Where friendly swords were drawn and ban- | To clasp thy neck, and look resembling me? ners flew, Yet seems it, e'en while life's last pulses run, Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Was near?-yet there, with lust of mur-Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding d'rous deeds, thee! Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt; A heart where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,- For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between, 'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touch'd by the music and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd: Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each muchloved shroud; While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. Then mournfully the parting-bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth;-him watched in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide; but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name: Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! And I could weep ;-th' Oneyda chief (That fires yon heaven with storms of death) Shall light us to the foe: And we shail share, my Christian boy, But thee, my flower, whose breath was given | Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Would sound like voices from the dead! Whose streams my kindred nations quaffed, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, Then seek we not their camp,—for there But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou Because may not stain with grief 'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was | That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled sung, below And lights were o'er th' Helvetian moun- Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near; the spot around tains flung, That gave the glacier-tops their richest glow, And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm, Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form, That high in Heaven's vermilion wheel'd and soar'd. Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd, From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin; Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between, And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd green. 'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss. Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd, She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct, Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. Amidst them one of spotless marble shone-A maiden's grave and 'twas inscribed thereon, That young and loved she died whose dust was there: Yes, said my comrade, young she died, and fair! Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid: Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along, And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song: Yet wooed, and worship'd as she was, till few Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned And died of love that could not be returned. Her father dwelt where yonder Castle | And speed each task, and tell each message clear, shines O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling In scenes where war-train❜d men were stunn'd with fear. vines. As gay as ever the laburnum's pride Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide, And still the garden whence she graced her brow, As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. How oft from yonder window o'er the lake, Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake, Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his oar to hear! Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, By mountain-freedom-music-fancy-song, Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame. Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, And much her likeness both in mind and mould, Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine, And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. 'Twas when, alas! our Empire's evil star Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war; When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. . The youth wrote home the rout of many a day; Yet still he said,and still with truth could say, One corps had ever made a valiant stand, The corps in which he served,-THEODRIC'S band. His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by, Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory's sky; Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show Our fields of battle twenty years ago, Will tell you feats his small brigade performed, In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed. Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped the clay, His fate moved even the common soldier's ruth THEODRIC succour'd him; nor left the youth To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent And lent what aid a brother would have lent. Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart, He wrote th' event to them; and soon could tell Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well; And last of all, prognosticating cure, Enclosed the leach's vouching signature. Their answers, on whose pages you might note That tears had fallen, whilst trembling fingers wrote, Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd, And soldiers loved the march that bore his Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word, Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot; name; The zeal of martial hearts was at his call, And that Helvetian, UDOLPH's, most of all. 'Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild, To see a blooming boy,-almost a child. Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs, Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, But which the giver had himself forgot. In time. the stripling, vigorous and healed, Resumed his barb and banner in the field, And bore himself right soldier-like, till now The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow; When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath, A curtain-drop between the acts of death,- How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard's snows! How dear seemed even the waste and wild Shreckhorn, Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land, Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, In open chariots passed with pearl and plume. Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mien Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen: The throng detained her till he reined his steed, And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read The motto and the arms her carriage bore. Led by that clue, he left not England's shore Till he had known her: and to know her well Upon a downward world of pastoral charms; Prolonged, exalted, bound, enchantment's Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms, And fragrance from the mountain-herbage | For with affections warm, intense, refined, She mixed such calm and holy strength of blown, Blindfold his native hills he could have known! His coming down yon lake,- his boat in view Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief flew,The arms spread out for him-the tears that burst, -- ('Twas JULIA's, 'twas his sister's met him first) Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, And all their rapture's greeting, may be guess'd. Ere long, his bosom triumph'd to unfold A gift he meant their gayest room to hold,The picture of a friend in warlike dress; And who it was he first bade JULIA guess. Yes, she replied, 'twas he methought in sleep, When you were wounded, told me not to weep. The painting long in that sweet mansion drew Regards its living semblance little knew. Meanwhile THEODRIC, who had years before Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic lore, A glad enthusiast now explored the land, Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand: Her women fair; her men robust for toil; Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil; Her towns, where civic independence flings The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings; Her works of art, resembling magic's powers; Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bowers, These he had visited, with wonder's smile, spell; mind, That, like heaven's image in the smiling brook, Celestial peace was pictured in her look. She studied not the meanest to eclipse, He sought-he won her-and resolved to make His future home in England for her sake. The boy was half beside himself,—the sire, cheek. Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, A month he promised with them to abide; As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they, And felt his joy make even the young more gay. How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fanned By yon blue water's breath,—their walks how bland! Fair JULIA seemed her brother's softened sprite A gem reflecting Nature's purest light,— And with her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, That almost child-like to his kindness drew, And twin with UDOLPH in his friendship grew. But did his thoughts to love one moment range? No! he who had loved CONSTANCE could not change! said, Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned, | But no, she cried, unsay not what you 've beam Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem. True she sang to his very soul, and brought Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, Which only Music's heaven-born art can bring, To sweep across the mind with angel-wing. Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, She paused o'ercome: he thought it might be chance, And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense's rack again, | Faith, honour, friendship bound him to unmask Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask. And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spirit met th' explanatory hour;Even conscious beauty brightened in her eyes, That told she knew their love no vulgar prize; And pride, like that of one more womangrown, Enlarged her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone. 'Twas then she struck the keys, and music made That mocked all skill her hand had e'er displayed: Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, She looked the very Muse of magic sound, Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow. Her closing strain composed and calm she played, And sang no words to give its pathos aid; But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell, And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. Of CONSTANCE then she heard TAEODRIC speak, And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek; But when he told her how he oft had planned Of old a journey to their mountain-land, That might have brought him hither years before, Ah! then, she cried, you knew not England's shore; And, had you come-And wherefore did you not? Yes, he replied, it would have changed our lot! Then burst her tears through pride's restraining bands And with her handkerchief and both her hands, She hid her face and wept.-Contrition stung THEODRIC for the tears his words had wrung. Nor grudge one prop on which my pride To think I could have merited your faith, To chase this dream of fondness from your The abrupt appeal electrified her thought; She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she sought, Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, mild: Alas! she said, I warned—conjured my child, And when your name in all she spoke was mixed, 'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind! Then each attempt a likelier choice to find Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, And UDOLPH's pride-perhaps her own believe That could she meet, she might enchant even you. You came.-I augured the event, 'tis true, But how was UDOLPH's mother to exclude The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude? And that unconscious you had cast a spell On JULIA's peace, my pride refused to tell; Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, Believe me well, how blameless you have been: Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end, At night he parted with the aged pair; And UDOLPH to convoy him o'er the lake. THEODRIC sped to Austria, and achieved His journey's object. Much was he relieved When UDOLPH's letters told that JULIA's mind Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned. He took the Rhenish route to England, high Elate with hopes,-fulfilled their ecstasy, And interchanged with CoNSTANCE'S Own breath The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. |