The storm is still'd.

Father in Heaven! Thou, only Thou, canst sound

The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd,
For human line too fearfully profound.

Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child,
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild,
And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be,
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee,
By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd,
The stricken love which hath perchance ador'd
A mortal in Thy place! Now let me strive
With Thy strong arm no more! Forgive, forgive!
Take me to peace!

And peace at last is nigh.

A sign is on my brow, a token sent

Th' o'erwearied dust, from home: no breeze flits by,

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent Of many mysteries.

Hark! the warning tone

Deepens its word is Death. Alone, alone,

And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart,

Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless,

Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness,

Thee, its first love!-oh! tender still, and true! Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw

Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name,

Tho' but a moment.

Now, with fainting frame,

With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
I bless thee! Peace be on thy noble head,
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain
Its might, again to bless thee, and again!
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate
Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate

Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back,
From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track
(After a few kind tears for her whose days
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways

Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send,
Ev'n then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend!
Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love

Hath been to me all gifts of earth above,

Tho' bought with burning tears! It is the sting Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing

In this cold world!

What were it then, if thou,

With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?
Too keen a pang !-Farewell! and yet once more,
Farewell!-the passion of long years I pour

Into that word: thou hear'st not,—but the wo
And fervour of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell-
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet-Farewell!

THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.*

Fear!-I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death?
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom?

I will not live degraded.

Sardanapalus.

COME from the woods with the citron-flowers, Come with your lyres for the festal hours, Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;— They came, and Eudora stood rob'd and crown'd, The bride of the morn, with her train around.

* Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture in the "Painted Biography" there described.

Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews midst the roses there;
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heav'd by her heart thro' its golden zone;
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil;
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue,
Tho' clear as a flower which the light looks through;
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye,

For the aspect of woman at times too high,
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream

Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.

She look'd on the vine at her father's door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own,
As it greenly wav'd by the threshold stone;
She turn'd-and her mother's gaze brought back
Each hue of her childhood's faded track.