JUANA.

Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state in a magnificent dress, and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time incessantly, waiting for the moment of returning life.

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love,
This wild and passionate idolatry,
What doth it in the shadow of the grave?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart;
So must it ever end: too much we give
Unto the things that perish.

THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace-room,

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom,

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red,

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see,

Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his

heart and step were free;

No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay,

Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array.

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the cold slumberer's side,

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;

Only her full impassion'd eyes, as o'er that clay she

bent,

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence

blent.

And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like shadows of a cloud,

Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke

aloud;

She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, "Thou yet wilt wake,

And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one! for thy sake.

"They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be;

Fairest and stateliest of the earth, who spoke of death for thee?

They would have wrapt the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,

But I forbade

and there thou art, a monarch, robed

and crown'd!

"With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,

And thy brow so proudly beautiful-who said that this was death?

Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,

But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd and strong.

"I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair

like thee,

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a

light of glee!

A frail and drooping form is mine-a cold unsmiling cheek,

Oh! I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy heart to seek.

"But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord! and hear'st how I have kept

A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and wept;

How in one long deep dream of thee my nights and days have past,

Surely that humble, patient love must win back love at last!

Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!

No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine

Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine!

"Thou 'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase,

For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face!

Thou❜lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless;

In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give me loveliness.

"But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice

In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of thy voice:

Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone, And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be

mine alone."

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day,

The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every

grace,

Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast,

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,

With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Woman!-a power to suffer and to love,
Therefore thou so canst pity.

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke;— "Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," So the red warriors to their captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood,
Like a king's son; tho' from his cheek had flown
The mantling crimson of the island-blood,
And his press'd lips look'd marble.-Fiercely bright,
And high around him, blazed the fires of night,
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,

As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow
Lighting the victim's face:-But who could tell
Of what within his secret heart befell,

Known but to heaven that hour?- Perchance a

thought

Of his far home then so intensely wrought,

That its full image, pictured to his eye
On the dark ground of mortal agony,

Rose clear as day!—and he might see the band,
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand,
Where the laburnums droop'd; or haply binding
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding;
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth,
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth