"Life hath been heavy on my head, I come a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here." She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept, Shook all her thrilling frame She fell upon his neck and wept, Murmuring her brother's name. Her brother's name !-and who was he, That came, the bitter world to flee, A stranger to his own?- He was the bard of gifts divine To sway the souls of men ; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the sword and pen! 人 ULLA, OR THE ADJURATION. Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars, "THOU'RT gone!--thou'rt slumbering low, With the sounding seas above thee; It is but a restless wo, But a haunting dream to love thee! Thrice the glad swan has sung, To greet the spring-time hours, Since thine oar at parting flung The white spray up in showers. Manfred. There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and round thy home; Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou'rt surely of them-come!" 'Twas Ulla's voice--alone she stood In the Iceland summer night, Far gazing o'er a glassy flood, From a dark rock's beetling height. "I know thou hast thy bed. Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee: The storm sweeps o'er thy head, But the depths are hush'd around thee. What wind shall point the way To the chambers where thou'rt lying? Come to me thence, and say If thou thought'st on me in dying? I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou'rt surely of them-speak!" She listened-'twas the wind's low moan, 'Twas the ripple of the wave, 'Twas the wakening ospray's cry alone, As it started from its cave. "I know each fearful spell Of the ancient Runic lay, Whose mutter'd words compel But I adjure not thee By magic sign or song, My voice shall stir the sea By love, the deep, the strong! By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her sighs, Come to me from the ocean's dead-by the vows we pledg'd-arise!" Again she gaz'd with an eager glance, Wandering and wildly bright; She saw but the sparkling waters dance "By the slow and struggling death By the fierce and withering breath By the heavy dawn which brings Nought lovely to the sight, |