Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept
C'er her stain'd memory, when the happy slept,
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days;
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weighed her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish of surprise,

The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her ?-from the weeper's touch
She shrank-'twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all humbled one-its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke
At once in silence.-Heavily and prone

She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold stone,
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more-
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,

And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late!
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate.-
The joy of courts, the star of night and bard-

How didst thou fall, oh! bright-hair'd Ermengarde !

TO THE IVY.

OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.

OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,

In ancient days, the god of wine,

And bid thee at the banquet be,

Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;

Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,

Where kings before his eagles beut,
Entwin'd thee with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;

VOL. II.

7

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,-
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past,
Where through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair-
Thou in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,

Hath naught of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry.

And rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine

To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down,
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass'd and left no trace.
But thou art there—thy foliage bright,
Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave-
Thou that will climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round Grandeur's marble hals;

The vivid hues by painting thrown
Rich o'er the glowing walls;
Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptur'd beauty waving fair,-
These perish all-and what remains?
-Thou, thou alone art there.

'Tis still the same-where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see,

The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to Decay and thee.

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength,

Days pass, thou "Ivy never sere,'

And all is thine at length.

"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky
Wert thou a nursling of the Spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light, e'en now,
Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave,
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,
May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,

Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.
Thy place is void-oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain.

Save that which souls of loftiest birth

Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.
Another leaf ere now hath sprung,

On the green stem which once was thine-
When shall another strain be sung

Like his whose dust hath made that spot u shrine ?

FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

CREATURE of air and light,

Emblem of that which may not fade or die,
Wilt thou uot speed thy flight,

To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky!
What lures thee thus to stay,

With silence and Decay,

Fix'd on the wreck of cold Mortality?

The thoughts once chamber'd there,
Have gather'd up their treasures, and are gone-
Will the dust tell us where

They that have burst the prison-house are flown?
Rise, nursling of the day,

If thou wouldst trace their way—

Earth hath no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanish'd bird

By the forsaken nest and broken shell ?-
Far thence he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous, in the woods to dwell.
Thou of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn!
Thy hope calls heaven-ward from yon ruin'd cell.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."
BYRON

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
-Oh! void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense.
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning-
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.
Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place
Ev'n as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bow'd be our hearts to think of what we are,

When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!

THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain
And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.

'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd,
When Persia came array'd-

So many a voice had there been hush'd,
So many a footstep stay'd.

I slumber'd on the lonely spot,
So sanctifi'd by Death-

I slumber'd-but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams that shadowy hour,
They rose-the chainless dead-
All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by-

Chased to the seas, without his shield
I saw the Persian fly.

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast

Call'd to another fight

From vision's of our glorious past,
Who doth not wake in might?

**