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"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and wellremembered walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine-

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine."

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Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!)

They have fainted and faltered and homeward gone;

His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying!
The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering
din,

Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn;
(Silence!)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing;
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary
ride;

For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale 'sweet form of the welcomer lay

Who had yearned for his voice while dying! The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary,

The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;

He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed, that every nerve did strain-
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain,
To the halls where my love lay dying!"

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THE DREAM.

Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead,
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed!
At length she comes. The evening's holy grace
Mellows the glory of her radiant face;
The curtain of that daylight faint and pale
Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil ;

'Twas summer eve; the changeful beams still As, turning with a bashful timid thought,

play'd

On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light,
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

From the dear welcome she herself hath sought, Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye.

Oh dear to him, to all, since first the flowers Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers Heard the low breeze along the branches play, And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day. For though that glorious Paradise be lost, Though earth by lighting storms be roughly

cross'd,

Though the long curse demands the tax of sin, And the day's sorrows with the day begin,

So when some chief, whose name through That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still

realms afar

Was still the watchword of successful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! twilight! spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with
Earth,

Leaving on craggy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him,-who plods his sauntering way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!

Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light, Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night! As in impatient hope he stands apart, Companion'd only by his beating heart, And with an eager fancy oft beholds

The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds

Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,
The holiest hour of Earth. Then toil doth cease-
Then from the yoke the oxen find release-
Then man rests pausing from his many cares,
And the world teems with children's sunset
prayers!

Then innocent things seek out their natural rest,
The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's breast;
The birds beneath their leafy covering creep,
Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep;
And angels, floating by, on radiant wings,
Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings
Catch the sweet incense as it floats along,
The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song,
And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar,
As things too sacred for this fallen star.

At such an hour, on such a summer night, Silent and calm in its transparent light, A widow'd parent watch'd her slumbering child, On whose young face the sixteenth summer smiled.

Fair was the face she watch'd! Nor less, because
Beauty's perfection seemed to make a pause,
And wait, on that smooth brow, some further
touch,

Some spell from time, the great magician, such
As calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom,
And bids it wake to glory, light, and bloom.
Girlish as yet, but with the gentle grace
Of a young fawn in its low resting-place,
Her folded limbs were lying: from her hand
A group of wild flowers-Nature's brightest band,
Of all that laugh along the summer fields,
Of all the sunny hedge-row freely yields,
Of all that in the wild-wood darkly hide,

Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride,-
Show'd that the weariness which closed in sleep
So tranquil, child-like, innocent, and deep,
Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours,
Had brought; but, like a flower among the flowers
She had been wandering 'neath a summer sky,
Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye,
Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn,
And the blue scabious from the sunny corn;
Smiling and singing like a spirit fair

That walk'd the world, but had no dwelling there

Ꭲ Ꮋ Ꭼ Ꭰ Ꭱ Ꭼ Ꭺ Ꮇ .

And still (as though their faintly-scented breath Preserv'd a meek fidelity in death)

Each late imprison'd blossom fondly lingers Within the touch of her unconscious fingers, Though, languidly unclasp'd, that hand no more Guards its posession of the rifled store.

So wearily she lay; so sweetly slept; So by her side fond watch the mother kept; And, as above her gentle child she bent, So like they seem'd in form and lineament, You might have deem'd her face its shadow gave To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave; Only in this they differ'd; that, while one Was warm and radiant as the summer sun, The other's smile had more a moonlight play, For many tears had wept its glow away; Yet was she fair; of loveliness so true, That time, which faded, never could subdue : And though the gleeper, like a half-blown rose, Show'd bright as angels in her soft repose, Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid, Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashes hidEyes that as yet had never learnt to weep, But woke up smiling, like a child's, from sleep; Though fainter lines were pencill'd on the brow, Which cast soft shadow on the orbs below; Though deeper colour flush'd her youthful cheek, In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek, And fuller seem'd the small and crimson mouth, With teeth like those that glitter in the southShe had but youth's superior brightness, such As the skill'd painter gives with flattering touch When he would picture every lingering grace Which once shown brighter in some copied face; And it was compliment, whene'er she smil'd, To say, "Thou'rt like thy mother, my fair child!"

Sweet is the image of the brooding dove !— Holy as Heaven a mother's tender love! The love of many prayers and many tears, Which changes not with dim declining yearsThe only love which on this teeming Earth Asks no return from passion's wayward birth; The only love that, with a touch divine, Displaces from the heart's most secret shrine The idol SELF! Oh! prized beneath thy due When life's untried affections all are newLove, from whose calmer hope and nolier rest (Like a fledged bird, impatient of the nest) The human heart, rebellious, springs to seek Delights more vehement, in ties more weak; How strange to us appears, in after-life, That term of mingled carelessness and strife, When guardianship so gentle gall'd our pride, When it was holiday to leave thy side, When, with dull ignorance that would not learn, We lost those hours that never can returnHours, whose most sweet communion Nature

meant

Should be in confidence and kindness spent,
That we (hereafter mourning) might believe
In human faith, though all around deceive;
Might weigh against the sad and startling crowd
Of ills which wound the weak and chill the proud,
Of woes 'neath which (despite of stubborn will,
Philosophy's vain boast, and erring skill)

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Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown Familiar with deep trials of its own,

With riper judgment looking to the past,
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast,
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time
And darkens every folly into crime!

Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
And what they do or suffer men record;
But the long sacrifice of woman's days

Passes without a thought-without a word;
And many a holy struggle for the sake

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'dFor which the anxious mind must watch and wake,

And the strong feelings of the heart be still'd.

Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
And leaves no memory and no trace behind!
Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high debate:

The soldier dies surrounded;-could he live
Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom Shows deeper horror than a common tomb! Who sleep within? The men who would evade An unseen lot of which they felt afraid. Embarrassment of means, which work'd annoy,A past remorse,--a future blank of joy,The sinful rashness of a blind despair,These were the strokes which sent your victims there.

In many a village churchyard's simple grave, Where all unmark'd the cypress branches wave; In many a vault where Death could only claim The brief inscription of a woman's name; Of different ranks, and different degrees, From daily labour to a life of ease,

(From the rich wife who through the weary day

Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey,
To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and

moor,

And with her baby begg'd from door to door,-) Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release, Had lost all memory of the blessing "peace;" Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied

years

None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears;

The obscurely noble! who evaded not

Her hope, her anguish, as the tender flower Bloom'd to the sun, or sicken'd in the storm, In memory's magic mirror glide along,

And scarce she notes the different scene around, And scarce her lips refrain the cradle-song Which sooth'd that infant with its lulling sound!

But the dream changes; quiet years roll on ;
That dawn of frail existence fleets away,
And she beholds beneath the summer sun
A blessed sight; a little child at play.
The soft light falls upon its golden hair,

And shows a brow intelligently mild;
No more a cipher in this world of care,

Love cheers and chides that happy conscious child.

No more unheeding of her watchful love,
Pride to excel, its docile spirit stirs ;
Regret and hope its tiny bosom move,

And looks of fondness brightly answer hers;
O'er the green meadow, and the broomy hill,
In restless joy it bounds and darts along;
Or through the breath of evening, low and still,
Carols with mirthful voice its welcome song.

Again the vision changes; from her view

The CHILD's dear love and antic mirth are gone, But, in their stead, with cheek of rose-leaf hue,

And fair slight form, and low and silvery tone, Rises the sweetest spirit thought can call

Whose heart her childish pleasures still enthrall, From memory's distant worlds-the fairy GIRL; Whose unbound hair still floats in careless curl,

But in whose blue and meekly lifted eyes,

And in whose shy, though sweet and cordial smile,

And in whose changeful blushes, dimly rise Shadows and lights that were not seen erewhile:

The woe which He had will'd should be their lot, Shadows and lights that speak of woman's love,

But nerved themselves to bear!

Of such art thou, My mother! With thy calm and holy brow, And high devoted heart, which suffer'd still Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. And, because fate hath will'd that mine should be A poet's soul (at least in my degree,)— And that my verse would faintly shadow forth What I have seen of pure unselfish worth,— Therefore I speak of thee; that those who read That trust in woman, which is still my creed, Thy early-widow'd image may recall And greet thy nature as the type of all!

Enough! With eyes of fond unwearied love The mother of my story watch'd above Her sleeping child; and, as she views the grace And blushing beauty of that girlish face, Her thoughts roam back through change of time and tide,

Since first Heaven sent the blessing by her side.

In that sweet vision she again receives

The snow-white cradle, where that tiny head Lay, like a small bud folded in its leaves, Foster'd with dew by tears of fondness shed; Each infantine event, each dangerous hour Which pass'd with threatening o'er its fragile form,

Of all that makes or mars her fate below; Mysterious prophecies, which time must prove More bright in glory, or more dark with woe! And that soft vision also wanders by,

Melting in fond and innocent smiles away, Till the loved REAL meets the watchful eye Of her who thus recall'd a former day; The gentle daughter, for whose precious sake

Her widow'd heart had struggled with its pain, And still through lonely grief refused to break, Because that tie to Earth did yet remain. Now, as she fondly gazed, a few meek tears Stole down her cheek; for she that slumber'd there,

The beautiful, the loved of many years,

A bride betroth'd must leave her fostering care, Woo'd in another's home apart to dwellOh! might that other love but half as well!

As if the mournful wish had touch'd her heart, The slumbering maiden woke, with sudden start Turn'd, with a dazzled and intense surprise, On that fond face her bright, bewilder'd eyes; Gazed round on each familiar object near, As though she doubted yet if sense was clear; Cover'd her brow and sigh'd, as though to wake Had power some spell of happy thought to break · Then murmur'd, in a low and earnest tone, "Oh! is that blessed dream for ever gone ?"

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