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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

cheekCome to me from the ocean's dead !—thou’rt surely

of them-speak!”

She listen'd—'t was the wind's low moan,

'Twas the ripple of the wave,
'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone,

As it startled from its cave.

“I know each fearful spell

Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose mutter'd words compel

The tempest to obey.
But I adjure not thee

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,

Wandering and wildly bright;-
She saw but the sparkling waters dance

To the arrowy northern light.

“ By the slow and struggling death

Of hope that loathed to part,
By the fierce and withering breath

Of despair on youth's high heart-
By the weight of gloom which clings

To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings

Nought lovely to the sight

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung

of grief and fear 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,

With bright, still, mournful eyes?

“ 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;
Let me slumber on thy breast,

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

nut o'er that wild heart's woe, Shut, and grew still again.

TROUBADOUR SONG.

THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam

For the stormy fields of war;
The maid was left in a smiling home

And a sunny land afar

His voice was heard where javelin showers

Pour'd on the steel-clad line;
Her step was 'midst the summer flowers,

Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,

And the red blood stain'd his crest; While she— the gentlest wind of heaven,

Might scarcely fan her breast.

Yet a thousand arrows pass’d him by,

And again he cross'd the seas; But she had died as roses die

That perish with a breeze.

As roses die, when the blast is come

For all things bright and fair-
There was death within the smiling home-

How had death found her there?

TO WORDSWORTH.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills,

The old and full of voices ;— by the source Of some free stream, whose gladd’ning presence fills

The solitude with sound; for in its course Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

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

Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse

A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy !—thou art e'en as one

Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

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 wan

derer 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

Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,

Through his proud chamber's gloom ?
He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky-
A lone tree waving o'er his head,

A swift stream rolling by.

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 ?

nor cloven shields nor helms
Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

Not so

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