He reck'd no more of glory-grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls

Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute;-meantime the child,
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain,

If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low,
And plaintive-oh! there lie such depths of wo
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze

At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days,

And thus it was with her. A mournful sight

In one so fair-for she indeed was fair

Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,

Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and

prayer,

And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek,
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child's and oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love

To gaze upon

in silence!-but she felt

That love was not for her, tho' hearts would melt Where'er she mov'd, and reverence mutely given

Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on

Heaven

To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn,

With alms before her castle gate she stood, Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'erworn,

And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,

A stranger thro' them broke :

-the orphan maid

With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look

Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook;

And that pale woman, suddenly subdued

By some strong passion in its gushing mood,

Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years

From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-❝ Oh! undefiled! I am thy mother-spurn me not, my child!"

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept

In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,

But never breath'd in human ear the name

Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.

What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,

The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,

Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank-'twas but a moment—yet too much
For that all humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone

She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone,
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, tho' bound with pearls no more—
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,

And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late-
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of Courts, the star of knight and bard,-
How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde!

THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.

O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times.

As You Like It.

FALL'N was the House of Giafar; and its name,

The high romantic name of Barmecide,

A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,

By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath, Sweeping the mighty with their fame away,

Had so pass'd sentence: but man's chainless heart Hides that within its depths, which never yet

Th' oppressor's thought could reach.