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Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When rear'd together there, Through the old woods like fawns ye flew

Where is thy brother - where?

“Well didst thou love him then, and he

Still at thy side was seen !
How is it that such things can be

As though they ne'er had been?
Evil was this world's breath, which came

Between the good and brave!
Now must the tears of grief and shame

Be offer'd to the grave.

" And let them, let them there be pour'd!

Though all unfelt below-
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,

Shall soften as they flow.
Oh ! death is mighty to make peace;

Now bid his work be done!
So many an inward strife shall cease

Take, take these babes, my son!”

His eye was dimm’d—the strong man shook

With feelings long suppress'd;
Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strain'd them to his breast.
And a shout from all in the royal hall

Burst forth to hail the sight;
And eyes were wet ’midst the brave that met

At the Kaiser's feast that night.


“Devant vous est Sorrente; là demeuroit la seur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin demander à cette obscure amie, un asyle contre l'injustice des princes. -Ses longues douleurs avaient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son génie.”


She sat, where on each wind that sigh’d,

The citron's breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide

Burn'd in the Italian sky.
Her bower was one where daylight's close

Full of sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song and dancing glee

Hush'd as by words of power.
With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed

Up to their mother's face,
With brows through parted ringlets raised,

They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look

Of mournfulness was spreadForth from a poet's magic book

The glorious numbers read; Vol. V. 23

The proud undying lay, which pour'd

Its light on evil years;
His of the gifted pen and sword,'

The triumph-and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night

By many a gondolier;
Of him she read, who broke the charm

That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,

That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,

Young holy hearts, were stirr'd;
And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,

Came sweet, each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd—a way-worn man,

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,

Of proud yet mournful eye.

It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, that Tasso, with his sword and pen, was superior to all


But drops which would not stay for pride,

From that dark eye gush'd free, As pressing his pale brow, he cried,

“Forgotten! e'en by thee!

“ Am I so changed ?--and yet we two

Oft hand in hand have play'd;-
This brow hath been all bathed in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made; We have knelt down and said one prayer,

And sung one vesper strain;
My soul is dim with clouds of care-

Tell me those words again!

Life hath been heavy on my head,

I come a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,

To bleed in stillness here." She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept

Shook all her thrilling frameShe fell upon his neck and wept,

Murmuring her brother's name.

Her brother's name!-and who was he,

The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,

A stranger to his own !-
He was the bard of gifts divine

To sway the souls of men ;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,

He of the sword and pen !


“ Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,

And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander'd o'er the earth,
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me!
This once-once more !"


“Thou’rt gone !-thou’rt slumbering low,

With the sounding seas above thee; It is but a restless woe,

But a haunting dream to love thee! Thrice the glad swan has sung,

To greet the spring-time hours, Since thine oar at parting flung

The white spray up in showers.

There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and

round thy home; Come to me from the ocean's dead !- thou’rt surely

of them-come!”

'Twas Ulla's voice-alone she stood

In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood,

From a dark rock's beetling height.

“ I know thou hast thy bed

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee: The storm sweeps o'er thy head,

But the depths are hush'd around thee.

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