And thus it was with her.
A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and
prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek,
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child's-and oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love
To gaze upon in silence !—but she felt
That love was not for her, tho' hearts would melt
Where'er she mov'd, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven
To bless the young
Isaure.
One sunny morn,
With alms before her castle gate she stood, Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger thro' them broke :-the orphan maid
With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out--“ Oh! undefiled!
I am thy mother--spurn me not, my child!"
Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breath'd in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank-'twas but a moment--yet too much
For that all humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone,
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, tho' bound with pearls no more—~
Bursting their fillet in sad beauty roll'd,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.
Her child bent o'er her-call'd her--'twas too late--
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of Courts, the star of knight and bard.-
How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde!
THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.
O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.
FALL'N was the House of Giafar; and its name,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath,
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away,
Had so pass'd sentence but man's chainless heart
Hides that within its depths, which never yet
Th' oppressor's thought could reach.
'Twas desolate
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun,
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceas'd;
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii-tales,
Had ceas'd; the guests were gone.
voice Was there the fountain's; thro' those eastern courts, Over the broken marble and the grass,
Its low clear music shedding mournfully.
And still another voice!—an aged man,
Yet with a dark and fervent
eye beneath
His silvery hair, came, day by day, and sate
On a white column's fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom,
Like waters in the waste; and calling up,
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