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And the glance is thine which sees

Thro' nature's awful heart

But bright things go with the summer-breeze, And thou too, must depart!

Yet shall I weep?

I know that in thy breast

There swells a fount of song too deep,

Too powerful for thy rest!

And the bitterness I know,

And the chill of this world's breath-

Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!
Young and crown'd bride of death!

Take hence to heaven

Thy holy thoughts and bright,
And soaring hopes, that were not given
For the touch of mortal blight!

Might we follow in thy track,

This parting should not be !

But the spring shall give us violets back,



flower but thee!

There was a burst of tears around the bard:
All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye,
Rais'd to the first faint star above the hills,

And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before.-So Morna heard

The minstrel's prophecy.

And spring return'd,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again,
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,

A young sweet spirit gone.


From the "Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poem.

If there be but one spot upon thy name,

One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice

Whose tones thou shrink'st from-Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head-and die!

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair,

(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,

Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!

Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's ;- -on her brow

Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. --These may be dreams-but how shall woman tell Of woman's shame, and not with tears ?--She fell! That mother left that child!-went hurrying by Its cradle-haply, not without a sigh,

Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-but no! it could not thus have been,
For she went on !-forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,

To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life,

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;

He reck'd no more of glory-grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls
Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute ;-meantime the child,
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew

Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low, And plaintive--oh! there lie such depths of wo

In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears

A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;

But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days,-

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