THE PORTRAIT.

As I stretched my hand I held my breath;

I turned as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there,

It had warmed that heart to life with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'T was the hand of a man that was moving slow
O'er the heart of the dead, from the other side,
And at once the sweat broke over my brow;
"Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me, by the tapers' light,

The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white; And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?" The man
Looked first at me, and then at the dead.
"There is a portrait here," he began;
"There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
"A month ago," said my friend to me:
"And in your throat," I groaned, “you lie!"
He answered, . . . "Let us see."

"Enough! I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove,

His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."

77

We found the portrait there, in its place;
We opened it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least!

The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red,

And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled:

For each pearl my eyes have wept.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

The Royal Guest.

HEY tell me I am shrewd with other men,

THE

With thee I'm difficult and slow of speech; With others, I may guide the ear of talk,

Thou wring'st it oft to realms beyond my reach.

If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair,

And choose my newest garment from the shelf;
When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart
With holiest purpose, as for God himself.

For them I while the hours with tale or song,
Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme;

But how to find a fitting lay for thee,

Who hast the harmonies of every time?

O friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb,
Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine;
My lips will falter, but my prisoned heart

Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with thine.

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.

Thou art to me most like a royal guest

Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof, Where simple rustics spread their simple fare, And, blushing, own it is not good enough.

Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com'st to me
From high emprise and noble toil to rest,

My thoughts are weak and trivial matched with thine,
But the poor mansion offers thee its best.

JULIA WARD Howe.

79

Where shall the Lover rest?

HERE shall the lover rest

WHERE

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?

Where through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die

Under the willow

Eleu loro

Soft shall be his pillow.

There through the summer day
Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake

Never, O never!

Eleu loro

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying;

Eleu loro

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted:
Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it

Never, O never!

Eleu loro

Never, O never!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The Tears I Shed must ever Fall.

HE tears I shed must ever fall:

THE

I mourn not for an absent swain;

For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.

I weep not for the silent dead:

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er ;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans rolled between,
If certain that his heart is near,

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of withered joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The hours once tinged in transport's dye;

The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure
Those pangs to every feeling due:
Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
To win a heart, and break it too!

No cold approach, no altered mien ;
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between-

He made me blest, and broke my heart:
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
Neglected and neglecting all ;
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,

The tears I shed must ever fall.

MRS. DUGALD STEWART.

81