A tear-oh lovelier far to me,

Shed for me in my saddest hour,
Than bright and flattering smiles could be,
In courtly hall or summer bower,
You strove my anguish to beguile,

With distant hopes of future weal;
You strove!-alas! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel.
I bore the gift Affection gave,

O'er desert sand and thorny brake,
O'er rugged rock and stormy wave,
I loved it for the giver's sake;
And often in my happiest day,

In scenes of bliss and hours of pride,
When all around was glad and gay,
I look'd upon the gift-and sigh'd:
And when on ocean, or on clift,

Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm,
I gazed upon thy fading gift,

I thought upon thy fading form;
Forgot the lightning's vivid dart,

Forgot the rage of sky and sea,
Forgot the doom that bade us part-
And only lived to love and thee.
Florence! thy myrtle blooms! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone,
Forgetful of our mutual vow,

And of a heart-still all thine own,

Art laid in that unconscious sleep,

Which he that wails thee soon must know,

Where none may smile, and none may weep,

None dream of bliss, or wake to wo. If e'er, as Fancy oft will feign,

To that dear spot which gave thee birth Thy fleeting shade returns again,

To look on him thou lov'dst on earth,

It may a moment's joy impart,

To know that this, thy favorite tree, Is to my desolated heart

Almost as dear as thou could'st be. My Florence!-soon-the thought is sweet! The turf that wraps thee I shall press; Again, my Florence! we shall meet, In bliss-or in forgetfulness. With thee in Death's oblivion laid, I will not have the cypress gloom To throw its sickly, sullen shade,

Over the stillness of my tomb:

And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave;
The treasures of the glittering mine
Would ill become a lover's grave:
But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam,
Thy myrtle, that has cheer'd my life
Shall decorate my narrow home :
And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day;
Or, nipp'd by cold December's air,

Whither-like Hope and thee-away.

STANZAS.

O'ER yon Churchyard the storm may lower;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years,
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of 'scutcheon or of stone,
It rises o'er thee, lonely one,
Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath,

Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded! But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded In the cold breeze of death!

Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet! But now Decay hath still'd its glancing; Warmly thy little heart was dancing, But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months-and thou wert here! Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;

And what is thy memorial now? A flower-and a Tear.

CASSANDRA.

"THEY hurried to the feast,

The warrior and the priest,

And the gay maiden with her jeweled brow;
The minstrel's harp and voice

Said 'Triumph and rejoice!'

One only mourned !-many are mourning now!

"Peace! startle not the light

With the wild dreams of night;'
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,

When I in their dull ears

Shrieked forth my tale of tears,

'Wo to the gorgeous city, wo to Troy !'—

"Ye watch the dun smoke rise

Up to the lurid skies;

Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;

Ye listen to the fall

Of gate, and tower, and wall;

Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!