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Mingled with theirs.-Ev'n thus life's rushing tide Bears back affection from the grave's dark side: Alas! to think of this !-the heart's void place

Filled up so soon!-so like a summer-cloud, All that we lov'd to pass and leave no trace!—

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. Forgotten?-not of all!-the sunny smile Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying

Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle-these things lived

Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow.-Day by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Thro' the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,

And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Thro' storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love-a secret love and lowly,
And the rose image all things fleet and fair,
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season?--Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still,
For years,
those gorgeous coronals renewed,

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even thro' mid-winter, filled the solitude.

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm.

Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!

One spring-morn rose,

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid-Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose

From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid: Who could reveal her story?—That still face

Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace

As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye--
For death was on its lids-fell mournfully.
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimm'd the slight form all wasted, as by care.

Whence came that early blight?-Her kindred's place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;

Yet there her shrine had been !-She grasp'd a wreath

The tomb's last garland!-This was love in death!


An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi toward a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's River.


Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur brisé. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air.

Bride of Messina,

Translated by MADAME DE STAEL.

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.
The Prairie.

Down a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder.-Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,

Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,

A woman stood: upon her Indian brow

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