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Oh! death is mighty to make peace ;

Now bid his work be done!

So many an inward strife shall cease-
Take, take these babes, my son!"

His eye was dimm'd--the strong man shook With feelings long suppress'd;

Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strain'd them to his breast.

And a shout from all in the royal hall

Burst forth to hail the sight;

And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met At the Kaiser's feast that night.



"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la soeur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin demander à cette obscure amie, un asyle contre l'injustice des princes,-Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son génie."-Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd,

The citron's breath went by,

While the red gold of eventide

Burn'd in th' Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close

Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song and dancing glee,

Hush'd as by words of power.

With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd

Up to their mother's face,

With brows thro' parted ringlets rais'd,

They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread--

Forth from a poet's magic book,
The glorious numbers read;

The proud undying lay, which pour'd

Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted pen and sword,*

The triumph-and the tears.

It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear

Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a Gondolier;

Of him she read, who broke the charm

That wrapt the myrtle grove;

Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,

That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,

Young holy hearts were stirr'd;

And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, Came sweet, each pause between ;

When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd--a way-worn man,

In pilgrim-garb stood nigh,

Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,

Of proud yet mournful eye.

But drops which would not stay for pride, From that dark eye gush'd free,

As pressing his pale brow, he cried,

"Forgotten! ev'n by thee!

"Am I so changed ?--and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play'd ;-

This brow hath been all bath'd in dew, From wreaths which thou hast made;

We have knelt down and said one prayer, And sung one vesper-strain ;

My soul is dim with clouds of care

Tell me those words again!

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