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Then answer'd proud the noble boy: "My tears last morning came

For weakness of my own right hand; to shed them now were shame:

I will not do my brothers' names such deep and deadly wrong;

Brave were they unto death, success can but to God belong.

And years have fled, that boy has sprung unto a goodly height,

And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his old father's light;

Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,

And shame and grief his backwardness was to that father's heart.

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'T was sad to gaze on the wan brow
Of him who now awoke the lute,
As one last song life must allow,
Then would those tuneful lips be mute.
His cheek was worn, what was the care
Had writ such early lesson there?
Was it Love, blighted in its hour
Of earliest and truest power
By worldly chills which ever fling
Their check and damp on young Love's wing;
Or unrequited, while the heart
Could not from its fond worship part?
Or was it but the wasting woe
Which every human path must know;
Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain,
And seeking not their ark again;
Or faithless to our utmost trust;
Friends in their very love unjust,
Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard;
Or fame, that is its own reward

Or has no other, and is worn
'Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn?
All these ills had that young bard known,
And they had laid his funeral stone.
Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd,
As thus the minstrel sung his last.

THE ROSE.

THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE.

THE Count GONFALI held a feast that night, And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light

Over gold carvings and the purple fall | Of tapestry; and around each stately hall

Were statues, pale and finely shaped and

fair,

As if all beauty save her life were there; And, like light clouds floating around each

room,

The censers roll'd their volumes of perfume; And scented waters mingled with the breath Of flowers, which died as if they joy'd in death;

And the white vases, white as mountain

snow,

Look'd yet more delicate in the rich glow Of summer-blossoms hanging o'er each side, Like sunset-reddening o'er a silver tide. There was the tulip with its rainbow-globe; And, like the broidery on a silken robe Made for the beauty's festal midnight-hours, The sparkling jessamine shook its silver showers;

Like timid hopes the lily shrank from sight;

The rose leant as it languish'd with delight, Yet, bride-like, drooping in its crimson shame;

And the anemone, whose cheek of flame
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun
In his noon-hour most loved to look upon.

At first the pillar'd halls were still and lone, As if some fairy-palace all unknown To mortal eye or step. This was not long; Waken'd the lutes, and swell'd a burst of song,

And the vast mirrors glitter'd with the crowd Of changing shapes. The young, the fair, the proud,

Came thronging in; and the gay cavalier
Took some fair flower from the fairest near,
And gave it to the dark-eyed beauty's hand,
To mark his partner for the saraband;
And graceful steps pass'd on, whose tender
tread

Was as the rose-leaf in the autumn shed; And witching words, raising on the young cheek

Blushes that had no need of words to speak.
Many were lovely there; but, of that many,
Was one who shone the loveliest of any,
The young OLYMPIA. On her face the dyes
Were yet warm with the dance's exercise,
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung,
And, arrow-like, flash'd light words from
her tongue.
She had more loveliness than beauty: hers
Was that enchantment which the heart
confers;

A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing

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| Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed, As each emotion o'er its surface ranged; And every word had its companion blush, But evanescent as the crimson flush That tints the daybreak; and her step was light

As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night; In truth those snow-feet were too like the wind,

Too slight to leave a single trace behind. She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand Smooth'd back the curls that had escaped the band

Of wreathed red roses,-soft and fitting chain

In bondage such bright prisoners to retain. The other was from the white marble known But by the clasping of its emerald zone: And lighted up her brow, and flash'd her eye, As many that were wandering careless by Caught but a sound, and paused to hear what more

Her lip might utter of its honey-store. She had that sparkling wit which is like light,

Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright;

And a sweet voice, whose words would chain all round,

Although they had no other charm than sound.

And many named her name, and each with praise;

Some with her passionate beauty fill'd their

gaze,

Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke

Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke Of her bewildering smile; meantime, her

own

Seem'd as that it no other love had known Than its sweet loves of nature, music, song, Which as by right to woman's world belong, And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place. Alas! that he should leave his fiery trace! But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,

Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there; For Love brings sorrow: yet you might descry

A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye,
A troubled colour on that varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon;
An unquiet feverishness, a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
What hidden meanings from its change
might break.

One gazed with silent homage, one who caught thought;

Her every breath, and blush, and look, and

One whose step mingled not with the gay crowd

That circled round her as of right allow'd,
But one who stood aloof with that lone pride
Which ever to deep passion is allied.
Half scorning, yet half envying the gay ring
That gather'd round with gentle blandishing,
He stood aloof; and, cold and stern and high,
Looked as he mock'd at their idolatry:
Yet long'd his knee to bend before the shrine
Of the sweet image his heart own'd divine;
While, half in anger that she had not known
What even to himself he would not own.
He knew not how a woman's heart will keep
The mystery of itself, and like the deep
Will shine beneath the sunbeam, flash and
flow

O'er the rich bark that perishes below.
She felt he gazed upon her, and her cheek
Wore added beauty in its crimson break;
And softer smiles were on her lip, like those
The summer-moonlight sheds upon the rose;
And her eye sparkled, like the wine-cup's
brim,

Mantling in light, though it turn'd not to him.

Again the dancers gather'd; from them one
Took gaily her fair hand, and they are gone.
LEONI follow'd not, yet as they pass'd
How Could OLYMPIA's light step be the last?
Yet pass'd she quickly by him, and the haste
From her wreathed hair one fragrant rose
displaced.

LEONI saw it fall; he is alone,
And he may make the fairy-gift his own.
He took the flower, and to his lip 't was
press'd,

One moment, and 't is safe within his breast; But while he linger'd dreaming o'er its bloom,

OLYMPIA'S step again is in the room
With the young cavalier, who urged her

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That rose flung down because that rose was hers!

And at the thought paleness in blushes fled, Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when read?

Oh! better perish, than endure that thought. She started from her couch; when her eye caught

The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took Part in her votary's suffering; the look Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness,

Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess.
OLYMPIA turn'd away, she might not bear
To meet such holy brow, such placid air,
At least not yet; for she must teach her
breast

A lesson of submission, if not rest,
And still each throbbing pulse, ere she might

kneel

And pray for peace she had not sought to feel.

They pass'd and répass'd: he, cold, silently,
As was his wont; but she, with flashing eye,
And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear
More than accustom'd gladness in her air.
Ah! the heart overacts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth Of the young moon, now rising on the night.

She sought the casement, lured by the soft light

The cool breeze kiss'd her, and a jasminespray

Caught in her tresses, as to woo her stay.
And there were sights and sounds that well
might fling

A charmed trance on deepest suffering.
For stood the palace close on the sea-shore;
Not like those northern ones, where breakers
roar,

And rugged rocks and, barren sands are
blent,-

At once both desolate and magnificent;
But there the beach had turf, and trees that
grew

Down to the water-side, and made its blue
Mirror for their dark shapes. Is nought so
fair

But must there come somewhat of shadow there?

Whate'er thou touchest there must be some shade,

Fair earth, such destiny for thee is made.

It was a night to gaze upon the sea,
Marvel, and envy its tranquillity;
It was a night to gaze upon the earth,
And feel mankind were not her favourite
birth;

It was a night to gaze upon the sky,
Pine for its loveliness, and pray to die.
OLYMPIA felt the hour; from her cheek fled
Passion's untranquil rose, she bow'd her head:
For the thick tears like hasty childhood's |
came;
She hid her face, for tears are shed with

shame.

And she was wretched; she, the young, the fair,

The good, the kind, bow'd down in her
despair.

Ay, bitterest of the bitter, this worst pain,-
To know love's offering has been in vain;
Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot,
Its bloom and leaves destroy'd,not so its root.
He loves me not,- no other word or sound
An echo in OLYMPIA's bosom found.
She thought on many a look, and many a
tone,

From which she gather'd hope,-now these
were gone,
Life were too burthensome, save that it led
To death; and peace, at least, was with the

dead.

One pang remain'd: perchance, though un-
confess'd,

Some secret hope yet linger'd in her breast;
But this too was destroy'd. She learn'd next

morn

Sea-winds and waters had LEONI borne
Afar to other lands; and she had now
But only to her hapless fate to bow.

She changed, she faded, she the young,
the gay,

Like the first rose Spring yields to pale decay.
Still her lip wore the sweetness of a smile,
But it forgot its gaiety the while.
Her voice had ever a low gentle tone,
But now 't was tremulous as Sorrow's own ;
Her step fell softer as it were subdued
To suit its motion to her alter'd mood;
As if her every movement, gesture, look,

Her heart had spent its tempest, like the Their bearing from the spirit's sadness took; And yet there was no word which told that

cloud

When summer-rain bursts from its stormy shroud;

Pale, sad, but calm, she turn'd, and bent

the knee,

grief

Prey'd on the heart as blight preys on the leaf.

But meeker tenderness to those around, In meekest prayer, Madonna fair, to thee. A soothing, sharing love, as if she found Where might the maiden's soul, thus crush'd | Her happiness in theirs; more mild, more

and riven,

kind,

Turn from its mortal darkness, but to Heaven? As if a holier rule were on her mind.

It is in vain to say that love is not
The life and colour of a woman's lot.
It is her strength ; for what, like love's caress,
Will guard and guide her own weak tender-
ness?

It is her pride, fleeting and false the while,
To see her master suing for her smile.
Calls it not all her best affections forth,
Pure faith,devotedness,whose fruitless worth
Is all too little felt? Oh! man has power
Of head and hand, heart is a woman's
dower.

Youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, all these
combined,-

Can these be wretched? Mystery of the mind!
Whose happiness is in itself, but still
Has not that happiness at its own will.

I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart.
Is misery so familiar that we bring
Ourselves to view it as a usual thing?
Thus is it; how regardless pass we by
The cheek to paleness worn, the heavy eye!
| We do too little feel each other's pain ;
We do relax too much the social chain
That binds us to cach other; slight the care
There is for grief in which we have no share.

OLYMPIA felt all this; it loosed one more Of her heart's ties, and earth's illusions

wore

The aspect of their truth,- gloomy show,
But what it well befits the soul to know.

It taught the lesson of how vain the toil To build our hopes upon earth's fragile soil. Oh! only those who suffer, those may know How much of piety will spring from woe.

Days, weeks, and months pass'd onwards, and once more

LEONI stood upon his native shore. Slight change there was in him: perchance his brow

Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now; Somewhat of inward grief, too, though repress'd,

Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest;
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all
In which it has no part, or one of gall.
I will say that he loved her, but say not
That his, like hers, was an all-blighted lot;
For ever in man's bosom will man's pride
An equal empire with his love divide.

It was one glorious sunset, lone and mute, Save a young page who sometimes waked his lute

With snatches of sad song; LEONI paced His stately hall, and much might there be traced

What were the workings of its owner's mind.
Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined,
But rudely down the cup was flung, undrain'd,
So hastily, the leaf below was stain'd;
For many an open'd volume lay beside,
As each for solace had in vain been tried:
And now, worn, wearied, with his solitude,
He strode, half sad, half listless in his mood,
Listening the lute or the deep ocean-wave,
When an attendant enter'd in and gave
A packet to his hand. Careless he gazed,
And broke the seal. Why! the red flush
has raised

Its passion to his brow-what! is the name
There written? - from OLYMPIA, then, it

came.

"One word, LEONI, 't is my first and last, And never spoken but that life is past. It is earth's lingering dreaming, that I pine To know these lines will meet one look of thine;

If possible upon thy heart to fling
One gentle memory, one soft thought to cling
To thy more mournful hours; to bid thee take

A pledge too dearly treasured for thy sake,
And one of mine. Ah! this may be forgiven;
"T is the last weakness of the bride of Heaven.
Which I shall be or ere this comes to tell
How much thou hast been loved. Farewell,

farewell!"

He took her gift: well known the pledges there,

A wither'd rose, a tress of silken hair.

|

SUNNY and blue was the minstrel's eye,
Like the lake when noontide is passing by;
And his hair fell down in its golden rings,
As bright and as soft as his own harp-strings,
Yet with somewhat wild upon lip and cheek,
As forth the enthusiast spirit would break
To wander at times through earth and air,
And feed upon all the wonders there.
A changeful prelude his light notes rung,
As remembering all they had ever sung.
Now the deep numbers rolled along,
Like the fiery sweep of a battle-song;
Now sad, yet bold, as those numbers gave
Their last farewell to the victor's grave;
Then was it soft and low, as it brought
The depths of the maiden's lovelorn
thought:-

Harp of Erin! hath song a tone
Not to thy gifted numbers known?—
But the latest touch was light and calm,
As the voice of a hymn, the night-falling
balm;

Holy and sweet, as its music were given
Less from a vision of earth than of heaven.

THE HAUNTED LAKE.

THE IRISH MINSTREL'S LEGEND.

ROSE up the young moon; back she flung
The veil of clouds that o'er her hung:
Thus would fair maiden fling aside
Her bright curls in their golden pride;
On pass'd she through the sky of blue,
Lovelier as she pass'd it grew;
At last her gentle smiles awake
The silence of the azure lake.
Lighted to silver, waves arise,
As conscious of her radiant eyes.
Hark! floats around it music's tone,
Sweeter than mortal ear hath known:
Such, when the sighing night-wind grieves
Amid the rose's ruby leaves,
That too soon his reluctant wing
Conscious the nightingale is nigh,
To his own fair flower bring;
Must rival song and rival sigh
Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand
Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps;
Such is the sound that now to land

From the charmed water sweeps.
The spirit band are on the lake.
Around the snowy foam-wreaths break,
First, a gay train form'd of the hues
Of morning-skies and morning-dews:
As eve's last cloud with them delay'd;
A saffron-light around them play'd
Such tints, when gazing from afar,
The dazed eye sees in midnight-star.
They scatter'd flowers, and the stream
Grew like a garden, each small billow
Shining with the crimson gleam
The young rose flung upon its pillow;

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