Ye left his HEART, when ye took away
The dust in funeral state;
And we dumbly placed in a little urn
That home of all things great.

The banner streamed-the war-shout

rose

Our heroes played their part;
But not a pulse would throb or burn-
Oh! could it be his heart!

I will not think-'tis worse than vain
Upon such thoughts to keep;
Then, Briton, name me not his name—
I cannot choose but weep!

THE PAST

THERE is a silence upon the Ocean, Albeit it swells with a feverish motion; Like to the battle-camp's fearful calm, While the banners are spread, and the warriors arm.

The winds beat not their drum to the

waves,

But sullenly moan in the distant caves;
Talking over, before they rise,
Some of their dark conspiracies.

And so it is in this life of ours,

A calm may be on the present hours,
But the calmest hour of festive glee
May turn the mother of woe to thee.

I will betake me to the Past,
And she shall make my love at last;
I will find my home in her tarrying-
place-

I will gaze all day on her deathly face!

Her form, though awful, is fair to view; The clasp of her hand, though cold, is true;

Her shadowy brow hath no changeful

She shall walk with me, away, away, Where'er the mighty have left their clay;

She shall speak to me in places lone,
With a low and holy tone.

Aye! when I have lit my lamp at night,
She will be present with my sprite;
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!

THE PRAYER

METHOUGHT that I did stand upon a tomb

And all was silent as the dust beneath, While feverish thoughts upon my soul would come,

Losing my words in tears: I thought of death;

And prayed that when my lips gave out the breath,

The friends I loved like life might stay behind:

So, for a little while, my name might eath

Be something dear,-spoken with voices kind,

Heard with remembering looks, from eyes which tears would blind!

I prayed that I might sink unto my rest (O foolish, selfish prayer!) before them all;

So I might look my last on those loved best

So never would my vote repining call, And never would my tears impassioned fall

On one familiar face turning to clay! So would my tune of life be musical, Albeit abrupt-like airs the Spaniards

And every thing of beauty did seem

living

Oh, then, life's pulse was at my heart

reviving;

And then I knew that it was good to bear Dispensed woe, that by the spirit's grieving

It might be weaned from a world so fair!

Thus with submissive words mine heart did close its prayer.

ON A PICTURE OF RIEGO'S WIDOW

PLACED IN AN EXHIBITION

DAUGHTER of Spain ! a passer by

May mark the cheek serenely paleThe dark eyes which dream silently, And the calm lip which gives no wail!

Calm! it bears not a deeper trace

Of feelings it disdained to show; We look upon the Widow's face, And only read the Patriot's woe!

No word, no look, no sigh of thine, Would make his glory seem more dim; Thou wouldst not give to vulgar eyne

The sacred tear which fell for HIM.

Thou wouldst not hold to the world's

view

Thy ruined joys, thy broken heartThe jeering world-it only knew

Of all thine anguish-that thou WERT! While o'er his grave thy steps would go With a firm tread,-stilling thy love,As if the dust would blush below

To feel one faltering foot above.

For Spain, he dared the noble strife-For Spain, he gave his latest breath ;. And he who lived the Patriot's life

Was dragged to die the traitor's death! And the shout of thousands swept around, As he stood the traitor's block beside; But his dying lips gave a free sound—– Let the foe weep!--THY brow had pride!

Yet haply in the midnight air, When none might part thy God and thee,

The lengthened sob, the passionate prayer,

Have spoken thy soul's agony !

But silent else, thou passed away

The plaint unbreathed, the anguish hid

More voiceless than the echoing clay
Which idly knocked thy coffin's lid.
Peace be to thee! while Britons seek
This place, if British souls they bear,
'Twill start the crimson in the cheek
To see Riego's widow THERE!

SONG

WEEP, as if you thought of laughter!
Smile, as tears were coming after !
Marry your pleasures to your woes;
And think life's green well worth its
rose!

No sorrow will your heart betide,
Without a comfort by its side;
The sun may sleep in his sea-bed,
But you have starlight overhead.

Trust not to Joy! the rose of June,
When opened wide, will wither soon;
Italian days without twilight
Will turn them suddenly to night.

Joy, most changeful of all things,
Flits away on rainbow wings;
And when they look the gayest, know,
It is that they are spread to go!

Anon there came a change-a terrible motion,

That made all living things grow pale and shake!

The dark Heavens bowed themselves

unto the ocean,

His flight across the mountains; and the lake

Was lashed into a sea where the winds ride

Earth was no more, for in her merrymake

She had forgot her God-Sin claimed his bride,

And with his vampire breath sucked out her life's fair tide!

Life went back to her nostrils, and she raised

Her spirit from the waters once again

The lovely sights, on which I erst had gazed,

Were not-though she was beautiful as when

The Grecian called her 'Beauty'sinful men

Walked i' the track of the waters, and

did take

Hellas, my country! farewell to thee!

Hellas, my country! farewell to thee!

I go to death-but I leave behind
The stirrings of Freedom's mighty mind;
Her voice shall arise from plain to sky,
Her steps shall tread where my ashes lie!

I looked on the mountains of proud Souli, And the mountains they seemed to look on me;

I spoke my thought on Marathon's plain,
And Marathon seemed to speak again!
And as I journeyed on my way,
I saw an infant group at play;
One shouted aloud in his childish glee,
And showed me the heights of Ther-
mopylae!

I gazed on peasants hurrying by,-
The dark Greek pride crouched in their
eye;

So I swear in my death-hour's minstrelsy, Hellas, my country! thou shalt be free!

No more!-I dash my lyre on the ground

I tear its strings from their home of sound

For the music of slaves shall never keep Where the hand of a freeman was wont to sweep!

And I bend my brows above the block, Silently waiting the swift death shock; For these lips shall speak what becomes the free

Or-Hellas, my country! farewell to

thee!

He bowed his head with a Patriot's pride, And his dead trunk fell the mute lyre beside!

The soul of each had passed awaySoundless the strings-breathless the clay !

THE VISION OF FAME

DID ye ever sit on summer noon,
Half musing and half asleep,
When ye smile in such a dreamy way,
Ye know not if ye weep-

When the little flowers are thick beneath,

And the welkin blue above;

When there is not a sound but the cattle's low,

And the voice of the woodland dove?

A while ago, and I dreamèd thus—

I mused on ancient story,—

For the heart like a minstrel of old doth

seem,

It delighteth to sing of glory. What time I saw before me stand

A bright and lofty One;

A golden lute was in her hand,

And her brow drooped thereon. But the brow that drooped was raisèd

soon,

Showing its royal sheen-
It was, I guessed, no human brow,

Though pleasant to human een.

And this brow of peerless majesty

With its whiteness did enshroud Two eyes that, darkly mystical,

'Gan look up at a cloud.

Like to the hair of Berenice,

Fetched from its house of light, Was the hair which wreathed her shadowless form

And Fame the ladye hight! But as she wended on to me,

My heart's deep fear was chidden;
For she called up the sprite of Melody,
Which in her lute lay hidden.
When ye speak to well-beloved ones,
Your voice is tender and low :
The wires methought did love her touch-
For they did answer so.

And her lips in such a quiet way
Gave the chant soft and long,-
You might have thought she only
breathed,

And that her breath was song:

'But wouldst thou remembered be,
Make me thy vow;
This verse that flows gushingly
Telleth thee how-

Linking thy hand in mine,

Listen to me,

So not a thought of thine

Dieth with thee

"Rifle thy pulsing heart

Of the gift, love made;
Bid thine eye's light depart;
Let thy cheek fade!
Give me the slumber deep,
Which night-long seems;
Give me the joys that creep

Into thy dreams!

'Give me thy youthful years,
Merriest that fly-

So the word, spoke in tears,
Liveth for ay!

So thy sepulchral stone,

Nations may raise-
What time thy soul hath known
The worth of praise!'

She did not sing this chant to me,

Though I was sitting by;

But I listened to it with chainèd breath,
That had no power to sigh.

And ever as the chant went on
Its measure changed to wail;
And ever as the lips sang on
Her face did grow more pale.

Paler and paler-till anon

A fear came o'er my soul; For the flesh curled up from her bones, Like to a blasted scroll !

Aye! silently it dropped away

Before my wondering sight'There was only a bleachèd skeleton Where erst was ladye bright!