To every form his glance was turn'd,

Save of the breathless queen :

Though something, won from the grave's embrace, Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,

It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed:-bear back the dead
Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight—
A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle

In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,

And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,

When they lower'd the dust again.

'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier thou wast and art.

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.

THOU 'rt passing hence, my brother!
O my earliest friend, farewell!
Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice,
In a lonely home to dwell;

And from the hills, and from the hearth,
And from the household tree,

With thee departs the lingering mirth,
The brightness goes with thee.

But thou, my friend, my brother!
Thou 'rt speeding to the shore

Where the dirge-like tone of parting words
Shall smite the soul no more!
And thou wilt see our holy dead,
The lost on earth and main:
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts
Thou wilt be bound again!

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood
That yet his name is heard

On the blue mountains, whence his youth.
Pass'd like a swift, bright bird.

The light of his exulting brow,

The vision of his glee,

Are on me still-Oh! still I trust
That smile again to see.

And tell our fair young sister,
The, rose cut down in spring,
That yet my gushing soul is fill'd
With lays she lov'd to sing.

Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams,
Tender and sadly sweet;—

Tell her my heart within me burns

Once more that gaze to meet.

And tell our white-hair'd father,
That in the paths he trod,
The child he lov'd, the last on earth,
Yet walks and worships God.
Say, that his last fond blessing yet
Rests on my soul like dew,
And by its hallowing might I trust
Once more his face to view.

An tell our gentle mother,
That on her grave I pour
The sorrows of my spirit forth,
As on her breast of yore.
Happy thou art that soon, how soon,
Our good and bright will see!
O brother, brother! may I dwell,
Erelong, with them and thee!

THE RETURN.

"HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? The free, the pure, the kind?"

-So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track,
As they play'd to the mountain-wind.

"Hath thy soul been true to its early love?"

Whisper'd my native streams;

"Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?"

"Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer
Of the child in his parent-halls?"

Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air,
From the old ancestral walls.

"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead,
Whose place of rest is nigh?

With the father's blessing o'er thee shed,
With the mother's trusting eye?"

Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain,
As I answer'd-"O ye shades!

I bring not my childhood's heart again
To the freedom of your glades.

"I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams!

Light after light, in my soul have died

The day-spring's glorious dreams.

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd—

The prayer at my mother's knee;

Darken'd and troubled I come at last,

Home of my boyish glee!

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears,

To soften and atone;

And oh ye scenes of those bless'd years,
They shall make me again your own."

MITFORD.

RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER.

Thou art sad; to-day

Rienzi. Claudia-nay, start not!
I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids,
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied
Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale
As marble; those unseeing eyes were fix'd
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent
As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought—
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought-
Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain.

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice,
Prattling; and that light busy foot astir

In her small housewifery, the blithest bee
That ever wrought in hive.

Cla.

Oh! mine old home!

Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird?

Cla.

Mine own dear home!

Father, I love not this new state; these halls,

Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!

My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown

With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;