SONG

"Now take the harp, Eulalia mine,
For thy sad song;” and at the sign
Came forth a maiden. She was fair Where do purple bubbles swim,
And young; yet thus can spring-time wear But upon the goblet's brim ?
The traces of far other hour

Drink not deep, howe'er it glow,
Than should be on such gentle flower. Sparkles never lie below.
Her eyes were downcast, as to keep Beautiful the light that flows
Their secret, for they shamed to weep; From the rich leaves of the rose ;
Her cheek was pale, but that was lost, Keep it,- then ask, where hath fled
So often the bright blushes cross'd; Summer's gift of morning-red ?
And seem'd her mouth so sweet the while, Earth's fair are her fleeting things;
As if its nature were to smile;

Heaven, too, lends her angels wings. Her very birthright-hope,- but earth What can charms to pleasure give, Keeps not the promise of its birth.

Such as being fugitive? ’T was whisper'd that young maiden's breast Thus with love: oh! never try Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest; Further than a blush or sigh; Love had been there,-in that is said Blush gone with the clouds that share it, All that of doom the heart can dread. Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it. Oh! born of Beanty, in those isles Which far 'mid Grecian seas arise, They call'd thy mother queen of smiles, But, Love, they only gave thee sighs.

But met she then young Vidal's eye,

His half sad, half reproachful sigh:
She woke the harp: at first her touch

His ISABELLE! and could she be
Seem'd as it sought some lighter strain;
But the heart breathes itself, and such

Votaress of inconstancy?
As suffer deep seek mirth in vain.

As if repentant of her words,
Blushing she bent her o'er the chords;
With fainter tones the harp then rung,
As thus, with bow'd-down head, she suag

SONG.

SONG.

I have belied my woman 's heart,

In my false song's deceiving words;
How could I say love would depart,
As pass the light songs of spring-birds?

Vain, vain love would be
Froth upon a summer-sea.

Farewell, farewell, I 'll dream no more,

'T is misery to be dreaming; Farewell, farewell, and I will be

At least like thee in seeming.
I will go forth to the green vale,

Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling,
Where the leaves and the birds together sing,

And the woodland-fount is welling.
Not there, not there, too much of bloom

Has spring flung o'er each blossom;
The tranquil place too much contrasts

The unrest of my bosom.
I will go to the lighted halls,

Where midnight passes fleetest;
Oh! memory there too much recalls

Of saddest and of sweetest. I'll turn me to the gifted page

Where the bard his soul is flinging;
Too well it echoes mine own heart,

Breaking e'en while singing.
I must have rest; oh! heart of mine,

When wilt thou lose thy sorrow?
Never, till in the quiet grave;

Would I slept there to-morrow!

No, love was made to soothe and share

The ills that wait our mortal birth;
No, love was made to teach us where
One trace of Eden haunts our earth.

Born amid the hours of spriog,
Soothing autumn's perishing.

Timid as the tale of woe,

Tender as the wood-dove's sigh,
Lovely as the flowers below,
Changeless as the stars on high,

Made all chance and change to prove,
And this is a woman's love.

Well changed, fair lady, laughing said Rose-bud-mouth, sunny brow,

A girl beside, whose chesnut-hair Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now Was wreathed with the wild vine-leaves Beside the harp. Careless she hung

spread, Over the chords; her bright hair flung

As if that she some wood-nymph were; A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she: And darker were her brow and cheek, “All too sad are your songs for me;

And richer in their crimson break, Let me try if the strings will breathe Than those of the fair ring beside. For minstrel of the aspen wreath." In sooth, Lolotte had often tried Lightly the answering prelude fell,

The influence of the wind and sun, Thus sang the Lady ISABELLE.

That loved the cheek they dwelt upon

SONG.

Too well, to leave it without trace

Mind, dangerous and glorious gift, They had known such sweet dwelling-place. Too much thy native heaven has left And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won Its nature in thee, for thy light The radiance which the summer-sun To be content with earthly home: Brought to her valleys lone and wild, It hath another, and its sight

W bere she had dwelt. And now half child, Will too much to that other roam,-
Half woman, in the gay excess

And heavenly light and earthly clay
Of all youth's morning-happiness,

But ill bear with alternate sway ;She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers, Till jarring elements create As fresh and as sweet as the forest-bowers The evil which they sought to shun, Where the gladness had passid of her earliest And deeper feel their mortal state,

hours.

In struggling for a higher one. «Now hearken thee, Lady IsabelLE, There is no rest for the proud mind; See if aright I read thy spell,

Conscious of its high powers confined, And the rule of thy charmed sway, to keep Vain dreams 'mid its best hopes arise; Watch over Love's enchanted sleep.

It is itself its sacrifice.
Ah! sad it is, to see the deck
Dismasted, of some noble wreck;
And sad to see the marble-stone

Defaced, and with gray moss o’ergrown; Where, oh! where 's the chain to fling,

And sad to see the broken lute One that will bind Cupid's wing,

For ever to its music mute! One that will have longer power

But what is lute, or fallen tower, Than the April sun or shower?

Or ship sunk in its proudest hour, Form it not of Eastern gold,

To awe and mystery combined All too weighty it to hold;

In their worst shape-the ruin'd mind? Form it neither all of bloom,

To her was trusted that fine power Never does Love find a tomb

Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour; Sudden, soon, as when he meets

The human heart gave up its keys Death amid unchanging sweets :

To her, who ruled its sympathies But if you would fling a chain,

In song whose influence was brought And not fling it all in vain,

From what first in herself had wrought Like a fairy form a spell

Too passionate ; her least emotion Of all that is changeable:

Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean.' Take the purple tints that deck,

Kind, terder, but too sensitive, Meteor-like, the peacock's neck;

None seem'd her equal love to bear; Take the many hues that play

Affection's ties small joys could give, On the rainbow's colour'd way;

Tried but by what she hoped they were. Never let a hope appear

Too much on all her feelings threw Without its companion fear;

The colouring of their own hue; Only smile to sigh, and then

Too much her ardent spirit dream'd Change into a smile again;

Things would be such as she had deem'd. Be to-day as sad, as pale,

She trusted love, albeit her heart As minstrel with his lovelorn tale;

Was ill made for love's happiness; But to-morrow gay as all

She ask'd too much, another's part Life had been one festival.

Was cold beside her own excess. If a woman would secure

She sought for praise; her share of fame, All that makes her reign endure,

It went beyond her wildest claim: And, alas! her reign must be

But ill could her proud spirit bear Ever most in phantasy,

All that befalls the laurel's share;Never let an envious eye

Oh, well they gave the laurel-tree Gaze upon the heart too nigh;

A minstrel's coronal to be! Never let the veil be thrown

Immortal as its changeless hue, Quite aside, as all were known

The deadly poison circles through, Of delight and tenderness,

Its venom makes its life; ah! still In the spirit's last rece88;

Earth's lasting growths are those of ill ;And, one spell all spells above,

And mined was the foundation-stone,
Never let her own her love.

The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown.
Aimless and dark, the wandering mind

Yet had a beauty left behind ;
But from the harp a darker song A touch, a tone, a shade, the more
Is sweeping like the winds along-

To tell of what had passid before.
The night-gale, at that dreamy hour She woke the harp, and backward flung
When spirit and when storm have power;- The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung
Yet sadly sweet: and can this be,

O’er her pale brow and radiant eyes, AMENAIDE, the wreck of thee?

Wild as the light of midnight-skies,

THB SECOND DAY.

When the red meteor rides the cloud,
Telling the storin has burst its shroud:
A passionate hue was on her cheek;
Untranquil colours, such as break
With crimson light the northern sky:
Yet on her wan lip seem'd to lie
A faint sweet smile, as if not yet
It could its early charm forget.
She sang, oh! well the heart might own
The magic of so dear a tone.

Sweet Spirit of delicious Song,
To whom, as of true right, belong
The myriad music-notes that swell
From the poet's breathing shell;
We name thy name, and the heart spring
Up to the li as if with wings,
As if thy very mention brought
Snatches of inspired thought.

SONG.

Is it war? At once are borne

Words like notes of martial horn.
I know my heart is as a grave

Is it love? Comes some sweet tale
Where the cypress watch is keeping Like that of the nightingale.
Over hopes and over thoughts

Is it Nature's lovely face?
In their dark silence sleeping.

Rise lines touch'd with her own grace. Yet not the less know I that heart

Is it some bright garden-scene? Was a goal whence proud steeds started, There, too, hath the minstrel been, Though now it be a ruind shrine

Linking words of charmed power
Whose glory is departed.

With the green leaf and the flower.
For my spirit hath left her earthly home Is it woman's loveliness ?
And found a nobler dwelling,

He hath revell’d to excess,
Where the music of light is that of life, Caught all spells that can beguile

And the starry harps are swelling. In dark eye or rosy smile.
Yet ever at the midnight-hour

Is it deed that hath its claim That spirit within me burneth,

Upon earth's most holy fame,
And joy comes back on his fairy wings, Or those kindly feelings sent
And glory to me returneth.

But for hearth and home content?
Lofty thought, or counsel sage,
Seek them in the poet's page;

Laurel, laud, and love belong
But a shade pass'd over the maiden's face; To thee, thou Spirit sweet of Song.
Some darker image her thoughts retrace;
And so sadly the tones from the harp-strings

swept,

Not in courtly hall to-day ’T was as for very pity they wept. Meets the lady's congress gay.

'T is a bright and summer-sky,

They will bear it company ; A faded flower, a broken gem,

Odours float upon the gale, Are emblems mine :

Comrades suiting minstrel-tale;
The flower hath lost its loveliness

Flowers are spreading, carpet meet
With its sun-shine;

For the beauty's fairy-feet.
The ruby 'stone no more is set

Shame to stay in marble-hall
On lady's brow,

Thus from nature's festival.
Its beauty of unsullied light

Is wanting now.
Like me, no thought of former worth

The garden had one fair resort,
From doom will save;

As if devised for minstrel-court:
They will be flung to earth and air,

An amphitheatre of trees
I to the grave.

Shut from soft cheeks the ruder breeze;
While all around the chesnuts made,
With closing boughs, a pleasant shade,

Where, if a sunbeam wander'd through, The lorn one with her song has pass’d, 'T was like the silver fall of dew; 'T was meet such song should be the last. The middle was an open space

Of softest grass, and those small flowers,
Daisies, whose rose-touch'd leaves retrace

The gold and blush of morning's hours.
Now, gentle Sleep! thy honey-wing,
And roses, with thy poppies bring.
Sweet and soft be thy rest to-night; To-day the Countess had for throne
That, at the call of Morning's light, An ancient trunk with moss o'ergrown;
May crimson cheeks and radiant eyes, And at her feet, as if from air
Lovely as her own, arise.

A purple cloud had fallen there,

Grew thousand violets, whose sighs They sparr’d their steeds, and on they dash’d, Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice;

as sweeps the midnight-wind; And, like a canopy, o'erhead

While their youngest brother stood and wept A Provence-rose luxuriant spread,

that he must stay behind. And its white flowers, pale and meek, Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek.

Come here, my child, the father said, and

wherefore dost thou weep? And ranged in a graceful order round,

The time will come when from the fray A fairy-court upon fairy-ground, Group'd the bright band; and, like a tent, when thou wilt be the first of all amid the

nought shall my favourite keep; Leaves and bloom over all were blent,

hostile spears. -. Flinging bright colours, but changing fast, The boy shook back his raven-hair, and As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd; And in the midst grew a myrtle-tree,

laugh'd amid his tears. There was the minstrel's place to be, And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair, As the hopes and joys of his own heart are. The sun went down, but lance nor shield

reflected back his light;

The moon rose up, but not a sound broke Dark was the brow, and the bearing proud,

on the rest of night. of the bard who first stept forth from the The old man watch'd impatiently, till with crowd;

morn o'er the plain A sınall cloak down from his shoulder hung, There came a sound of horses' feet, there And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung;

came a martial train. Many a lady's casement had known The moonlight-spell of its magic tone: But the fire of youth from his cheek had But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad pass'd,

from plume or helm of gold, And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast; No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the The romance of his earlier time was over,

turban's emerald fold. The warrior had half forgotten the lover; A Moorish herald ; six pale heads hung at And the light grew dark in his radiant eyes,

his saddlebow, As he told his tale of high emprize. Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew

the lines of each fair brow.

TRB

THE YOUNG AVENGER.

“Oh! did they fall by numbers, or did they

basely yield?" SPANISK MINSTREL'S TALB.

Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy

children press'd the field. The warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the They died as NouRREDDI would wish all

foes of his should die; warrior's step is slow,

Small honour does the conquest boast when And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter-snow;

won from those who fly. Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its

last of fame were won; Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as And thus he saith : “This was the sword that he has done.

swept down thy brave band, Find thou one who can draw it forth in all

thy Christian land.' Now take your way, ye Laras bold, and to If from a youth such sorrowing and scathe the battle ride ;

thou hast endured, For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his of Moorish pride :

summers are matured. Your six white steeds stand at the gate; go

forth, and let me see Who will return the first and bring a Mos- The aged chieftain took the sword, in vain lem-head to me.

his hand essay'd To draw it from its scabbard forth, or

poise the heavy blade; Forth they went, six gallant knights, all He flung it to his only child, now sadly mail'd from head to heel;

standing by Is it not death to him who first their fiery i Now weep, for here is cause for tears; alas! strength shall feel?

mine own are dry."

Then answer'd proud the noble boy: "My His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his whit tears last morning came

lips gasp for breath: For weakness of my own right hand; to Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the shed them now were shame:

victory and death. I will not do my brothers' names such deep

and deadly wrong; Brave were they unto death, success can He raised him on his arm: “My page, coe but to God belong.

thou and do my will; Canst thou not see a turban'd band upen

yon distant hill ?

Now strip me of my armour, boy, by yonder And years have fled, that boy bas sprung

river's side, unto a goodly height, And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his Place firm this head upon my breast, and old father's light;

Aling me on the tide." Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,

That river wash'd his natal halls, its waters And shame and grief his backwardness was

bore him on, to that father's heart.

Till the moonlight on the hero in his father's

presence shone.

The old chief to the body drew, his gallant Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until

boy was dead, he rush'd one day,

But his vow of vengeance had been kept. Where mourning o'er his waste of youth

he bore NOURREDDIN's head. the weary chieftain lay. Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore

a beavy brand :
“My father, I can wield his sword; now 'T was sad to gaze on the wan brow
knighthood at thine hand."

Of him who now awoke the lute,
As one last song life must allow,

Then would those tuneful lips be mate. For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my His cheek was worn, what was the care eyelids came,

Had writ such early lesson there? For NOURREDDIN had poison'd all my slumber Was it Love, blighted in its hour with his fame.

Of earliest and truest power I have waited for my vengeance; but now, By worldly chills which ever fling alive or dead,

Their check and damp on young Love's wing; I swear to thee by my brothers' graves Or unrequited, while the heart that thou shalt have his head." Could not from its fond worship part?

Or was it but the wasting woe

Which every human path must know; It was a glorious sight to see, when those Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain, two warriors met:

And seeking not their ark again; The one dark as a thunder-cloud, in strength Or faithless to our utmost trust;

Friends in their very love unjust, and manhood set; The other young and beautiful, with lithe Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard ; and graceful form,

Or fame, that is its own reward But terrible as is the flash that rushes Or has no other, and is worn

Mid through the storm.

envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn? All these ills had that young bard knowl, And they had laid his funeral stone.

Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd, And eye to eye, and hand to hand, in deadly As thus the minstrel sung his last.

strife they stood, And smoked the ground whereon they fought,

hot with their mingled blood; Till droop'd the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and few,

THE ROSE. While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.

THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE.

The Count Gonfali held a feast that night, NOURREDDIN falls, his sever'd head, it is And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous young Lara's prize:

light But dizzily the field of death floats in the Over gold carvings and the purple fall victor's eyes

Of tapestry; and around each stately hall