extinction of the intrusive line. This is finally voured to prevent, ends her tragedy by going effected in the play through a series of horrible quietly home into her hitherto untenanted monucalamities. The son of the count having been ment." stolen in his infancy by a robber, is brought up in his supposed father's profession; falls in love, as unwittingly as Edipus, with his sister; kills his father in a scuffle with the Bow-street officers of Poland; and finally dies in the embrace of his ghostly Ahnfrau, whom he mistakes for Bertha. The old lady, when her penance is completed, by the disasters of her descendants, which, with truly disinterested maternal love, she had vainly endea- I which brings down the punishment. I have taken very considerable liberties with the original plot; first, in making the guilt of the Ancestress supernatural, as believing such most likely to incur supernatural punishment; secondly, in making Jaromir cousin instead of brother, and thus avoiding the most revolting of crimes; and, thirdly, in awarding something of the character of poetical justice, as it is the count's own offence POETICAL PORTRAITS. No. I. O NO, sweet lady, not to thee That set and chilling tone, By which the feelings on themselves So utterly are thrown: For mine has sprung upon my lips, Impatient to express The haunting charm of thy sweet voice And gentlest loveliness. A very fairy queen thou art, Whose only spells are on the heart. The garden it has many a flower, But only one for thee The early graced of Grecian song, If its pearl buds are fair like thee, Thou art not of that wilder race I cannot paint to thee the charm You spoke of lovely Italy, And of its thousand flowers; Your lips had caught the music breath Amid its summer bow'rs. And can it be a form like thine Has braved the stormy Appenine ? I'm standing now with one white rose I've flung that white rose on the stream, How light it breasts the tide ! The clear waves seem as if they love So beautiful a thing; And fondly to the scented leaves The laughing sunbeams cling. No. II. Ан! little do those features wear Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more. Then step and laugh alike are light, For youth to shed those mournful tears That only change for fruit-and ours. Glad being, with thy downcast eyes, No. III. His hand is on the snowy sail, His step is on the prow, And back the cold night-winds have flung The dark curls from his brow; That brow to which his native heaven A something of itself has given. But all too mix'd with earthly stain, Which tells, that though Heaven gave it birth, And here, the earth and heaven seem blent In one discordant element. It wears our nature's nobler part; That spirit which doth spurn The weary bondage of our world, And show what man can earn; Where, led by honourable pride, Hero and sage are deified: Those high imaginings which make Vain are these dreams, and vain these hopes; And yet 'tis these give birth, To each high purpose, generous deed, That sanctifies our earth. He who hath highest aim in view, Must dream at first what he will do. Upon that youthful brow are traced And meaner workings have deform'd His natural noble mind; Those wretched aims which waste the ore For happier use design'd. And petty wishes, idle praise, And hath no earlier vision taught A more exalted creed? Alas! that such a mind should waste Its powers away, to feed The worthlessness of common praise, The dry rot of the mind, By which its temple secretly But fast is undermined. Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere And does but waste away the mind The dew of night falls cold around, Yet can it not allay The fever burning on thy check, That eats thy life away: For thou dost know thy birthright sold For even less than his of old. Thou know'st what thou hast power to be, Thou know'st, too, what thou art; And heavily does discontent Sit rankling at thy heart; And thou dost mask thy grief the while With scornful sneer, and bitter smile. But yet thou art too indolent From such weak bonds to free Thy better self, and urge thy strength To be what thou might'st be; Thou dost repent the past, and blame, And yet thy future is the same. Ay, leave thy rudder to the wave Thy sail upon the wind, Leave them to chance, and they will be Fit likeness of thy mind: Unguided sail, unmaster'd prow, Are only emblems ;- What art thou ? No. IV. His brow is pale with high and passionate thoughts, That come from heaven like lightning, and consume, E'en while they brighten: youth hath lost its hopes: Those sweet and wandering birds, that make its spring So happy with their music, these are gone; He leant beside a casement, and the moon No. V. THY beauty! not a fault is there; No queen of Grecian line E'er braided more luxuriant hair O'er forehead more divine. The light of midnight's starry heaven Is in those radiant eyes; The rose's crimson life has given That cheek its morning dyes. Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face; And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace. And yet I love thee not: thy brow Is but the sculptor's mould: It wants a shade, it wants a glow, It is less fair than cold. Where are thy blushes, where thy tears? Thy cheek has but one rose: No eloquence of hopes and fears Disturbs its bright repose. Thy large dark eyes grow not more dark Alas! thy heart is as the ark Hope, feeling, fancy, fear and love And thou hast lived o'er scenes like these, The terrible, the past, Where hearts must either break or freeze,And thine has done the last. Thou movest amid the heartless throng Where is the colour that once flush'd Where the sweet joyous laugh, that gush'd Where are the tears a word once brought- I knew thee in thine earlier hours, A very summer queen For some young poet's dream:-those flow'rs Are just what thou hast been. Wild flow'rs, all touch'd with rainbow hues, Lighted with sunshine, fill'd with dews, These are the dreams that light my solitude: Records of beauty, that has seem'd to me A thing for worship; thoughts that sprung from flowers; Woman's philosophy; sorrows that flung THE NEGLECTED ONE. AND there is silence in that lonely hall, Save where the waters of the fountain fall, Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes And then the lifeblood follows from the heart; 'Tis more than midnight; all the lamps are gone, Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, Their fragrant oils exhausted, all but one, But which, once spoken, only hath to die. A little silver lamp beside a scroll, Young, very young, the lady was, who now Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul, Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow: In those last words, the bitter and the brief. Not beautiful, save when the eager thought How can they say confiding is relief? In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought: In vain! she loved:-she loved, and from that Which told love's chronicles; a faint hope hour Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower; For the lone dreamings of her twilight made. Save one, that grew the paler for his sake : How often leant in some unnoticed spot, With that bright smile, which makes all others dim, So proud, so sweet,-what part had she in him ? And yet she loved him: who may say, be still, To the fond heart that beats not at our will? stole, A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soulMight she not leave remembrance, like the wreath, Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight breathe; Just one faint tone of music, low and clear, scorn The timid sorrow she so long had borne ! flower: A sweet bird by the casement sat and sang bloom Floated like incense round that joyous room. -They found the maiden: still her face was bow'd, As with some shame that might not be avow'd; They raised the long hair which her face con ceal'd, And she is dead, her secret unreveal'd. A NIGHT IN MAY. A night not sacred to Spring's opening leaves, But one of crowded festival. LIGHT and glad through the rooms the gay music is waking, Where the young and the lovely are gather'd to-night; |