What wind shall point the way To the chambers where thou'rt lying? Come to me thence, and say If thou thought'st on me in dying? I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou'rt surely of them-speak!" She listen'd-'twas the wind's low moan, 'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone, "I know each fearful spell By magic sign or song My voice shall stir the sea By love-the deep, the strong! By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her sighs, Come to me from the ocean's dead!-by the vows we pledged-arise!” Again she gazed with an eager glance, She saw but the sparkling waters dance "By the slow and struggling death By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung grief and fear of Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, appear!" Was it her yearning spirit's dream, Or did a pale form rise, And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam, "Have the depths heard?-they have! My voice prevails-thou 'rt there, Dim from thy watery grave O thou that wert so fair! Yet take me to thy rest! There dwells no fear with love; While the billow rolls above! Where the long lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home, We will sleep among the ocean's dead-stay for me, stay!-I come!” There was a sullen plunge below, A flashing on the main; And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe, TROUBADOUR SONG. THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam His voice was heard where javelin showers Her step was 'midst the summer flowers, His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by, As roses die, when the blast is come There was death within the smiling home How had death found her there? TO WORDSWORTH. THINE is a strain to read among the hills, Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in sunny garden bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay. Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, link'd with household words; While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews True bard and holy!-thou art e'en as one Sees where the springs of living waters lie: Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free. A MONARCH'S DEATHBED. The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing. A MONARCH on his deathbed lay- And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, Beneath a darkening sky A lone tree waving o'er his head, Had he then fallen as warriors fall, Where spear strikes fire with spear? Was there a banner for his pall, A buckler for his bier ? Not so -nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod, Where he, the helpless lord of realms, |