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Alas! alas! how plague-spot like will sin
Spread over the wrung heart it enters in!
Her brow grew dark :-" Amid thy baubles shine
This ruby cross, but be the bracelet mine."
Around her arm the fatal band is fast,
Away its seller, like a vision, passed.

X.

That night she joined the revel; but not long AMENAIDE was seen amid the throng. No eye beheld her pace her lonely room: Fearing the light, yet trembling in the gloom; The ghastly cheek, as marble cold and white; The wild eye flashing with unholy light; The quivering lip, the forehead's dew-moist pore, The sudden start, the rapid step once more,— As if it would annihilate the time :

But who may paint the solitude of crime?

XI.

That night there was another saddest scene: Halls where mirth, music, festival had been

Were as the house of mourning; crowds stood nigh,
Horror and pity marked in every eye.

Upon a crimson couch-a contrast strange
To those pale features in that ghastly change-
The young, the beautiful, the happy lay,
Life passing in convulsive sobs away.

Still mid her hair the red rose wreath was hung,
Mocking her cheek with the rich die it flung;
The festal robe still sparkled as it flowed;
Still on her neck a few fresh flowers glowed:
The warmth her sandalled foot hath scarcely left,
Light from the dance, though now of motion reft!
The agony is over, and she raised

Her feeble head, and round her faintly gazed:
She saw, she leant upon LEONI's breast,
Murmured his name, and sank as if to rest.
"EDITH, Sweet EDITH, speak to me again!"
Thon fond one-even thou must ask in vain:
Ay, kiss those lips, and fancy they have breath,
Till they chill even thee: they're damp with death.

XII.

The night is over,-night which seemed to be
Endless, O lost AMENAÏDE! to thee:

Yet what has daylight brought ?-a haunting dread.
Hark! the hall echoes to a stranger's tread-
It is the Count AREZZI :-" My fair child,

How now!-thy cheek is wan, thine eyes are wild.
Ah, well the rose is brightening on thy cheek:
I was too hasty with my sudden break
Upon thy solitude; scarce may I tell

The crime and horror which last night befell.
I have no time. The Count LEONI's bride-
You saw her-by some sudden poison died;
And strange suspicions on her husband fall:
There were so many present who recall

He gave her the sherbet :-'twas not all drained;
Part of the venom in the cup remained.
Some say 'twas jealousy :-I'm on my way
To the tribunal that will sit to-day.
-AMENAIDE, dear, thou art very pale:
I would I had not told thee of this tale.-
Ha! 'tis the summons of the council bell,——
I loathe my task,-sweet, hasty farewell."
She strove to speak,-to only wave her hand,—
To rise,-her trembling limbs refused to stand:
She sought her cross, she strove to think a prayer,—
She gasped for breath,-no ruby cross is there;
But full in view the fatal bracelet shone:
"LEONI, this is what my love has done;
I who would willingly have died for thee,
The fiend has triumphed in my misery.
I'll rush before the judges,-is there time?—
But no, I can not bear to own the crime!

And there is naught of proof,-there can be none,—
And then his known love for that happier one;
His noble house,-his brave and stainless naine:-
He must escape his doom,--and I my shame."
Long hours passed by, she stirred not from her place,
A very statue, with that cold set face,

Save that red flushes came at each light sound,
While the wild eyes g.anced fearfully around;
But still she moved not, spoke not,-such distress
Seeks no distraction from its wretchedness.
There rose loud voices in the outer hall:-
She nerves her with despair, she will know af
Her ear, acute with agony, can hear

A name at once so dreaded and so dear :-
"Yes, Lady, he is guilty!"--but no more:-
They raise her senseless from the marble floor.
Long did it last, that stony trance like death;
She roused, but scarce it seemed with mortal breath.
She showed no weakness, rose from off the bed
Distinct, though low and few, the words she said,
She took a scroll and wrote,-the phrase was brief
But a life's sorrow was upon that leaf.

"To Count AREZZI this, with all thy speed;
And here, my page, is gold for present meed.
Now all away,-my spirit is opprest:"
She flung her on the couch as if for rest:
They deemed she slept: at length her maidens cama
To ask her will, to light the lamp's sweet flame>
Where is the countess? why, the couch is bare,-
They search the halls in vain,--she is not there.

XIII.

"Gold, O! take double, so my prayer I win." When hath such offer failed ?-She entered in: Heavily iron chain and barrier fell,

Ere she could reach the prisoner's midnight cell.
They grated on her very heart. At last

She saw LEONI in his misery cast

Abject upon the ground:-not her strange tread Brought aught to make him raise his bowed down head She gazed upon him:-has it come to this,

Her passionate love, her youth's long dream of bliss! She felt her frame convulsed, her pulse grow weak"LEONI, O LEONI! hear me speak."

He started at her voice: "AMENAÏDE!

I did not merit this from thee indeed;

And yet thy name was heavy on my heart:

I pray thee pardon me before we part."

He sought to take her hand; but back she flung
The shrouding mantle that around her clung.
"Ah! start you at my livid lip and brow?
You are familiar with such signs ere now!

O for a few short words! I've owned the whole:
Ere this the Count AREZZI has my scroll.-
The darkness gathers on my failing eye,-
LEONI, let me gaze on thee and die!

O God, unloose this bracelet's fiery clasp!"—

Her spirit passed in that convulsive gasp.

The struggle's o'er,-that wild heart does not beat;

She lies a ghastly corpse before his feet.

XIV.

They show the traveller still a lonely tomb, Hid in the darkness of a cloister's gloom; As scarcely worthy of such holy ground, No other monument is near it found. A figure closely veiled bends o'er the stone, Only the arm with its strange bracelet shownA serpent twining round: beneath are graved A few brief words, that passing pity craved"Pray for the wounded heart, the sinful deed;" And, half effaced, a name-" AMENAÏDE."

LOVE, HOPE, AND BEAUTY. LOVE may be increased by fears, May be fanned with sighs, Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts; But without Hope it dies! As in the far Indian isles

Dies the young cocoa tree, Unless within the pleasant shade Of the parent plant it be: So Love may spring up at first Lighted at Beauty's eyes;But Beauty is not all its life, For without Hope it dies.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

A story from the stars; or rather one
Of starry fable from the olden time,
When young Imagination was as fresh
As the fair world it peopled with itself.
The Poet's spirit does so love to link

Its feelings, thoughts, with nature's loveliness:
And hence the twilight grove, the lonely spring,
The ocean-caves, the distant planets, all

Were filled with radiant creatures; and the heart
Became interpreter, and language made
From its own warm sad sympathies, for those
Of whom the dream was beauty.

mm

He was weary of flinging the feathered reed,
He was weary of curbing his raven steed;
He heard the gay din from the palace hall,
But he was not in mood for the festival.
There was that crimson, the last on the sky,
Blushes that fade in the moon's cold eye;
The sigh of the flowers arose sweet on the air,
For the breath of the twilight was wandering there.
He looked to the west, and the tranquil main
Was branched with many a lifelike vein;
Hues of the rosebud the clouds had cast,
Like a cheek on its mirror in gliding past.
It tempted him forth,-to the lulling gale
Prince CYRIS has opened his silken sail,
And the little boat went over the sea
Like foam, for it was of ivorie,

And carved and shaped like a wreathed shell,
And it was lined with the rose as well;

For the couch was made of those plumes that fling
The one warm teint neath the wood-dove's wing.
O'er the purple sail the golden flowers run,
For it was wrought for a monarch's son;
And as it passed on, the air was filled

With odors, for only waters distilled
From clove, and sandal, and cinnamon,

E'er washed that boat when its task was done :
'Twas left in the care of maidens three,
Lovely they were as maidens should be;
And in the soft airs that around it flew,
Perhaps their own breath left a perfume too.
-There lay Prince CYRIS, and his mood
Made harmony with the solitude.
-O pleasant is it for the heart
To gather up itself apart;

To think its own thoughts, and to be
Free, as none ever yet were free,
When, prisoners to their gilded thrall,
Vain crowd meets crowd in lighted hall;
With frozen feelings, tutored eye,
And smile which is itself a lie.
-O but for lonely hours like these,
Would every finer current freeze;
Those kindlier impulses that glow,

Those clear and diamond streams that flow
Only in crystal, while their birth,
Is all unsoiled with stain of earth.
Ever the lover hath gainsayed
The creed his once religion made,-
That pure, that high, that holy creed,
Without which love is vain indeed;
While that which was a veiled shrine,
Whose faith was only not divine,
Becomes a vague, forgotten dream,-
A thing of scorn-an idle theme.
Denied, degraded, and represt,

Love dies beneath the heartless jest,
O vain! for not with such can be
One trace of his divinity.
Ever from poet's lute hath flown
The sweetness of its early tone,

When from its wild flight it hath bowed.

To seck for homage 'mid the crowd;

Be the one wonder of the night,

As if the soul could be a sight;
As all his burning numbers speak,

Were written upon brow and cheek;
And he forsooth must learn his part,

Must choose his words, and school his heart
To one set mould, and pay again
Flattery with flattery as vain;

Till, mixing with the throng too much,
The cold, the vain, he feels as such;
Then marvels that his silent lute
Beneath that worldly hand is mute.
-Away! these scenes are not for thee:
Go dream beneath some lonely tree;
Away to some far woodland spring,
Dash down thy tinsel crown, and wring
The scented unguents from thine hair
If thou dost hope that crown to share
The laurelled bards immortal wear:
Muse thou o'er leaf and drooping flower,
Wander at evening's haunted hour;
Listen to stockdove's plaining song
Until it bear thy soul along;
Then call upon thy freed lute's strain,
And it will answer thee again.
O mine own song, did I not hold
Such faith as held the bards of old,-
That one eternal hope of fame
Which sanctifies the poet's name,-
I'd break my lyre in high disdain,
And hold my gift of song as vain
As those forced flowers which only bloom
One hot night for a banquet-room.
-But I have wandered from my tale,-
The ivory bark, the purple sail,

That bore Prince CYRIS c'er the sea,-
Content with that slow ebb to be
Danced on the wave. By nightfall shaded,
The red lights from the clouds are faded;
Leaving one palest amber line

To mark the last of day's decline;
And all o'er heaven is that clear blue
The stars so love to wander through.
They're rising from the silent deep,
Like bright eyes opening after sleep.
Young CYRIS watched them till their ray
Grew sad-so far they were away.
He felt so earthly, thus to see
What he might never hope to be.
He thought upon earth's loveliest eyes;
What were they to those shining there?
He thought upon earth's sweetest sighs:
What were they to the lulling air?
"O no, my heart," he mournful sighed,
"To thee is that dear boon denied ;
That wildering dream whose fair deceit
Makes languid earth a temple meet
For light, such light as dwells above,-
I have no faith in thee, false love!
I've knelt at many a beauteous shrine,
And called, but thought them not, divine.
I've dived in many a beating heart,
But searched them only to depart;
For selfish care, or heartless pride,
Were all they ever had to hide.
I'm weary, weary: one by one,
The life charms of my youth are gone.
I had a dream of stirring fame-
It was a promise, and a name,
Thrice glorious, shining from afar,
But nearer earth had touched the star;
With toil and trouble won from many,
Yet trembling on the breath of any.
The bard, the warrior, and the sage,
What win they but one lying page,
Where deeds and words, at hazard thrown,
May be or may not be their own?
And pleasure, lighted halls, red wine,
Bright smiles, gay words, have all been mine
They only left what haunts me now,-
A wasted heart, a weary brow.
Ye distant stars, so calm, so bright,
Would I had portion in your light,
Could read the secrets of your birth,-
Aught, anything but this dull earth!"
-It was not long, ere, still and deep,
Those restless eyes were closed in sleep.
There lay he like a statue gale,
His canopy that silken sail

There lay he as Endymion slept
When Dian came to him, and wept
Beside the sleep she might not break,
Love, thus we sorrow for thy sake.
There lay he :-well might CYRIS Seem
The being of a poet's dream.

Ay, beautiful as a star in the sky,

When the clouds are gloom, and the storm is high,
But still in defiance keeps shining on,

Till the shades are past, and the wind is done.
His hair was gold, like the pheasant's wing,
And curled like the hyacinth flower in spring
And his eye was that blue so clear, so dark,
Like the falcon's when flying his highest mark.
And telling a tale of gallant war,

On his brow was a slight but glorious scar.
His voice had that low and lutelike sound,
Whose echo within the heart is found.
His very faults were those that win
Tor dazzling and ready an entrance in.
Daring, and fiery, wild to range,

Reckless of what might ensue from the change;
Too eager for pleasure to fill up the void,
Till the very impatience their nature destroyed;
Restless, inconstant, he sought to possess,—
The danger was dared, and the charm grew less.
But, O! these were only youth's meteor fires,
The ignis blaze that with youth expires.

No never!-the heart should childlike be trained,
And its wiiful waywardness somewhat enchained.
-Was it the spell of morning dew
That o'er his lips its influence threw,
Clearing those earthly mists away,
That erst like veils before them lay?
Whether fair dream, or actual sight,
It was a vision of delight:

For free to his charmed eyes were given
The spirits of the starry heaven.
It was that hour, when each faint die
Of rose upon the morning's cheek
Warns the bright watchers of the sky
Their other ocean home to seek.
He saw the Archer with his bow,
Guide now his radiant car below;
He saw the shining Serpent fold
Beneath the wave his scales of gold.
But of all the pageants nigh,
Only one fixed CYRIS' eye:
Borne by music on their way,
Every chord a living ray,
Sinking on a songlike breeze,
The lyre of the Pleiades,
With its seven fair sisters bent
O'er their starry instrument;
Each a star upon her brow,
Somewhat dim in daylight's glow,
That clasped the flashing coronet
On their midnight tresses set.
-All were young, all were fair-
But one-O! CYRIS gazed but there.
Each other lip wore sterner mould,—
Fair, but so proud,-bright, but so cold;
And clear pale cheek, and radiant eye,
Wore neither blush, nor smile, nor sigh,
Those sweet signs of humanity.
But o'er CYRENE's cheek the rose.
Like moon-touched water, ebbs

flows;

And eyes that droop like summitowers

Told they could change with shine and showers.
The starry lyre has reached the sea,—

Started young CYRIS to his knee:
Sarely her dark eyes met his own;
But, ah! the lovely dream is flown.
I need not tell how long the day
Passed in its weariness away;
I need not say how CYRIS' sight
Pined for the darkness of the night.
But darkness came, and with it brought
The vision which the watcher sought.
He saw the starry lyre arise-

The seven fair sisters' glittering car-
Till lost amil the distant skies,

Each only look a burning star.
Again, at morning's dewy hour,
He saw them seek their ocean bower;
Again those dark eyes met his own-
Again the lovely dream is flown.
Night after night thus passed; but now
The young Moon wears less vestal brow.
Her silver veil is lined with gold;
Like a crowned queen, she comes to hold
Her empire in the sky alone-

No rival near her midnight throne.
Sometimes he fancied o'er the tide
He saw pale phantoms dimly glide:
The moonbeams fell o'er sea and sky,
No other light met CYRIS' eye.

The night-the moon-he watched in vain,
No starry lyre rose from the main.
-And who were they the lovely seven,
With shape of earth, and home in heaven?
Daughters of King Atlas they—

He of the enchanted sway;

:

He who read the mystic lines
Of the planets' wondrous signs:
He the sovereign of the air-
They were his, these daughters fair
Six were brides, in sky and sea,
To some crowned divinity;
But his youngest, loveliest one,
Was as yet unwooed, unwon.
She's kneeling at her father's side:
What the boon could be denied
To that fair but tear-washed cheek,
That looked so earnest, yet so meek;
To that mouth whose gentle words
Murmur like the wind-lute's chords;
To that soft and pleasing eye
Who is there could suit deny?
Bent the king, with look of care,
O'er the dear one kneeling there;
Bent and kissed his pleading one,-
Ab, that smile! her suit is won.
-It was a little fountain made
A perfect sanctuary of shade;
The pine boughs like a roof, beneath
The tapestry of the acacia wreath.
The air was haunted, sounds, and sighs,
The falling waters' melodies;

The breath of flowers, the faint perfume
Of the green pineleaf's early bloom;
And murmurs from the music hung
Ever the woodland boughs among;
His couch of moss, his pillow flowers,
Dreaming away the histless hours-
Those dreams so vague, those dreams so vain,
Yet iron links in lover's chain-
Prince CYRIS leant: the solitude
Suited such visionary mood;

For love hath delicate delights,-
The silence of the summer nights;
The leaves and buds, whose languid sighs
Seem like the echo of his own;

The wind which like a lute note dies;

The shadow by the branches thrown, Although a sweet uncertain smile Wanders through those boughs the while, As if the young Moon liked to know

Her fountain mirror bright below;

Linking his thoughts with all of these,

For love is full of phantasies.

-Why starts young CYRIS from his dream? 'There is a shadow on the steam,

There is an odor on the air;

What shape of beauty fronts him there!
He knows her by her clear dark eye,
Touched with the light that rules the sky
The star upon her forehead set,
Her wild hair's sparkling coronet;
Her white arms, and her silvery vest,—
The lovely Pleiad stands confest.

-I can not sing as I have sung;

My hearts is changed, my lute unstrung;
Once said I that my early chords

Were vowed to love or sorrow's words:
But love has like an odor past,
Or echo, all too sweet to last:
And sorrow now holds lonely sway
O'er my young heart, and lute, and lay.
Be it for those whose unwaked youth
Believes that hope and love are sooth-
The loved, the happy-let them dream
This meeting by the forest stream.
No more they parted till the night
Called on her starry host for light,
And that bright lyre arose on high
With its fair watchers to their sky.
Then came the wanderings long and lonely,
As if the world held them, them only;
The gathered flower which is to bear
Some gentle secret whispered there;
The seat beneath the forest tree;

The breathless silence, which to love
Is all that eloquence can be;

The looks ten thousand words above;
The fond deep gaze, till the fixed eye
Casts each on each a mingled die;
The interest round each little word,
Though scarcely said, and scarcely heard.
Little love asks of language aid,
For never yet hath vow been made
In that young hour when love is new:
He feels at first so deep, so true,
A promise is a useless token,
When neither dream it can be broken.
Alas! vows are his after sign!-
We prop the tree in its decline-
The ghosts that haunt a parting hour,
With all of grief, and naught of power;
A chain half sundered in the making,-
The plighted vows already breaking.
From such dreams all too soon we wake;
For like the moonlight on the lake,
One passing cloud, one waving bough-
The silver light, what is it now?
Said I not, that young prince was one
Who wearied when the goal was won:
To whom the charm of change was all
That bound his heart in woman's thrall?
And she now lingering at his side,
His bright, his half-immortal bride,
Though she had come with him to die,
Share earthly tear, and earthly sigh;
Left for his sake her glorious sphere,—
What mattered that ?-she now was here.
At first 'twas like a frightful dream:
Why should such terror even seem?
Again-again-it can not be!
Wo for such wasting misery!—
This watching love's o'erclouding sky,
Though still believing it must clear;
This closing of the trusting eye;

The hope that darkens into fear;
The lingering change of doubt and dread;
All in the one dear presence fled.
Till days of anguish passed alone,
Till careless look, and altered tone,
Relieve us from the rack, to know
Our last of fate, our worst of wo.
And she, the guileless, pure, and bright,
Whose nature was her morning's light:
Who deemed of love as it is given
The sunniest element to heaven;
Whose sweet belief in it was caught
Only from what her own heart taught-
Her woman's heart, that dreamy shrine,
Of what itself made half divine,—
CYRENE, when thy shadow came

With thy first step that touched the earth,
It was an omen how the same

Doth sorrow haunt all mortal birth.
Thou hast but left those starry spheres
For woman's destiny of tears.
-They parted as all lovers part,—

She with her wronged and breaking hear;

But he, rejoicing he is free,
Bounds like the captive from his cham,
And wilfully believing she

Hath found her liberty again:
Or if dark thoughts will cross his mind,
They are but clouds before the wind.
-Thou false one, go!—but deep and dread
Be minstrel curse upon thy head!
-Go, be the first in battle line,

Where banners sweep, and falchions shine; Go thou to lighted festival,

Be there the peerless one of all;

Let bright cheeks wear yet brighter rays
If they can catch Prince CYRIS' gaze;
Be thine in all that honored name,
Men hold to emulate is fame;
Yet not the less my curse shall rest,

A serpent coiling in thy breast.
Weariness, like a weed, shall spring
Wherever is thy wandering.

Thy heart a lonely shrine shall be,
Guarded by no divinity.

Thou shalt be lonely, and shalt know

It is thyself has made thee so.

Thou hast been faithless, and shalt dread
Deceit in aught of fondness said.

Go, with the doom thou'st made thine own!
Go, false one! to thy grave-alone.
'Twas the red hue of twilight's hour
That lighted up the forest bower;
Where that sad Pleiad looked her last.
The white wave of his plume is past;
She raised her listening head in vain,
To catch his echoing step again;
Then bowed her face upon her hand,

And once or twice a burning tear
Wandered beyond their white command,
And mingled with the waters clear.
'Tis said that ever from that day
Those waters caught their diamond ray.
The evening shades closed o'er the sky,
The night winds sang their melody:
They seemed to rouse her from the dream
That chained her by that lonely stream.
She came when first the starry lyre
Tinged the green wave with kindling fire;
"Come, sister," sang they, "to thy place."
The Pleiad gazed, then hid her face.
Slowly that lyre rose while they sung,-
Alas! there is one chord unstrung.

It rose, until CYRENE's ear

No longer could its music hear.

She sought the fountain, and flung there
The crown that bound her raven hair;
The starry crown, the sparkles died,
Darkening within its fated tide.
She sinks by that lone wave:-'tis past;
There the lost Pleiad breathed her last.
No mortal hand e'er made her grave;
But one pale rose was seen to wave,
Guarding a sudden growth of flowers,
Not like those sprung in summer hours,
But pale and drooping; each appears
As if their only due were tears.
On that sky lyre a chord is mute:
Haply one echo yet remains,
To linger on the poet's lute,

And tell in his most mournful strains,
-A star hath left its native sky,
To touch our cold earth, and to die;
To warn the young heart how it trust
To mortal vows, whose faith is dust;
To bid the young cheek guard its bloom
From wasting by such early doom;
Warn by the histories linked with all
That ever bowed to passion's thrall;
Warn by all-above-below,

By that lost Pleiad's depth of wo,—
Warn them, Love is of heavenly birth,
But turns to death on touching earth.

253

INEZ.

Alas! that clouds should ever steal

O'er Love's delicious sky;

That ever Love's sweet lip should feel Aught but the gentlest sigh!

Love is a pearl of purest hue,

But stormy waves are round it, And dearly may a woman rue

The hour that first she found it.

THE lips that breathed this song were fair
As those the rose-touched Houries wear,
And dimpled by a smile, whose spell
Not even sighs could quite dispel;
And eyes of that dark azure light
Seen only at the deep midnight:

A cheek, whose crimson hues seemed caught
From the first teint by April brought
To the peach bud; and clouds of curl
Over a brow of blue-veined pearl,
Falling like sunlight, just one shade
Of chestnut on its golden braid.
Is she not all too fair to weep?
Those young eyes should be closed in sleep,
Dreaming those dreams the moonlight brings,
When the dew falls and the nightingale sings;
Dreams of a word, of a look, of a sigh,

Till the cheek burns and the heart beats high.
But INEZ sits and weeps in her bower,
Pale as the gleam on the white orange-flower,
And counting the wearying moments o'er
For his return, who returns no more!

There was a time-a time of bliss,-
When to have met his INEZ' kiss,
To but look in her deep-blue eye,
To breathe the air sweet with her sigh,
Young JUAN would have urged his steed
With the lightning of a lover's speed,—
Ere she should have shed one single tear,
He had courted danger, and smiled at fear;
But he had parted in high disdain,

And sworn to dash from his heart the chain
Of one who, he said, was too light to be
Holy and pure in her constancy.
Alas! that woman, not content

With her peculiar element

Of gentle love, should ever try
The meteor spells of vanity!
Her world should be of love alone,
Of one fond heart and only one.
For heartless flattery, and sighs
And looks false as the rainbow's dies,
Are very worthless. And that morn
Had JUAN from his INEZ borne
All woman's pettiness of scorn;
Had watched for her averted eye
In vain, had seen a rival nigh
And smiled upon: he wildly swore
To look on the false one no more.
Who thus could trifle, thus could break
A fond heart for the triumph's sake.
And yet she loved him,-O! how well,
Let woman's own fond spirit tell.

When the warriors met in their high career,
Went not her heart along with his spear?
The dance scemed sad, and the festival dim,

If her hand was unclaimed by him;

Waked she her lute, if it breathed not his name?
Lay she in dreams, but some thought of him came?
No flowers, no smiles, were on life's dull tide,
When JUAN was not by his INEZ' side.
And yet they parted! Still there clings
An earth-stain to the fairest things;

And love, that most delicious gift
Upon life's shrine of sorrow left,
Has its own share of suffering:
A shade falls from its radiant wing,
A spot steals o'er its sunny brow,
Fades the rose-lip's witching glow.

'Tis well,-for earth were to like heaven,
If length of life to love were given

He has left the land of the chestnut and line
For the cedar and rose of a southern clime,
With a pilgrim's vow and a soldier's brand,
To fight in the wars of the Holy Land.
No colors are placed on his helm beside,

No lady's scarf o'er his neck is tied,

A dark plume alone does young JUAN wear:Look where warriors are thickest, that pluze wil be there.

But what has fame to do with one

Whose light and hope of fame are gone?

O, fame is as the moon above,

Whose sun of light and life is love.
There is more in the smile of one gentle eye
Than the thousand pages of history;

There is more in the spell of one slight gaze,
Than the loudest plaudits the crowd can raise.
Take the gems in glory's coronal,

And one smile of beauty is worth them all.

He was not lonely quite,—a shade,
A dream, a fancy, round him played;
Sometimes low, at the twilight hour,
He heard a voice like that whose power
Was on his heart: it sang a strain

Of those whose love was fond, yet vain:
Sweet like a dream,-yet none might say
Whose was the voice, or whose the lay.
And once, when worn with toil and care,
All that the soldier has to bear,
With none to sooth and none to bless
His hour of sickly loneliness,
When, waked to consciousness again,
The fire gone from his heart and brain,
He could remember some fair thing
Around his pillow hovering;

Of white arms in whose clasp he slept;
Of young blue eyes that o'er him wept;
How, when on the parched lip and brow
Burnt the red fever's hottest glow,
Some one had brought dew of the spring,
With woman's own kind solacing.
And he had heard a voice, whose thrill
Was echoed by his bosom still.
It was not hers-it could but be
A dream, the fever's phantasie.

Deadly has been the fight to-day;
But now the infidels give way,
And cimeter and turbaned band
Scatter before the foeman's hand;
And in the rear, with sword and spur
Follows the Christian conqueror.
And one dark chief rides first of all-
A warrior at his festival-
Chasing his prey, till none are near
To aid the single soldier's spear,
Save one slight boy. Of those who flev
Three turn, the combat to renew;
They fly, but death is on the field-
That page's breast was JUAN's shield.
He bore the boy where, in the shade
Of the green palm, a fountain made
Its pleasant music; tenderly
He laid his head upon his knee,
And from the dented helm unrolled
The blood-stained curls of summer gold
Knew he not then those deep-blue eyes
That lip of rose, and smiles, and sighs 1
His INEZ!-his-could this be her,-
Thus for his sake a wanderer!

He spoke not, moved not, but sate there
A statue in his cold despair,
Watching the lip and cheek decay,
As faded life's last hue away,
While she lay sweet and motionless,
As only faint with happiness.

At length she spoke, in that sweet ton
Women and love have for their own
"This is what I have prayed might be
Has death not sealed my truth to thee!

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