Like the sweet fall of measured sound,
Or dew distill'd on holy ground;
And vanish'd seem'd the powers of ill,
And nature smiled serene and still.
The darksome mist was roll'd away,
And tranquil, as the fall of day,
A milder gloom imbrown'd the way;
While through that wild and barren scene
The lofty gates of hell were seen.
A strain delightful pouring slowly
Breathed in soft cadence pure and holy :
And the strange voice she long'd to hear
Stole gently on her wondering ear.
Hark! the wild notes are sweetly swelling,
Now upon things unearthly dwelling,
And now of time's old secrets telling.

To rapture charm'd, fair Helga long
Stood listening that immortal song;
But onward now she sprang with haste,
And through hell's portals quickly paced.
Then, starting from his gory bed,
The whelp of Hela raised his head,
And, as he view'd the daring maid,
Gnash'd his keen fangs, and fiercely bay'd.
His glowing eyes with fury scowl'd,
And long and loud the monster howl'd:
For well he mark'd athwart the gloom
A living form by Vala's tomb.
But unappall'd the virgin stood,
And thus, in calm unalter'd mood:

"

By the force of Runic song,
By the might of Odin strong,
By the lance and glittering shield
Which the maids of slaughter wield,
By the gems whose wondrous light
Beams in Freya's necklace bright,
By the tomb of Balder bold,
I adjure thine ashes cold.

Vala, list a virgin's prayer!

Speak! Hialmar's doom declare!"

She ceased; when breathing sad and slow, Like some unwilling sound of wo,

A sweetly solemn voice was sent

Forth from that gloomy monument.

Deep-bosom'd in the northern fells

A pigmy race immortal dwells,
Whose hands can forge the falchion well
With many a wondrous mutter'd spell.
If bold Hialmar's might can gain
A weapon from their lone domain,
Nor stone nor iron shall withstand
The dint of such a gifted brand;
Its edge shall drink Angantyr's blood,
And life's tide issue with the flood.
Victorious, at night's silent hour,
The chief shall reach fair Helga's bower.
But thou, who darest with living tread
Invade these realms, where rest the dead;
Breaking the slumbers of the tomb
With charms that rend hell's awful gloom;
Who seek'st to scan, with prescience bold,
What gods from mortal man withhold,
Soon shall thine heart despairing rue
The hour that gave these shades to view,
And Odin's wrath thy steps pursue."

It ceased; and straight a lurid flash
Burst through the gloom with thunder crash.
It lighted all death's dreary caves,
It glared on thousand thousand graves.
Hell's iron chambers rang withal,
And pale ghosts started at the call;
While, as the gather'd tempest spreads,
Rush'd the red terror o'er their heads.
And well I deem, those realms might show
Unnumber'd shapes of various wo;
Lamenting forms, a ghastly crew,

By the strange gleam were given to view;
And writhing agony was there,
And sullen motionless despair:

Sights, that might freeze life's swelling tide,
Blanch the warm cheek of throbbing pride,
And shake fair reason's frail defence,
Though strongly nerved by innocence.
Nor dared the breathless virgin gaze
On hell's dread cells and devious ways;
Back rush'd unto her heart the blood,
And horror stay'd its curdling flood;
As fainting nigh the gates of hell
In speechless trance young Helga fell.
Her glowing lips are pale and cold;
Her dainty limbs of heavenly mould,
Fashion'd for bliss and form'd to rest
On couch of down by love carest,
Lie by yon damp and mouldering tomb,
Faded, and stript of mortal bloom;
Like flowers on broken hawthorn bough,
Or snow-wreaths on the mountain's brow.
Shall e'er that bosom move again,
To know love's subtle bliss or pain?
Shall e'er those languid beauties stir?
Shall heaven's pure light revisit her?
Or is she thus enveloped quite
By curtain of eternal night?
And ye, who in life's varied scene
Still its frail joys and sorrows glean,
Say, does her fate for pity cry,

Or were it best to sink and die,
While innocence is chaste and pure,
And flattering fancies yet allure
To leave the hopes of youth half-tasted,
To fly, before its dreams are blasted,
Its charms foredone, its treasures wasted;
Ere guilty bliss with secret smart
Has touch'd the yet untainted heart,
To shun the pleasure and the crime,

Nor trust the wintry storms of time?

True to the charge, some guardian power Watch'd over Helga's deathlike hour; Whether by pity moved and love Bright Freya glided from above, Spread round her limbs a viewless spell, And snatch'd her from the jaws of hell; Or Odin's self reserved the fair For other woes and worse despair; For at the earliest dawn of day In her still bower young Helga lay, And waked, as from a feverish dream, To hail the morning's orient beam.

SOLITUDE.

"T WERE Sweet to lie on desert land, Or where some lone and barren strand Hears the Pacific waters roll,

And views the stars of Southern pole !
"T were best to live where forests spread
Beyond fell man's deceitful tread,
Where hills on hills proud rising tower,
And native groves each wild embower,
Whose rocks but echo to the howl
Of wandering beast or clang of fowl!
The eagle there may strike and slay;
The tiger spring upon his prey;
The cayman watch in sedgy pool

The tribes that glide through waters cool;
The tender nestlings of the brake
May feed the slily coiling snake:
And the small worm or insect weak
May quiver in the warbler's beak:
All there at least their foes discern,
And each his prey may seize in turn.
But man, when passions fire the soul,.
And reason stoops to love's control,
Deceitful deals the murderous blow
Alike on trustiest friend or foe:
And oft the venom'd hand of hate
Points not the bitterest shaft of fate:
But faithless friendship's secret fang
Tears the fond heart with keener pang,
And love demented weaves a spell
More dreadful than the pains of hell.

That fond remembrance still shall cling
In heaven to life's immortal spring!
And thou, whose bright and cherish'd form,
Clasp'd to his heart with rapture warm,
Oft wakes the humble poet's eye

To more than mortal ecstasy,
Whose blooming cherubs, fresh as May,
In harmless sport around him play,
Say, does he dream! shall joy like this
Pass as a shadowy scene of bliss?
Or, when that beauteous shape shall fade,
And his cold tongue in dust be laid,
Shall the fond spirits ever glow
With love together link'd as now?

It is not false! Love's subtle fire
Shall live, though mortal limbs expire:
E'en now from heaven's ethereal height
Hialmar turns his wistful sight,

To Sigtune's towers, where, bathed in tears,
Mid anxious hopes and throbbing fears,
He sees the lovely mourner lie
With pallid cheek and languid eye.
Ne'er shall her bold victorious lord
Return to breathe the blissful word;
By Samsoe's rocks his body lies,
To love a bleeding sacrifice :
And pensive there, though aid is vain.
And past the poignant throb of pain,
Friendship bends sadly to survey

The unconscious form and lifeless clay.

FUTURITY.

SAT, when the spirit fleets away
From its frail house of mortal clay,
When the cold limbs to earth return,
Or rest in proudly sculptur'd urn,
Does still oblivion quench the fire

That warm'd the heart with chaste desire?
Do all our fond affections lie
Buried in dark eternity?

Or may the souls of those we love
In darkness oft around us move,
Drawn back by faithful thoughts to earth,
Haunt the dear scenes that gave them birth,
And still of former ties aware,
Float on the gently sighing air?
It may not be, a flame so bright
Should ever sink in endless night;
And if, when fails the transient breath,
The soul can spurn the bonds of death,
Love's gentle spirit ne'er shall die,
But dove-like with it mount the sky!
Oh, 'tis not sure the poet's dream,
Sweet fancy's visionary theme.
Where'er the fleeting soul shall go,
Still will our pure affections glow,
Though life's frail thoughts are past and vain,
The sense of good must still remain,
And death, that conquers all, shall ne'er
From the delighted spirit tear
The memory of a mother's care!

JEALOUSY.

FOUR things the wise man knew not to declare, The eagle's path athwart the fields of air; The ship's deep furrow thro' the ocean's spray; The serpent's winding on the rock; the way Of man with woman. Into water clear The jealous Indian rudely thrust his spear, And, quick withdrawing, pointed how the wave Subsided into stillness. The dark grave, Which knows all secrets, can alone reclaim The fatal doubt once cast on woman's fame. Night's shade fell thick; the evening was far spent Ere proud Montalban to her chamber went. Slowly he enter'd, and with cautious glance Cast his eye round, before he did advance; Then placed a bowl of liquor by her side, And thus severe address'd his sorrowing bride: "The night advances, Julia: hast thou pray'd To Him whose eye can pierce the thickest shade. Who, robed in truth, is never slow to mark The hidden guilty secrets of the dark?"

Is thy soul chasten'd, and resign'd to go
This night to everlasting bliss or wo?"

His accents falter'd; but unmoved he stood,
And, firm of heart, his beauteous victim view'd.
He wore the ghastly aspect of the dead,
But his lip quiver'd, and his eye was red;
And such dark feelings character'd his gaze,
That Julia shrunk with terror and amaze.
She paused; her eye fell doubtful on that bowl;
O'er all her frame a shuddering horror stole. [raise
Then thus with downcast look; (she dared not
Her eye to meet again that fearful gaze:)

"Yes, Albert, I have made my peace with Heaven, At whose pure shrine my secret thoughts are shriven.

Whene'er fate calls, this humble soul obeys;
The tear of sorrow asks no fond delays.
With tremulous hope the lingering heart may cling
To life's blest walks, illumed by pleasure's spring.
Cold duty's path is not so blithely trod,
Which leads the mournful spirit to its God."
She spoke, half-timid, and presaging ill
From his knit brow and look severely still.
The thought of death came o'er her; and the mind
Disown'd her words, more fearful than resign'd.
Love's secret influence heaved the conscious breast
With fluttering pulse, that would not be at rest.
Stern Albert mark'd the tremor of her brow,
And the check's fitful colour come and go.
His eye was big with anguish, as it stray'd
O'er all the charms, which her thin robe betray'd;
The perfect loveliness of that dear form
In its full spring of beauty ripe and warm;
And never had she look'd so wondrous fair,
So precious, so surpassing all compare,
In blither hours, when innocent delight
Flush'd her young cheek and sparkled in her sight,
As languid, in that careless garb array'd,
Half-lit by the pale lamp, half-hid in shade.
He would have given health, life, eternity,
The joys that fleet, the hopes that never die,
Once more in tenderest rapture to have press'd
That shape angelic to his troubled breast;
But pride forbade, and from each living charm
Drew fiercer hate, which love could not disarm.
Upon that form of beauty, now his bane,
Pollution seem'd to have impress'd a stain.
Awhile he paced the floor with heavy stride,
Then gazed once more upon his sorrowing bride ;
And, parting with his hands the glossy hair
On the white forehead of the silent fair,
Look'd wistfully; then, bending sad and slow,
Fix'd one long kiss upon that brow of snow,
It seem'd as if love's spirit in his soul
Was battling with his passion's fierce control.
He sat before her; on one hand reclined
His face, which told the struggle of his mind;
The other held the bowl: she raised her head,
As, slow his hand extending, thus he said:

66

Drink, Julia," spoke again that dreadful voice:
Drink, Julia, deep; for thou hast now no choice."
A fatal shiver seem'd to reach her soul,
And her hand trembled, as it touch'd the bowl;
But duty's call prevail'd o'er shapeless dread;
She look'd with silent terror, and obey'd.

I know not, whether it was fancy's power [hour,
Which smote each conscious sense in that dread
Or whether, doom'd at mortal guilt to grieve,
Thus his good angel sadly took his leave;
But he half-started, and in truth believed
That a deep lengthen'd sob was faintly heaved,
And some dark shuddering form behind him pass'd,
Which o'er her shape its fearful shadow cast.
Breathless he listen'd by his thoughts appall'd;
(The hour of mercy could not be recall'd,)
Then to his lips in turn the draught applied,
Which should in death unite him with his bride.

THE MOTHER'S PLEA.

"I STAND not here in judgment, haughty priest;
Nature forbids. Against a mother's love,
Against a wife's firm faith, there is no law,
Not e'en to fellest nations gorged with flesh
Of mangled captives. Whence should we adore
Thy deity, who mew'd like one infirm,

In that low fane, sends forth his ministers
To deeds of pitiless rape? Our God bestows
Harvest and summer fruits, chaining the winds
Which never lash our groves. Ye bend the knee
To the carved crucifix in temples wrought
By human hands; ye lift the hymn of praise
By torches' glare at noon day but the God
We serve, best honour'd by the glorious ray
Of his great luminary, dwells not here
Prison'd midst walls, frail work of mortal skill.
We worship him abroad, under the vault
Of his own heaven; yon star-paved firmament,
The wilderness, the flood, the wreathed clouds
That float from those far mountains robed in mist,
The summits unapproach'd, untouch'd by time,
Snow-clad, are his; too vast to be confined
He fills his works. Bow ye the trembling knee
To your own idols and that murd'rous law
Which bids you seize a mother's callow brood
In hour of peace! The Carib doth not this,
The man-devouring Cabre! Are ye slaves
Unto the spirit of ill who wars with God,
Iolokiamo, the worst foe to man?
That, riving thus the hallow'd ties of life,"
Ye work his evil will, and mar the scheme
Of Him beneficent, whose fostering care
Amid these wilds is over all his works.
If there be one great Being, who hears our prayer,
When that sonorous trump, which but to view
Were death to woman, through each leafy glade
Ten leagues aloof sends forth the voice of praise,
Oh, tremble at his wrath! My little ones,
If e'er, restored, ye reach your father's hut,
Tell him I live but while the fervent hope
Of freedom and reunion with my own
Leaves life its worth. That lost I welcome death."

THE BATTLE FIELD.

SLOW struggling through the mist, that reek'd to heaven,

Day dawn'd on Chalons' plain. Faintly it show'd Indistinct horror, and the ghastly form

Of havoc lingering o'er its bloody work.

Oh for the tongue that told how once the fiend
Over immortal Athens from his wing
Scatter'd disease and death! and, worse than death,
The living curse of sunder'd charities,
Whereby the fount of feeling and love's pulse
Was stay'd within through dread, and, when most
lack'd,

The hospitable mansion sternly closed

Against a parent's prayer, while corses foul,
On the barr'd threshold's edge lay uninhumed,
Exhaling plague! Oh, for the voice of him,
Who drew the curtain of Apocalypse,
To man declaring things for man too high,
That I may speak the horrors, which broke slow
Upon the sight at dawn! The ample field,
Which, but short hours before was redolent
With herbs and healthful odours, now uptorn
By thousand hoofs, batter'd beneath the strength
Of wheels and horse and man, a barren mass
Of dark confusion seem'd; a trampled waste
Without the blush of verdure, but with gore
Distain'd, and steep'd in the cold dews of death.
Thick strewn, and countless, as those winged tribes
Which clamoring blacken all the grassy mead
In sickly autumn, when the wither'd leaves
Drift on the moaning gale, lay swords and pikes,
Bucklers, and broken cuirasses, and casques,
Shower'd by the pelting battle, when it rush'd
With such hoarse noise as does the foaming surge
Upon some rocky ledge, where Æolus

Bids foul winds blow. But not of arms alone
Rent fragments, and the broken orb of shields
Embossed with gold, and gorgeous housings lay
Cumbering that fearful waste. The mind shrinks
back

From the thick scatter'd carnage, the dread heaps
That late were living energy and youth,
Hope emulous, and lofty daring; strength,
Which raised again from that corrupting sod,
Thro' Ardenne's desert unto utmost Rhine
Might have spread culture; thousands whose blithe
voice

Might yet have caroll'd to the breath of morn,
Or joy'd the banquet, or with gifted hand
Waked the ecstatic lyre, adorning still
With rich diversity of active power
Cottage or palace, the marmorean hall's
Proud masonry, with Roman wealth o'erlaid,
Or of Sarmatian hut the pastoral hearth,
Abode of love, where fond remembrance now
Looks sadly over hills and native dales
For forms beloved in vain, which far away,
Spurn'd by the grazed ox, shall heap the sod
Of Chalons' glebe with undistinguish'd clay.
Alas!-If erst, on that unhallow'd eve
When Ramah quaked with dread, the deep lament
Of Rachel mourning for her babes appall'd
Utmost Judea, and the holy banks

Of Jordan unto Syria's frontier bounds,
What ear, save Thine to whom all plaints arise,
Might have abided the commingling wail
Of matrons widow'd, and of maids that day
Bereft of bridal hopes! like those lorn men
Hard by the rock of Rimmon, when the Lord
Smote Benjamin in all his fenced towns,
Virgin, and wife, and infant with the sword
Utterly destroying; and one oath restrain'd
Each willing fair in Israel; yet brides
For these still bloom'd in Gilead, and, what time
The vintage glow'd, in Shiloh danced with song
Ripe for connubial joys. But whence for these
Shall ravaged Europe light the nuptial torch,
Whose hopes have wither'd as the herbs, that
bloom'd

Odorous yestermorn on Chalons' plain!
There foes on foes, friends lay with icy cheek
Pressing their maim'd companions. On that field
The eye might trace all war's vicissitudes
Impress'd in fatal characters; the rush
Headlong of flight, and thundering swift pursuit,
Rescue and rally, and the struggling front
Of hard contention. Strewn on every side
Lay dead and dying, like the scatter'd seed
Cast by the husbandman, with other thoughts
Of unstain'd harvest; chariots overthrown,
Shields cast behind, and wheels, and sever'd limbs,
Rider and steed, and all the merciless shower
Of arrows barb'd, strong shafts, and feather'd darts
Wing'd with dismay. As when of Alpine snows
The secret fount is open'd, and dread sprites,
That dwell in those crystalline solitudes [moan,
Have loosed the avalanche whose deep-thundering
Predicting ruin, on his couch death-doom'd
The peasant hears; waters on waters rush
Uptearing all impediment, woods, rocks,
Ice rifted from the deep cærulean glens,
Herds striving with the stream, and bleating flocks,
The dwellers of the dale, with all of life
That made the cottage blithesome; but ere long
The floods o'erpass; the ravaged valley lies
Tranquil and mute in ruin. So confused
In awful stillness lay the battle's wreck.
Here heaps of slain, as by an eddy cast, [steel,
And hands, which, stiff, still clench'd the ruddy
Show'd rallied strength, and life sold dearly. There
Equal and mingled havoc, where the tide
Doubtful had paused whether to ebb or flow.
Some prone were cast, some headlong, some supine;
Others yet strove with death. The sallow cheek
Of the slain Avar press'd the mangled limbs
Of yellow-hair'd Sicambrian, whose blue eyes
Still swum in agony; Gelonic steed
Lay panting on the cicatrized form

Of his grim lord, whose painted brow convulsed
Seem'd a ferocious mockery. There, mix'd
The Getic archer with the savage Hun,
And Dacian lancers lay, and sturdy Goths
Pierced by Sarmatian pike. There, once his pride
The Sueve's long-flowing hair with gore besprent,
And Alans stout, in Roman tunic clad.
Some of apparel stripp'd by coward bands
That vulture-like upon the skirts of war
Ever hang merciless; their naked forms

In death yet beauteous, though the eburnean limbs Blood had defiled. There some, whom thirst all night

Had parch'd, too feeble from that fellowship
To drag their fever'd heads, aroused at dawn
From fearful dreaming to new hope and life,
Die rifled by the hands whose help they crave.
Others lie maim'd and torn, too strong to die,
Imploring death. Oh, for some friendly aid
To staunch their burning wounds and cool the lip
Refresh'd with water from an unstain'd spring!
But that foul troop of plunderers unrestrain'd
Ply their abhorred trade, of groan or prayer
Heedless, destroying whom war's wrath had spared.
Some, phrensied, crawl unto the brook, which late
Pellucid roll'd, now choked with slain, and swell'd
With the heart's blood of thousands; gore they quaff
For water, to allay the fatal thirst [God!
Which only death may quench. And this, great
This is thy field of glory and of joy
To man, the noblest of created forms,
In thy pure image moulded! This the meed
For which exalted natures toil and strive,
Placed in such high preeminence, to be
Thine own similitude, in glory next
Thine incorporeal ministers! Long while
Upon that loathly scene gazed Attila
Touch'd by no thought of sufferings.

HYMN TO DEATH.

WHAT art thou, O relentless visitant,
Who with an earlier or later call,
Dost summon every spirit that abides
In this our fleshly tabernacle! Death!
The end of worldly sorrowing and joy,
That breakest short the fantasies of youth,
The proud man's glory, and the lingering chain
Of hopeless destitution! The dark gate
And entrance into that untrodden realm,
Where we must all hereafter pass! Art thou
An evil or a boon? that some shrink back
With shuddering horror from the dreaded range
Of thine unmeasured empire, others plunge
Unbidden, goaded by the sense of ill,
Or weariness of being, into the abyss!
And should we call those blest who journey on
Upon this motley theatre, through life
Successful, unto the allotted term

Of threescore years and ten, even so strong,
That they exceed it? or those, who are brought down
Before their prime, and, like the winged tribes,
Ephemeral, children of the vernal beam,
Just flutter round the sweets of life and die ?-
An awful term thou art; and still must be,
To all who journey to that bourne, from whence
Return is none, and from whose distant shore
No rumor has come back of good or ill,
Save to the faithful, and even they but view
Obscurely things unknown and unconceived,
And judge not even, by what sense the bliss,
Which they imagine, shall hereafter be
Enjoy'd or apprehended. And shall man

Unbidden rush on that mysterious change,
Which, whether he believe or mock the creed
Of those who trust, awaits him, and must bring
Or good, or evil, or annihilate

The sense of being, and involve him quite
In darkness upon which no dawn shall break!—
Fearful and dreaded must thy bidding be
To such as have no light within, vouchsafed
From the Most High, no reason for their hope;
But go from this firm world, into the void
Where no material body may reside,
By fleshly cares polluted and unmeet
For spiritual joy; and ne'er have known,
Or knowing, have behind them cast the love
Of their Redeemer, who thine awful bonds,
Grim Potentate, has broken, and made smooth
The deathbed of the just through faith in Him.
How oft, at midnight, have I fix'd my gaze
Upon the blue unclouded firmament,
With thousand spheres illumined, each perchance
The powerful centre of revolving worlds!
Until, by strange excitement stirr'd, the mind
Has long'd for dissolution, so it might bring
Knowledge, for which the spirit is athirst,
Open the darkling stores of hidden time,
And show the marvel of eternal things,
Which, in the bosom of immensity,

Wheel round the God of Nature. Vain desire!
Illusive aspirations! daring hope!

Worm that I am, who told me I should know

More than is needful, or hereafter dive

Into the counsel of the God of worlds?
Or ever, in the cycle unconceived
Of wonderous eternity, arrive
Beyond the narrow sphere, by Him assign'd
To be my dwelling wheresoc'er? Enough
To work in trembling my salvation here,
Waiting thy summons, stern, mysterious Power,
Who to thy silent realm hast call'd away
All those whom nature twined around my breast
In my fond infancy, and left me here

Denuded of their love! Where are ye gone,
And shall we wake from the long sleep of death,
To know each other, conscious of the ties
That link'd our souls together, and draw down
The secret dew-drop on my cheek, whene'er
I turn unto the past? or will the change
That comes to all, renew the alter'd spirit
To other thoughts, making the strife or love
Of short mortality a shadow past,

Equal illusion? Father, whose strong mind
Was my support, whose kindness as the spring
Which never tarries! Mother, of all forms
That smiled upon my budding thoughts most dear!
Brothers! and thou, mine only sister! gone
To the still grave, making the memory
Of all my earliest time, a thing wiped out,
Save from the glowing spot, which lives as fresh
In my heart's core, as when we last in joy
Were gather'd round the blithe paternal board!
Where are ye? Must your kindred spirits sleep
For many a thousand years, till by the trump
Roused to new being? Will affections then
Burn inwardly, or all our loves gone by
Seem but a speck upon the roll of time,