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Of hope betray'd of hearts forsaken

Each lay of lighter feeling slept,
I sang, but, as I sang, I wept.

THE CHARMED CUP.

AND fondly round his neck she clung;
Her long black tresses round him flung, -
Love chains, which would not let him part;
And he could feel her beating heart,
The pulses of her small white hand,
The tears she could no more command,
The lip which trembled, though near his;
The sigh that mingled with her kiss ;-
Yet parted he from that embrace.
He cast one glance upon her face :
His very soul felt sick to see

Its look of utter misery;

Yet turn'd he not; one moment's grief,
One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief,
One thought, half pity, half remorse,
Pass'd o'er him. On he urged his horse;
Hill, ford, and valley spurr'd he by,
And when his castle-gate was nigh,
White foam was on his 'broidered rein,
And cach spur had a blood-red stain.
But soon he enter'd that fair hall:
His laugh was loudest there of all;
And the cup that wont one name to bless,
Was drain'd for its forgetfulness.
The ring, once next his heart, was broken;
The gold chain kept another token.
Where is the curl he used to wear-
The raven tress of silken hair?
The winds have scatter'd it. A braid
Of the first spring day's golden shade,
Waves with the dark plumes on his crest.
Fresh colours are upon his breast:
The slight blue scarf, of simplest fold,
Is changed for one of woven gold.
And he is by a maiden's side,
Whose gems of price, and robes of pride,
Would suit the daughter of a king;
And diamonds are glistening
Upon her arm. There's not one curl
Unfasten'd by a loop of pearl.
And he is whispering in her ear
Soft words that ladies love to hear.

Alas! the tale is quickly told-
His love hath felt the curse of gold!
And he is bartering his heart
For that in which it hath no part.
There's many an ill that clings to love;
But this is one all else above ;-
For love to bow before the name

Of this world's treasure: shame! oh, shame!
Love, be thy wings as light as those

That waft the zephyr from the rose,

This may be pardon'd-something rare
In loveliness has been thy snare!
But how, fair love, canst thou become
A thing of mines a sordid gnome?

And she whom JULIAN left-she stood
A cold white statue; as the blood
Had, when in vain her last wild prayer,
Flown to her heart, and frozen there.
Upon her temple, each dark vein
Swell'd in its agony of pain.

Chill, heavy damps were on her brow;
Her arms were stretch'd at length, though now
Their clasp was on the empty air:
A funeral pall-her long black hair
Fell over her; herself the tomb

Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom.

Alas! that man should ever win

So sweet a shrine to shame and sin As woman's heart!-and deeper wo For her fond weakness, not to know That yielding all but breaks the chain That never reunites again!

It was a dark and tempest nightNo pleasant moon, no blest starlight; But meteors glancing o'er the way, Only to dazzle and betray. And who is she that, 'mid the storm, Wraps her slight mantle round her form? Her hair is wet with rain and sleet, And blood is on her small snow feet. She has been forced a way to make Through prickly weed and thorned brake, Up rousing from its coil the snake; And stirring from their damp abode The slimy worm and loathsome toad: And shudder'd as she heard the gale Shriek like an evil spirit's wail; When follow'd, like a curse, the crash Of the pines in the lightning flash :A place of evil and of fear

Oh! what can JULIAN'S love do here?

On, on the pale girl went. At last
The gloomy forest depths are past,
And she has reach'd the wizard's den,
Accursed by God and shunn'd by men.
And never had a ban been laid
Upon a more unwholesome shade.
There grew dank elders, and the yew
Its thick sepulchral shadow threw;
And brooded there each bird most foul,
The gloomy bat and sullen owl.
But IDA entered in the cell,
Where dwelt the wizard of the dell.

Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze
To look upon the shape which rose
To bar her entrance. On that face
Was scarcely left a single trace
Of human likeness: the parch'd skin
Show'd each discolour'd bone within;
And, but for the most evil stare
Of the wild eyes' unearthly glare,
It was a corpse, you would have said,
From which life's freshness long had fled.
Yet IDA knelt her down and pray'd
To that dark sorcerer for his aid.
He heard her prayer with withering look;
Then from unholy herbs he took
A drug, and said it would recover
The lost heart of her faithless lover
She trembled as she turn'd to see
His demon sneer's malignity;
And every step was wing'd with dread,
To hear the curse howl'd as she fled.

It is the purple twilight hour,
And JULIAN is in IDA's bower.

He has brought gold, as gold could bless
His work of utter desolateness!

He has brought gems, as if Despair

Had any pride in being fair!

But IDA only wept, and wreath'd

Her white arms round his neck; then breathed
Those passionate complaints that wring
A woman's heart, yet never bring
Redress. She call'd upon each tree
To witness her lone constancy!
She call'd upon the silent boughs,
The temple of her JULIAN'S vows
Of happiness too dearly bought!
Then wept again. At length she thought
Upon the forest sorcerer's gift-
The last, lone hope that love had left!
She took the cup, and kiss'd the brim,
Mix'd the dark spell, and gave it him
To pledge his once dear IDA's name!
He drank it. Instantly the flame
Ran through his veins: one fiery throb
Of bitter pain-one gasping sob
Of agony-the cold death-sweat
Is on his face-his teeth are set-
His bursting eyes are glazed and still:
The drug has done its work of ill.
Alas! for her who watch'd each breath,
The cup her love had mix'd bore-death.

LORENZO!-when next morning came For the first time I heard thy name! LORENZO!-how each ear-pulse drank

The more than music of that tone!

LORENZO!-how I sigh'd that name,
As breathing it, made it mine own!
I sought the gallery: I was wont
To pass the noontide there, and trace
Some statue's shape of loveliness-
Some saint, some nymph, or muse's face.
There, in my rapture, I could throw
My pencil in its hues aside,
And, as the vision past me, pour

My song of passion, joy, and pride. And he was there, -LORENZO there! How soon the morning past away, With finding beauties in cach thing Neither had seen before that day! Spirit of Love! soon thy rose-plumes wear The weight and the sully of canker and care : Falsehood is round thee; Hope leads thee on, Till every hue from thy pinion is gone. But the bright moment is all thine own, The one ere thy visible presence is known; When, like the wind of the south, thy power, Sunning the heavens, swectening the flower, Is felt but not seen. Thou art sweet and calm As the sleep of a child, as the dew full of balm. Fear has not darken'd thee; Hope has not made The blossoms expand, it but opens to fade. Nothing is known of those wearing fears Which will shadow the light of thy after years. Then art thou bliss :-but once throw by The veil which shrouds thy divinity; Stand confess'd, and thy quiet is fled! Wild flashes of rapture may come instead,

But pain will be with them. What may re

store

The gentle happiness known before?
I own'd not to myself I loved,-

No word of love LORENZO breathed;

But I lived in a magic ring,

Of every pleasant flower wreath'd.

A brighter blue was on the sky,
A sweeter breath in music's sigh;
The orange shrubs all seem'd to bear
Fruit more rich, and buds more fair.
There was a glory on the noon,
A beauty in the crescent moon,
A lulling stillness in the night,
A feeling in the pale starlight.
There was a charmed note on the wind,
A spell in Poetry's deep store-
Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts,
Which I had never mark'd before.
'Twas as my heart's full happiness
Pour'd over all its own excess.

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I went, garb'd as a Hindoo girl;
Upon each arm an amulet,
And by my side a little lute

Of sandal wood with gold beset.
And shall I own that I was proud
To hear, amid the gazing crowd,
A murmur of delight, when first

My mask and veil I threw aside? For well my conscious cheek betray'd Whose eye was gazing on me too! And never yet had praise been dear, As on that evening, to mine ear, LORENZO! I was proud to be

Worshipp'd and flatter'd but for thee!

THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG.

PLAYFUL and wild as the fire-flies' light,
This moment hidden, and next moment bright,
Like the foam on the dark-green sea,
Is the spell that is laid on my lover by me.
Were your sigh as sweet as the sumbal's sigh,
When the wind of the evening is nigh;
Were your smile like that glorious light,
Seen when the stars gem the deep midnight;
Were that sigh and that smile for ever the same-
They were shadows, not fuel, to love's dull'd
flame.

Love once form'd an amulet,

With pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves set.
The pearls were pure as pearls could be,
And white as maiden purity;

The rose had the beauty and breath of soul,
And the rainbow-changes crown'd the whole.
Frown on your lover one little while,
Dearer will be the light of your smile;

Let your blush, laugh, and sigh ever mingle together,

Like the bloom, sun, and clouds of the sweet spring weather.

Love never must sleep in security,
Or most calm and cold will his waking be.

And as that light strain died away, Again I swept the breathing strings: But now the notes I waked were sad As those the pining wood-dove sings.

THE INDIAN BRIDE.

SHE has lighted her lamp, and crown'd it with flowers,

Jasmines, some like silvery spray,
Some like gold in the morning ray;
Fragrant stars, and favourites they,
When Indian girls, on a festival-day,
Braid their dark tresses: and over all weaves
The rosy-bower of lotus leaves-
Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark,
Love's own flowers, and Love's own ark.

She watch'd the sky, the sunset grew dim;
She raised to CAMDEO her evening hymn.
The scent of the night-flowers came on the air;
And then, like a bird escaped from the snare,
She flew to the river-(no moon was bright,
But the stars and the fire-flies gave her their light ;)
She stood beneath the mangoes' shade,

Half delighted and half afraid;

She trimm'd the lamp, and breathed on each bloom,

(Oh, that breath was sweeter than all their perfume!)

Threw spices and oil on the spire of flame,
Call'd thrice on her absent lover's name;
And every pulse throbb'd as she gave
Her little boat to the Ganges' wave.

There are a thousand fanciful things
Link'd round the young heart's imaginings.
In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower
Is gifted then with a spell and a power:
A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign,
From which the maiden can well divine
Passion's whole history. Those only can

Who have loved as young hearts can love so well, How the pulses will beat, and the check will be dyed,

When they have some love-augury tried
Oh, it is not for those whose feelings are cold,
Wither'd by care, or blunted by gold;
Whose brows have darken'd with many years,
To feel again youth's hopes and fears-
What they now might blush to confess,
Yet what made their spring-day's happiness!

ZAIDE watch'd her flower-built vessel glide, Mirror'd beneath on the deep-blue tide; Lovely and lonely, scented and bright, Like Hope's own bark, all bloom and light. There's not one breath of wind on the air, The heavens are cloudless, the waters are fair, No dew is falling: yet wo to that shade! The maiden is weeping-her lamp has decay'd.

Hark to the ring of the cymetar!

Down from the mountains the warriors come: Hark to the thunder-roll of the drum!

The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours; It tells that the soldier returns from afar. Red and white roses link'd in a band,

Like a maiden's blush, or a maiden's hand;

To the startling voice of the trumpet's call !

To the cymbal's clash!-to the atabal!
The banners of crimson float in the sun,
The warfare is ended, the battle is won.
The mother hath taken the child from her breast,
And raised it to look on its father's crest.
The pathway is lined, as the bands pass along,
With maidens, who meet them with flowers and

song.

And ZAIDE hath forgotten in Azım's arms All her so false lamp's falser alarms.

This looks not a bridal, the singers are mute, Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute; Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound, And the robe of her marriage floats white on the

ground.

Oh! where is the lover, the bridegroom? - oh! where?

Look under yon black pall-the bridegroom is there! Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the

same,

And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 'mid flame!

They have raised the death-pyre of sweet-scented wood,

And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood
Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled:-their
song

Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along,
That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love?-
That one pure, wild feeling all others above :
Vow'd to the living, and kept to the tomb !-
The same in its blight as it was in its bloom.
With no tear in her eye, and no change in her
smile

Young ZAIDE had come nigh to the funeral pile. The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their sound;

Silent they stood by that holiest mound.

From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a

breath,

When the maiden stood by the place of death!
One moment was given the last she might spare!
To the mother, who stood in her weeping there.
She took the jewels that shone on her hand;
She took from her dark hair its flowery band,
And scattered them round. At once they raise
The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise.
A prayer is mutter'd, a blessing said,-
Her torch is rais'd!-she is by the dead.
She has fired the pile! At once there came
A mingled rush of smoke and of flame:
The wind swept it off. They saw the bride,-
Laid by her AZIM, side by side.

The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair:
Like a banner of fire they play'd on the air.
The smoke and the flame gather'd round as before,
Then clear'd;-but the bride was seen no more.

I heard the words of praise, but not
The one voice that I paused to hear;
And other sounds to me were like

A tale pour'd in a sleeper's ear.
Where was LORENZO ? - He had stood
Spell-bound; but when I closed the lay,
As if the charm ceased with the song,

He darted hurriedly away. I masqued again, and wander'd on Through many a gay and gorgeous room; What with sweet waters, sweeter flowers, The air was heavy with perfume, The harp was echoing the lute, Soft voices answer'd to the flute, And, like rills in the noontide clear, Beneath the flame-hung gondolier, Shone mirrors peopled with the shades Of stately youths and radiant maids; And on the ear in whispers came Those winged words of soul and flame, Breathed in the dark-eyed beauty's ear By some young love-touch'd cavalier; Or mix'd at times some sound more gay, Of dance, or laugh, or roundelay. O, it is sickness at the heart

To bear in revelry its part,

And yet feel bursting:-not one thing
Which has part in its suffering,-
The laugh as glad, the step as light,
The song as sweet, the glance as bright;
As the laugh, step, and glance, and song,
Did to young happiness belong.

I turn'd me from the crowd, and reach'd
A spot which seem'd unsought by all-
An alcove fill'd with shrubs and flowers,

But lighted by the distant hall,
With one or two fair statues placed,

Like deities of the sweet shrine.
That human art should ever frame

Such shapes so utterly divine!
A deep sigh breathed, I knew the tone;

My cheek blush'd warm, my heart beat high ;One moment more I too was known,

I shrank before LORENZO's eye.

He leant beside a pedestal.

The glorious brow, of Parian stone,

Of the Antinous, by his side,

Was not more noble than his own!

They were alike: he had the same
Thick-clustering curls the Roman wore-

The fix'd and melancholy eye

The smile which pass'd like lightning o'er The curved lip. We did not speak, But the heart breathed upon each cheek, We look'd round with those wandering looks, Which seek some object for their gaze, As if each other's glance was like The too much light of morning's rays.

V

I saw a youth beside me kneel;
I heard my name in music steal;
I felt my hand trembling in his ;-
Another moment, and his kiss
Had burnt upon it; when, like thought,
So swift it past, my hand was thrown
Away, as if in sudden pain.

LORENZO like a dream had flown!
We did not meet again:-he seem'd
To shun each spot where I might be:
And, it was said, another claim'd

The heart-more than the world to me!

I loved him as young Genius loves,

When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman lovesReckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn: Life had no evil destiny

That, with him, I could not have borne! I had been nurst in palaces;

Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
That I should not have thought a home,
In paradise, had he been near!
How sweet it would have been to dwell,
Apart from all, in some green dell
Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers;
And nestling birds to sing the hours!
Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade,
But of the woven branches made;
Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail
The rose hears from the nightingale;
And waked at morning by the call
Of music from a waterfall.

But not alone in dreams like this,
Breathed in the very hope of bliss,
I loved: my love had been the same
In hush'd despair, in open shame.
I would have rather been a slave,
In tears, in bondage, by his side,
Than shared in all, if wanting him,
This world had power to give beside !
My heart was wither'd, and my heart
Had ever been the world to me:
And love had been the first fond dream,
Whose life was in reality.
I had sprung from my solitude

Like a young bird upon the wing
To meet the arrow; so I met

My poison'd shaft of suffering. And as that bird, with drooping crest And broken wing, will seek his nest, But seek in vain; so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought. There was one spell upon my brain, Upon my pencil, on my strain; But one face to my colours came; My chords replied but to one name

LORENZO!-all seem'd vow'd to thee,
To passion, and to misery!
I had no interest in the things

That once had been like life, or light;
No tale was pleasant to mine ear,
No song so sweet, no picture bright.
I was wild with my great distress,
My lone, my utter hopelessness!
I would sit hours by the side
Of some clear rill, and mark it glide,
Bearing my tears along, till night
Came with dark hours; and soft starlight
Watch o'er its shadowy beauty keeping,
Till I grew calm:-then I would take
The lute, which had all day been sleeping

Upon a cypress tree, and wake The echoes of the midnight air With words that love wrung from despair

SONG.

FAREWELL!-we shall not meet again

As we are parting now!

I must my beating heart restrain-
Must veil my burning brow!
O, I must coldly learn to hide
One thought, all else above-
Must call upon my woman's pride
To hide my woman's love!
Check dreams I never may avow;
Be free, be careless, cold as thou!
O! those are tears of bitterness,

Wrung from the breaking heart,
When two, blest in their tenderness,
Must learn to live-apart!

But what are they to that long sigh,
That cold and fix'd despair,
That weight of wasting agony
It must be mine to bear?
Methinks I should not thus repine,
If I had but one vow of thine.
I could forgive inconstancy
To be one moment loved by thee!
With me the hope of life is gone
The sun of joy is set;

One wish my soul still dwells upon-
The wish it could forget.

I would forget that look, that tone,
My heart hath all too dearly known.
But who could ever yet efface
From memory love's enduring trace?
All may revolt, all may complain-
But who is there may break the chain?
Farewell!-I shall not be to thee

More than a passing thought;
But every time and place will be
With thy remembrance fraught!
Farewell! we have not often met-
We may not meet again?

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