STANZAS.

The lady of his love, oh, she was changed,

As by the sickness of the soul!

Byron.

Go thou, while in thy soul, and fill a throne

Of innocence and purity, in Heaven!

Ford.

I KNOW that it must be,

Yea! thou art changed-all worshipped as thou art—

Mourned as thou shalt be!

Sickness of the heart

Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale,

A piteous tale, of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,
Beauteous, and yet so pale!

Changed love! but not alone!

I am not what they think me; though my cheek
Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak

Thus in my natural tone.

The temple of my youth

Was strong in moral purpose: once I felt
The glory of philosophy, and knelt

In the pure shrine of truth.

I went into the storm,

And mocked the billows of the tossing sea;

I said to Fate, "What wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm!"

Vainly the heart is steeled

In Wisdom's armor; let her burn her books!
I look upon them as the soldier looks

Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest,

How have they perished! Through my onward course Repentance dogs my footsteps! black Remorse

Is my familiar guest!

The glory and the glow

Of the world's loveliness have passed away;

And Fate hath little to inflict, to-day,

And nothing to bestow!

Is not the damning line

Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?
And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow,
Hath it not blasted mine?

No matter! I will turn

To the straight path of duty; I have wrought,
At last, my wayward spirit to be taught

What it hath yet to learn.

Labor shall be my lot;

My kindred shall be joyful in my praise;

And Fame shall twine for me, in after days,

A wreath I covet not.

And if I cannot make,

Dearest! thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust,

Yet will I study to be good, and just,

And blameless, for thy sake.

Thou may'st have comfort yet!

Whate'er the source from which those waters glide,
Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide;
Be happy and forget!

Forget me-and farewell!

But say not that in me new hopes and fears,
Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years,
Will break thy memory's spell!

Indelibly, within,

All I have lost is written; and the theme
Which Silence whispers to my thoughts and dreams
Is sorrow still—and sin !

THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS.

ОH TELL not me of broken vow

I speak a firmer passion now;

Oh! tell not me of shattered chain-
The link shall never burst again;
My soul is fix'd as firmly here
As the red Sun in his career;

As Victory on Mina's crest,
Or Tenderness in Rosa's breast,
Then do not tell me, while we part,
Of fickle flame, and roving heart;

While Youth shall bow at Beauty's shrine,
That flame shall glow—that heart be thine.

Then wherefore dost thou bid me tell
The tale thy malice knows so well?
I may not disobey thee!-Yes!
Thou bidst me, and I will confess :-

See how adoringly I kneel—
Hear how my folly 1 reveal;

My folly!-chide me if thou wilt,
Thou shalt not-canst not call it-guilt.

And when my faithlessness is told,

Ere thou hast time to play the scold,

I'll haste the fond rebuke to check,
And lean upon thy snowy neck,
Play with its glossy auburn hair,

And hide the blush of falsehood there.

Inez, the innocent and young,

First snared my heart, and waked my song;
We both were harmless, and untaught
To love as fashionables ought;
With all the modesty of youth,
We talk'd of constancy and truth;
Grew fond of Music, and the Moon,
And wander'd on the nights of June,
To sit beneath the chestnut-tree,
While the lonely stars shone mellowly,
Shedding a pale and dancing beam
On the wave of Guadalquivir's stream.
And aye we talk'd of faith and feelings,
With no distrustings, no concealings;

And aye we joy'd in stolen glances,

And sigh'd and blush'd, and read romances.
Our love was ardent and sincere,-

And lasted, Rosa-half a year!
And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,
Married Don Jose-so we parted.
At twenty-one, I've often heard,
My bashfulness was quite absurd;
For, with a squeamishness uncommon,
I fear'd to love a married woman.