Where o'er her father's roof the beach-leaves hung, Let me return !” Oh! never did thine eye PAULINE. To die for what we love!-Oh! there power In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this; It is to live without the vanish'd light That strength is needed. Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno Della vita mortal il fiore e'l verde. Tasso. ALONG the star-lit Seine went music swelling, Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth; VOL. V. 18 And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung, A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught- As her young daughter in the dance went by, With the fleet step of one that yet hath known Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast? Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh? Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking— One moment holds them still in breathless dread; The wild fierce lustre grows-then bursts a cry— Fire! through the hall and round it gathering-fly! And forth they rush-as chased by sword and spear- Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers: While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. And where is she, Pauline?-the hurrying throng Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird alongTill now the threshold of that death is past, And free she stands beneath the starry skies, Calling her child--but no sweet voice replies. "Bertha! where art thou?-Speak, oh! speak, my own!" Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while, The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile; A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death, With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce breath! But oh! thy strength, deep love!-there is no power To stay the mother from that rolling grave, Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave; Back, back she rushes through a host combinedMighty is anguish, with affection twined! And what bold step may follow, 'midst the roar Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise? None!-Courage there stood still-and never more Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes! Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell And died they heart to heart?-Oh! who can tell? Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke And bore the ruins no recording trace Of all that woman's heart had dared and done? And they were all-the tender and the true JUANA. Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state in a magnificent dress, and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time incessantly, waiting for the moment of returning life. It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace-room, And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom, And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red, Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead. Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see, Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free; No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay, Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. |