"By the slow and struggling death
Of hope that loathed to part,
By the fierce and withering breath

Of despair on youth's high heart-
By the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings
Nought lovely to the sight-

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear

Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, appear!"

Was it her yearning spirit's dream,

Or did a pale form rise,

And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam,
With bright, still, mournful eyes?

"Have the depths heard?—they have!

My voice prevails-thou 'rt there,

Dim from thy watery grave

O thou that wert so fair!

Yet take me to thy rest!

There dwells no fear with love;
Let me slumber on thy breast,

While the billow rolls above!

Where the long lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home,

We will sleep among the ocean's dead-stay for me, stay!-I come!"

There was a sullen plunge below,

A flashing on the main;

And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe, Shut, and grew still again.

TROUBADOUR SONG.

THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam
For the stormy fields of war;
The maid was left in a smiling home
And a sunny land afar

His voice was heard where javelin showers
Pour'd on the steel-clad line;

Her step was 'midst the summer flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stain'd his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of heaven,
Might scarcely fan her breast.

Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by,
And again he cross'd the seas;
But she had died as roses die
That perish with a breeze.

As roses die, when the blast is come
For all things bright and fair-

There was death within the smiling home-
How had death found her there?

TO WORDSWORTH.

THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices;-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladd'ning presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in sunny garden bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music, link'd with household words; While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!-thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie: Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.

A MONARCH'S DEATHBED.

The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.

A MONARCH on his deathbed lay

Did censers waft perfume,

And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,
Through his proud chamber's gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky

A lone tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fallen as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire with spear?.
Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier?

Not so-nor cloven shields nor helms

Had strewn the bloody sod,

Where he, the helpless lord of realms,
Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the glazing eye?

A peasant girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid,

And, shrinking not for woman's dread,
The face of death survey'd.

Alone she sat: from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;

Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood-
Treason its worst had done.
With her long hair she vainly press'd
The wounds, to stanch their tide-
Unknown, on that meek humble breast,
Imperial Albert died!

TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER.

"Umile in tanta gloria."

PETRARCH.

Ir it be sad to speak of treasures gone,

Of sainted genius call'd too soon away, Of light from this world taken, while it shone Yet kindling onward to the perfect dayHow shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee?