Might we follow in thy track,

This parting should not be !

But the spring shall give us violets back, every flower but thee!

And

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,

Rais'd 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.

I

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:-meantime the child,
On whose first flowering 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,

Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive-Oh! there lie such depths of wo
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, tho' hearts would melt Where'er she mov'd, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd 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,