

Were sweetly worth them all.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove

Our emblem well may be;

Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love

Must keep its tears for me,

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

Oн, lost, for ever lost-no more
Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempé's distant vale

In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
To bear the mystic chaplets home.*
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
By nature warm'd and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
The breathings of a Deity.

Guide of my heart! still hovering round,
Thy looks, thy words are still my own-
I see thee raising from the ground

Some laurel, by the winds o'erthrown,
And hear thee say, "This humble bough
"Was planted for a doom divine;

• The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempé for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute." Αλλά μην και τῳ κατακομιζοντι παιδι την Τεμπικην δαφνην εις Δελφους παρομαρτει αυλητης.

"And, though it droop in languor now, "Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine! "Thus, in the vale of earthly sense, "Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, "A viewless hand shall cull it thence, "To bloom immortal in the skies!"

All that the young should feel and know,
By thee was taught so sweetly well,
Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,
And all was brightness where they fell!
Fond soother of my infant tear,
Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Is not thy shade still ling'ring here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
Oh yes and, as in former days,

When, meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awak'd their choral lays,
And danc'd around Cassotis' fount;
As then, 't was all thy wish and care,
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,
My foot the lightest o'er the green :
So still, each look and step to mould,
Thy guardian care is round me spread,
Arranging every snowy fold,

And guiding every mazy tread. And, when I lead the hymning choir, Thy spirit still, unseen and free,

Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.

Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave Shall never drop its silv'ry tear

Upon so pure, so blest a grave,

To memory so entirely dear!