The proud have sought my hand,—the high of birth Have knelt to me, as I were not of earth : But these are nothing, since they fail to move Thy heart, and gain for me thy constant love. This was the die on which I staked my all, And I, alas! have lost, and perish in thy thrall.

V.

"And now, to thee, thou wild and mighty Sea!
Terrific emblem of futurity!

That in thy restless might dost round me roll,
And chafe thyself like my own troubled soul;
Upon whose fickle bosom none can trace,
The pathways of the dead unto their place
Of endless rest; from chilling storms of life,
From my own heart's corroding fires and strife,-
From pangs that have no antidote but death,
I come to seek for peace, thy waves beneath.
Ope now thy breast, and hide for ever there
My fading form-my fondness and despair!"
She said, then drew her snowy vesture close,
And calmly as reclining to repose

At eventide, from that LEUCADIAN height,
Headlong descended to eternal night,

On sea-weed beds to rest in slumbers sweet,

The boundless main her tomb, the waves her winding sheut.

THE FORSAKEN.

IT hath been said-for all who die

There is a tear;

Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh
O'er every bier :-

But in that hour of pain and dread,
Who will draw near

Around my humble couch and shed
One farewell tear?

Who watch life's last departing ray
In deep despair,

And soothe my spirit on its way

With holy prayer?

What mourner round my bier will come In weeds of woe,

And follow me to my long home

Solemn and slow ?

When lying on my clayey bed,

In icy sleep,

Who there by pure affection led
Will come and weep;

By the pale moon implant the rose
Upon my breast,

And bid it cheer my dark repose,
My lowly rest?

Could I but know when I am sleeping
Low in the ground,

One faithful heart would there be keeping
Watch all night round,

As if some gem lay shrined beneath
That sod's cold gloom,

"Twould mitigate the pangs of death,
And light the tomb.

Yes, in that hour if I could feel,
From halls of glee

And Beauty's presence one would steal

In secrecy,

And come and sit and weep by me

In night's deep noon

Oh! I would ask of memory

No other boon.

But ah a lonelier fate is mine,

A deeper woe;

From all I love in youth's sweet time
I soon must go ;

Drawn round me my pale robes of white,

In a dark spot

To sleep through death's long, dreamless night, Lone and forgot.

EMILIE.

A FLORENTINE'S STORY.

Ir was a summer eve in Italy,

Starlight, and the full moon, and soft blue sky, So tranquil, and so pensively serene,

That one might smile or weep 'mid such a scene.
Calmly the Arno lay—the lighted tent

Along its banks gleamed out where myrtles blent
With citrons in a thick luxuriant screen-
Gay groups were seated on the moonlit green,
And music's deep, soul-stirring sounds, and song
Arose, and laughter ringing from the throng,
Where Florence had sent forth her bright array
"Of youthful, gallant, beautiful, and gay."

And there moved one amidst that festival,
Fairer and gentler-lovelier far than all,