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In the shiver of the tree,

I hear thee, O thou voice ! And I would thy warning were but for me,

That my spirit might rejoice.

But thou art sent For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent

To the wintry hand of care !
They hear the wind's low sigh,

And the river sweeping free,
And the green reeds murmuring heavily,

And the woods — but they hear not thee!

Long have I striven
With my deep foreboding soul,
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,

And darkly on must roll.
There's a young brow smiling near,

With a bridal white rose wreath-
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,

Touch'd solemnly by death!

Fair art thou, Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds

On the dark blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound

Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round

But soon it must be still !

Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie -
Make not the strength of love thy trust,

A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow

That my hand for thee hath tried, But into dirge notes wild and low

Its ringing tones have died.

Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,

A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees

Through nature's awful heart-
But bright things go with the summer breeze,

And thou too must depart!

Yet shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,

Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,

And the chill of this world's breathGo, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!

Young and crown'd bride of death!

Take hence to heaven
The holy thoughts and bright,
And soaring hopes, that were not given

For the touch of mortal blight !

Might we follow in thy track,

This parting should not be !
But the spring shall give us violets back,

And every flower but thee!

There was a burst of tears around the bard :
All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek,
Was paler than before. - So Morna heard
The minstrel's prophecy.

And spring return'd,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again,
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,
A young sweet spirit gone.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

FROM THE “PORTRAIT GALLERY,” AN UNFINISHED POEM.

If there be but one spot upon thy name,
One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice
Whose tones thou shrink'st from — Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head - and die!

Thou seest her pictured with her shining hair,

(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her

gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving 'Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving

Its earnest looks are lifted to the face
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's;-on her brow

Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. These

may

be dreams — but how shall woman tell Of woman's shame, and not with tears ? - She fell. That mother left that child !-- went hurrying by Its cradle-haply not without a sigh, Haply one moment o'er its rest serene She hung - but no! it could not thus have been, For she went on !- forsook her home, her hearth, All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife; He reck'd no more of glory :-grief and shame Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls; The warder's horn hung mute :--mean time the child On whose first flowery thoughts no parent smiled, A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain,

If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, ,
E’en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. -Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days-
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight

In one so fair for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and

prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white rose cheek,
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child's—and oh! the brow above
So pale and pure! so form’d for holy love
To gaze upon in silence !- But she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that callid on

Heaven
To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn With alms before her castle gate she stood, 'Midst peasant groups; when, breathless and o'erworn,

And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger through them broke :--the orphan maid, With her sweet voice and proffer'd hand of aid, Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look Met hers-a gaze that all her spirit shook ;

Vol. V.-22

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