Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have lingered; flushed her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Even to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe
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 formed for holy love
To gaze upon in silence! But she felt

That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that called 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 through them broke. The orphan maid,
With her sweet voice and proffered hand of aid,
Turned to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers-a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE

By some strong passion in its gushing mood,

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

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From the heart's urn; and with her white lips pressed
The ground they trode; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out-" O undefiled!
I am thy mother. Spurn me not, my child!”

Isaure had prayed for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stained memory, while the happy slept
In the hushed midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,

But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weighed her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the altered guise,
Awhile o'erpowered 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, though bound with pearls no more-
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled,

And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o'er her-called her: 'twas too lateDead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard— How didst thou fall, O bright-haired Ermengarde !

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY

["IT is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, 'Madam,' said he, I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is, not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,' said he emphatically, she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard. "-Percy Anecdotes.]

"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,

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY

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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,

The 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,
Even 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 sere 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.

"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 wreathUnto 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 round

But soon it must be still!

"Silence and dust

On thy sunny lips must lie:

Make not the strength of Love thy trust,