MAGDALEN.'

I.

A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet
With blood, except of freedom's foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
Still with a starlight beauty glows;
A heart that worshipp'd in Romance
The Spirit of the buried Time,

And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme;

These had been, and I deemed would be

My joy, whate'er my destiny.

II.

Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright
Alone illumed my cradle-bed;

And I had borne with wild delight
My banner where Bolivar led,
Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek,

Or manhood's pride was on my brow. Its foes are furled-the war-bird's beak

Is thirsty on the Andes now;
I longed, like her, for other skies

Clouded by Glory's sacrifice.

III.

In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, Its soldier-song the bugle sings;

And I had buckled on my brand,

And waited but the sea-wind's wings,

To bear me where, or lost or won

Her battle, in its frown or smile,

Men live with those of Marathon,

Or die with those of Scio's isle; And find in Valor's tent or tomb, In life or death, a glorious home.

IV.

I could have left but yesterday

The scene of my boy-years behind, And floated on my careless way

Wherever willed the breathing wind.

I could have bade adieu to aught

I've sought, or met, or welcomed here,
Without an hour of shaded thought,
A sigh, a murmur, or a tear.
Such was I yesterday-but then
I had not known thee, Magdalen.

V.

To-day there is a change within me,
There is a weight upon my brow,

And Fame, whose whispers once could win me
From all I loved, is powerless now.

There ever is a form, a face

Of maiden beauty in my dreams, Speeding before me, like the race

To ocean of the mountain streamsWith dancing hair, and laughing eyes, That seem to mock me as it flies.

VI.

My sword-it slumbers in its sheath;
My hopes-their starry light is gone;
My heart-the fabled clock of death

Beats with the same low, lingering tone: And this, the land of Magdalen,

Seems now the only spot on earth

Where skies are blue and flowers are green; And here I'd build my household hearth, And breathe my song of joy, and twine

A lovely being's name with mine.

VII.

In vain! in vain! the sail is spread;
To sea! to sea ,! my task is there;
But when among the unmourned dead
They lay me, and the ocean air
Brings tidings of my day of doom,

Mayst thou be then, as now thou art,
The load-star of a happy home;

In smile and voice, in eye and heart
The same as thou hast ever been,
The loved, the lovely Magdalen.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

EYES with the same blue witchery as those

Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles;
Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose,

That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles;

A power of motion and of look, whose art
Throws, silently, around the wildest heart

The net it would not break; a form which vies
With that the Grecian imaged in his mind,
And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find
His breathing marble could not realize.

Know ye this picture? There is one alone
Can call its pencilled lineaments her own.
She whom, at morning, when the summer air
Wanders, delighted, o'er her face of flowers,
And lingers in the ringlets of her hair,

We deem the Hebe of Jove's banquet hours;