She spoke again, no words came forth;

She clasp'd his hand, she raised his head,

One wild, loud scream, she sank beside,

As pale, as cold, almost as dead!

By the Ganges raised, for the morning sun
To shed his earliest beams upon,
Is a funeral pile, -around it stand
Priests and the hired mourners' band.
But who is she that so wildly prays
To share the couch and light the blaze?
MANDALLA'S love, while scornful eye
And chilling jeers mock her agony:
An Alma girl! O shame, deep shame,
To Brahma's race and Brahma's name!
Unmark'd, unpitied, she turn'd aside,
For a moment, her bursting tears to hide.
None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire
Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre;
Then like a thought she darted by,
And sprang on the burning pile to die!

"Now thou art mine! away, away
To my own bright star, to my home of day!"
A dear voice sigh'd, as he bore her along
Gently as spring breezes bear the song,
"Thy love and thy faith have won for thee
The breath of immortality.

Maid of earth, MANDALLA is free to call
AZA the queen of his heart and hall!"

ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL.

HYDE-PARK CORNER.

These are familiar things, and yet how few
Think of this misery !-

I LEFT the crowded street and the fresh day,
And enter'd the dark dwelling, where Death was
A daily visitant-where sickness shed

Its weary languor o'er each fever'd couch.
There was a sickly light, whose glimmer show'd
Many a shape of misery: there lay

The victims of disease, writhing with pain;

Proudly and fearlessly:-now he was worn
With many a long day's suffering, and death's
A fearful thing when we must count its steps!
And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams
Of home, of happiness, of quiet years
Spent in the little valley which had been
So long his land of promise? Farewell all
Gentle remembrances and cherish'd hopes!
His race was run, but its goal was the grave.-
I look'd upon another, wasted, pale,
With eyes all heavy in the sleep of death;
Yet she was lovely still, -the cold damps hung
Upon a brow like marble, and her eyes,
Though dim, had yet their beautiful blue tinge.
Neglected as it was, her long fair hair
Was like the plumage of the dove, and spread
Its waving curls like gold upon her pillow;
Her face was a sweet ruin. She had loved,
Trusted, and been betray'd! In other days,
Had but her cheek look'd pale, how tenderly
Fond hearts had watch'dit! They were far away,-
She was a stranger in her loneliness,

And sinking to the grave of that worst ill,

A broken heart. And there was one whose check
Was flush'd with fever-'twas a face that seem'd
Familiar to my memory, 'twas one
Whom I had loved in youth. In days long past,
How many glorious structures we had raised
Upon Hope's sandy basis! Genius gave
To him its golden treasures: he could pour
His own impassion'd soul upon the lyre;
Or, with a painter's skill, create such shapes
Of loveliness, they were more like the hucs
Of the rich evening shadows, than the work
Of human touch. But he was wayward, wild,
And hopes that in his heart's warm summer clime
Flourish'd, were quickly wither'd in the cold
And dull realities of life;
he was
Too proud, too visionary for this world:
And feelings which, like waters unconfined,
Had carried with them freshness and green beauty,
Thrown back upon themselves, spread desolation
On their own banks. He was a sacrifice,
And sank beneath neglect; his glowing thoughts
Were fires that prey'd upon himself. Perhaps,
For he has left some high memorials, Fame
Will pour its sunlight o'er the picture, when
The artist's hand is mouldering in the dust,
And fling the laurel o'er a harp, whose chords

And low faint groans, and breathings short and Are dumb forever. But his eyes he raised

deep,

Each gasp a heartfelt agony, were all

Mutely to mine-he knew my voice again,
And every vision of his boyhood rush'd

That broke the stillness. There was one, whose Over his soul; his lip was deadly pale,
brow
But pride was yet upon its haughty curve;
Dark with hot climates, and gash'd o'er with scars, He raised one hand contemptuously, and seem'd
Told of the toiling march, the battle-rush,
Where sabres flash'd, the red shots flew, and not
One ball or blow but did Destruction's work:
But then his heart was high, and his pulse beat

As he would bid me mark his fallen state,
And that it was unheeded. So he died
Without one struggle, and his brow in death
Wore its pale marble look of cold defiance.

THE DESERTER.

Alas, for the bright promise of our youth!
How soon the golden chords of hope are broken,
How soon we find that dreams we trusted most
Are very shadows?

"Twas a sweet summer morn, the lark had just
Sprung from the clover bower around her nest,
And pour'd her blithe song to the clouds: the sun
Shed his first crimson o'er the dark gray walls
Of the old church, and stain'd the sparkling panes
Of ivy-cover'd windows. The damp grass,
That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves,
Was white with dew, but early steps had been
And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb:
"Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name
That many stopp'd to read a soldier's name-
And two were kneeling by it, one who had
Been weeping; she was widow to the brave
Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling.
From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled,
But beauty still was there, that soften'd grief,
Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt
Too deeply for forgetfulness; her look,
Fraught with high feelings and intelligence,
And such as might beseem the Roman dame
Whose children died for liberty, was made
More soft and touching by the patient smile
Which piety had given the unearthly brow,
Which Guido draws when he would form a saint
Whose hopes are fix'd on Heaven, but who has
yet

Some earthly feelings binding them to life.
Her arm was leant upon a graceful youth,
The hope, the comfort of her widowhood;
He was departing from her, and she led
The youthful soldier to his father's tomb-
As in the visible presence of the dead
She gave her farewell blessing; and her voice
Lost its so tremulous accents as she bade
Her child tread in that father's steps, and told

Such tears as these. The churchyard left, they
pass'd

Down by a hawthorn hedge, where the sweet
May

Had shower'd its white luxuriance, intermix'd
With crimson clusters of the wilding rose,
And link'd with honeysuckle. O'er the path
Many an ancient oak and stately elm
Spread its green canopy. How EDWARD'S eye
Linger'd on each familiar sight, as if
Even to things inanimate he would bid
A last farewell! They reach'd the cottage gate:
His horse stood ready; many, too, were there,
Who came to say good-by, and kindly wish
To the young soldier health and happiness.
It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling
To know we are regretted. "Farewell" said
And oft repeated, one last wild embrace
Given to his pale mother, who stood there,
Her cold hands press'd upon a brow as cold,
In all the bursting heart's full agony-
One last, last kiss, he sprang upon his horse,
And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein.
He is past
out of sight.

The muffled drum is rolling, and the low
Notes of the death-march float upon the wind,
And stately steps are pacing round that square
With slow and measured tread; but every brow
Is darken'd with emotion, and stern eyes,
That look'd unshrinking on the face of death,
When met in battle, are now moist with tears.
The silent ring is form'd, and in the midst
Stands the deserter! Can this be the same,
The young, the gallant EDWARD? and are these
The laurels promised in his early dreams!
Those fetter'd hands, this doom of open shame ?
Alas! for young and passionate spirits! Soon
False lights will dazzle. He had madly join'd
The rebel banner! O 'twas pride to link
His fate with ERIN's patriot few, to fight
For liberty or the grave! But he was now
A prisoner; yet there he stood, as firm

How brave, how honour'd he had been. But As though his feet were not upon the tomb:

With the loud trumpet's war-song, felt these That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down;

dreams

Fade for a moment, and almost renounced

The fields he panted for, since they must cost

That sunbeam shed its glory over one,
Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy;
The next fell over cold and bloody clay.

There is a deep voiced sound from yonder vale, Are straggling thickets of the white flower'd Which ill accords with the sweet music made By the light birds nestling by those green elms; And, a strange contrast to the blossom'd thorns, Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse Is winding through that lane. They told it bore A widow, who died of a broken heart: Her child, her soul's last treasure, he had been Shot for desertion!

And ere they ended he was in their arms!

The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky

The tempest gather'd, and the heavy rain

One wept for him when other eyes were dry,
Treasured his name in silence and in tears,
Till her young heart's impassion'd solitude

Beat on the casement; but they press'd them Was fill'd but with his image. She had soothed

round

The blazing hearth, and sat while RONALD spoke The grave to her was now the goal of hope!
Of the fierce battle; and all answer'd him

With wonder, and with telling how they wept

And watch'd his few last hours but he was gone!

She pass'd, but gently as the rose leaves fall
Scatter'd by the spring gales. Two months had

fled

During his absence, how they number'd o'er

The days for his return. Thrice hallow'd shrine Since RONALD died; they threw the summer

With those who loved me. What a beauty dwelt THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL.
In each accustom'd face! what music hung

On each familiar voice! We circled in

Our meeting ring of happiness. If e'er

This life has bliss, I knew and felt it then!

But there was one RONALD remember'd not
Yet 'twas a creature beautiful as Hope,
With eyes blue as the harebell when the dew
Sparkles upon its azure leaves; a cheek
Fresh as a mountain rose, but delicate
As rainbow colours, and as changeful too.
"The orphan ELLEN, have you then forgot
Your laughing playmate?" RONALD would have
clasp'd

The maiden to his heart, but she shrank back:
A crimson blush and tearful lids belied
Her light tone, as she bade him not forget

So soon his former friends. But the next morn
Were other tears than those sweet ones that

come

Of the full heart's o'erflowings. He was given,
The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers at last;
But he was now so changed, there was no trace
Left of his former self; the glow of health,
Of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek
And faded eye decay sat visible ;-
All felt that he was sinking to the grave.

He wander'd like a ghost around; would lean,
For hours, and watch the river; or would lie
Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds
Singing so cheerfully; and with faint step

Their path had been a troubled one, each step
Had trod 'mid thorns and springs of bitterness;
But they had filed away from the cold world,
And found, in a fair valley, solitude
And happiness in themselves. They oft would rove
Through the dark forests when the golden light
Of evening was upon the oak, or catch
The first wild breath of morning on the hill,
And in the hot noon seek some greenwood shade,
Fill'd with the music of the birds, the leaves,
Or the descending waters' distant song.
And that young maiden hung delightedly
Upon her minstrel lover's words, when he
Breathed some old melancholy verse, or told
Love's ever-varying histories; and her smile
Thank'd him so tenderly, that he forgot
Or thought of but to scorn the flatteries
He was so proud of once. I need not say
How happy his sweet mistress was.-O, all
Know love is woman's happiness!

COME, love! we'll rest us from our wanderings;
The violets are fresh among the moss,
The dew is not yet on their purple leaves,
Warm with the sun's last kiss-sit here, dear

love!

This chestnut be our canopy. Look up
Towards the beautiful heaven; the fair moon
Is shining timidly, like a young queen
Who fears to claim her full authority:
The stars shine in her presence; o'er the sky
A few light clouds are wandering, like the fears
That even happy love must know; the air

Would sometimes try the mountain side. He Is full of perfume and most musical,

loved

To look upon the setting sun, and mark
The twilight's dim approach. He said he was
Most happy that all through his life one wish
Had still been present to his soul-the wish
That he might breathe his native air again;-
That prayer was granted, for he died at home.

Although no other sounds are on the gale
Than the soft falling of the mountain rill,
Or waving of the leaves. "Tis just the time
For legend of romance, and, dearest! now
I have one framed for thee; it is of love,
Most perfect love, and of a faithful heart
That was a sacrifice upon the shrine

1

7

A

Itself had rear'd! I will begin it now,

Like an old tale :-There was a princess once,

More beautiful than spring, when the warm look
Of summer calls the blush upon her cheek,
The matchless ISABEL of PORTUGAL.

She moved in beauty, and where'er she went
Some heart did homage to her loveliness.
But there was one-a youth of lowly birth-
Who worshipp'd her!-I have heard many say
Love lives on hope; they knew not what they
said;

Hope is Love's happiness, but not its life ;-
How many hearts have nourish'd a vain flame
In silence and in secret, though they knew
They fed the scorching fire that would consume
them!

Her secret thoughts: she heard it silently.
It could not be but woman's heart must feel

Such fond and faithful homage! -But some

deem'd

Even such timid worship was not meet
For royalty. They bade the youth depart,
And the king sent him gold; he turn'd away,
And would not look upon the glittering treasure-
And then they banish'd him! He heard them

say

He was an exile with a ghastly smile,
And murmur'd not-but rose and left the city,
He went on silently, until he came
To where a little hill rose, cover'd o'er
With lemon shrubs and golden oranges:
The windows of the palace where she dwelt-
His so loved ISABEL-O'erlook'd the place.
There was some gorgeous fête there, for the light
Stream'd through the lattices, and a far sound
Of lute, and dance, and song, came echoing.
The wanderer hid his face; but from his brow

Young JUAN loved in veriest hopelessness !-
He saw the lady once at matin time,-
Saw her when bent in meek humility
Before the altar; she was then unveil'd,
And JUAN gazed upon the face which was
Thenceforth the world to him! Awhile he look'd His hands fell powerless! Some gather'd round

Upon the white hands clasp'd gracefully;
The rose-bud lips, moving in silent prayer;
The raven hair, that hung as a dark cloud
On the white brow of morning! She arose,
And as she moved, her slender figure waved
Like the light cypress, when the breeze of spring
Wakes music in its boughs. As JUAN knelt
It chanced her eyes met his, and all his soul

And rais'd him from the ground: his eyes were
closed,

His lip and cheek were colourless; they told
His heart was broken!

His princess never knew an earthly love:
She vow'd herself to Heaven, and she died young!
The evening of her death, a strange, sweet sound

Madden'd in that slight glance! She left the Of music came, delicious as a dream :

place;

Yet still her shape seem'd visible, and still

He felt the light through the long eyelash steal
And melt within his heart!

From that time life was one impassion'd dream :
He linger'd on the spot which she had made
So sacred by her presence, and he thought
It happiness to only breathe the air
Her sigh had perfumed-but to press the floor
Her faëry step had hallow'd. He renounced
All projects of ambition, joy'd no more
In pleasures of his age, but like a ghost,
Confined to one peculiar spot, he stray'd
Where first he saw the princess; and the court
Through which she pass'd to matins, now became
To him a home; and either he recall'd
Fondly her every look, or else embalm'd
Her name in wild, sweet song.

His love grew blazed abroad-a poet's love
Is immortality! The heart whose beat
Is echo'd by the lyre, will have its griefs,
Its tenderness, remember'd, when each pulse
Has long been cold and still. Some pitied him,
And others marvell'd, half in mockery;
They little knew what pride love ever has
In self-devotedness. The princess heard
Of her pale lover; but none ever knew

With that her spirit parted from this earth,
Many remember'd that it was the hour
Her humble lover perish'd!

THE BASQUE GIRL AND HENRI
QUATRE.

Love! summer flower, how soon thou art decay'd
Opening amid a paradise of sweets,

Dying with wither'd leaves and canker'd stem!
The very memory of thy happiness
Departed with thy beauty; breath and bloom
Gone, and the trusting heart which thou hadst made
So green, so lovely, for thy dwelling place,
Left but a desolation.

'Twas one of those sweet spots which seem
just made

For lovers' meeting, or for minstrel haunt;
The maiden's blush would look so beautiful
By those white roses, and the poet's dream
Would be so soothing, lull'd by the low notes
The birds sing to the leaves, whose soft reply
Is murmur'd by the wind: the grass beneath