And said, "Cesario! look on me: I live

To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive.
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust
As should be Heaven's alone-and Heaven is just!
I bless thee-be at peace!"

But o'er his frame Too fast the strong tide rush'd-the sudden shame, The joy, th' amaze!-he bow'd his head-it fell On the wrong'd bosom which had loved so well; And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there,His last faint breath just waved her floating hair.

MADELINE.

A DOMESTIC TALE.

Who should it be!-Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour,
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?

Joanna Baillie.

"My child, my child, thou leav'st me!-I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance; I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close,
And thy "Good-night" at parting for repose.

1

Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1828.

Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,

And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,

Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France,
Fading to air.-Yet blessings with thee go!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's woe
From thy young heart be far!-And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot,
God shall be with me.-Now farewell, farewell!
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye

That still sought mine:-these moments are gone by,
Thou too must go, my flower!-Yet with thee dwell
The peace of God!-One, one more gaze-farewell!"
This was a mother's parting with her child,

A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smiled,
And woo'd her with a voice of love away
From childhood's home; yet there, with fond delay
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird thro' trellis'd rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song,

Breathing of home: through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd,
And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furl'd
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. -Alas! we trace

The map of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears.
That home was darken'd soon: the summer breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas,
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn!
To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim,
As from the sun shut out on every side
By the close veil of mystery!-Oh! but ill,
When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high

heart

Bears its first blow!-it knows not yet the part Which life will teach-to suffer and be still, And with submissive love to count the flowers Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hours To send no busy dream!-She had not learn'd Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd, In weariness, from life: then came th' unrest, The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps; until at last she lay

On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft,

To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers?-Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was raised?-did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow?
Something was there, that thro' the lingering night
Outwatches patiently the taper's light,

Something that faints not thro' the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness;
Love, true and perfect love!-Whence came that
power,

Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence?-who can ask?-the wild delirium pass'd,
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old!—and had she come,
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home,
To save her child?-Ev'n so-nor yet in vain:
In that young heart a light sprung up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem'd this fair world, though faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
"Sweet mother, gentlest mother! can it be?"
The lorn one cried, "and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore,
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more."

THE

QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

"This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the wil low declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his Queen. It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance—not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life.- -Here the King brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother."— Sherber's Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.

In sweet pride upon that insult keen

She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed. Milman.

Ir stands where northern willows weep,
A temple fair and lone;

Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep,
From cypress-branches thrown;

While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.