XXI.

Strange contrast ! mockery of thy visions high!
How sadly were thy cherished dreams reversed!
Those gorgeous scenes attracted not thine eye,
Nor kindled up thy spirit's fire as erst

Thou deem'dst, nor from thy lute in numbers burst,
To charm the world! Oh! couldst thou not control
Thy scorn-" the green-eyed monster" most accurst?
And fix thy steadfast eye upon the goal,

The promised, glorious home of the immortal soul?

XXII.

It was not so! Where roams the dusky Moor,

Where mountains upward through the soft clouds spring, Where ocean breaks in loud unheeded roar,

Thou sat'st, like wounded bird with drooping wing,

To whom such scenes no healing balm could bring;

The poisoned arrow left its rankling smart
Within thy unsuspecting breast-a sting

To which nor tears, nor sighs could aid impart-
A wound without an antidote in woman's heart

XXIII.

Oh! couldst thou bear no more of pain and strife?

A little longer life's rough tempest brave?

Thou who hadst known to bear-whose years were rife

With suffering-could not fame immortal save

Thee from so dark a fate-so lone a grave?

Did that one pang exceed all other woe

So far? To turn aside the blow, did ye not have
The power, O Spirits of the lute! Ah, no!

It crushed love's sweetest lyre, and laid its mistress low.

XXIV.

What was it? what-that stole away her breath

In the lone midnight hour? Some shadowy foe,
Or demon of the clime? What-what-O Death?
Not thou, unsought.-Her malady we know;

It is a common one-a common blow,

But fell, alas! on an uncommon heart,

In which its fatal work is ne'er so slow

As in one that is fortified by art;

Hers wore no shield, love bared it well to such a dart.

XXV.

And wilt thou wake no more? Oh! ne'er again
Wilt thou return to touch the lute's soft strings ?
For ever hushed is that enchanting strain,
Breathing of love unutterable things;

Thy spirit soars upon its radiant wings,

The tie that bound thee to our earth is riven,

And thou hast gone where time no sorrow brings,

To dwell with Angels and the holy Seven,

And in thy Master's praise to sweep the harps of Heaven.

XXVI.

Thy place is vacant by thine own loved hearth,
And where are met the gay and festal throng,
Thy sweet voice rises not with the loud mirth,
Speeding the soft and bright-winged hours along;
Nor floats thy form the sprightly dance among,
As it was wont in happy days gone by,
Ere thy young heart had felt the chill of wrong;
For thy sad doom tears flow from many an eye,
And the world breathes for thee one universal sigh.

XXVII.

On Afric's shore there is a lonely tomb,"
Where sable maidens silent sit and weep,
And o'er it sprinkle flowers of rare perfume,
Where cypresses their shadowy vigil keep,
And mermaids chant their requiem from the deep.
A shattered lyre hangs by, unceasingly

A viewless hand its slackened strings doth sweep,
And Zephyr holds her breath, and bird, and bee,
To catch the lingering spirit's mournful minstrelsy.

XXVIII.

Yes, there beneath the castle wall she lies, 10
Calmly reposing in her sea-girt home,

And gleaming white her monument doth rise,
Greeting the traveller's eye." Oh! ye who roam
Where nations share one general catacomb,
And love o'er consecrated ground to rove,
Go there, and kneel beside that lonely tomb,
And let your spirits drink the streams of love
And mingled sanctity pervading worlds above.

THE DEAD WARRIOR.

HE sleeps upon his sable bier
How calm and still!

No battle-cries his pulses stir-
No war-notes shrill.

An hour ago, that lofty brow

Was flushed with life,

And from those eyes fierce flashed the glow Of noble strife.

Each vein thrilled with the dancing blood

Of courage strong,

Whose faintest signs with fire imbued

His soldier throng.