Many a high-born beauty made
Her seat beneath the chesnut-shade;
While, like her shadow hovering near,
Came her dark-eyed cavalier,
Bidding the rose fade by her cheek,
To hint of what he dared not speak.
And others wandered with the lute,
In such a scene could it be mute?
While from its winged sweetness came,
The echo of some treasured name.
And many a grot with laughter rung,
As, gathered there, these gay and young
Flung airy jests like arrows round,
That hit the mark but to rebound.

With graceful welcome, smiled on all, The lady of the festival Wander'd amid her guests; at last, Many a courtly greeting past, She stray'd into a little grove, With cypress-branches roofed above; Beneath the path was scarcely seen,Alike the walk and margent green. So dim it was, each precious stone The Countess wore a meteor shone. Yet on she went, for nought her heart In the glad revellings took part: Too tender and too sad to share In sportive mirth, in pageant glare; Dearer to her was the first breath, When morning shakes her early wreath, And joys in the young smiles of day, Albeit they steal her pearls away: Dearer to her the last pale light That lingers on the brow of night, As if unwilling to be gone, And abdicate its lovely throne: Dearer to her were these than all That ever shone in lighted hall.

The young, the gay, be they allow'd One moment's pleasaunce in the crowd; The dance, the odours, song, and bloom, Those soft spells of the banquet-room: They last not, but the ear, the eye, Catch the check'd frown-the hidden sigh, Which pierce too soon the shining mask, And prove delight may be a task.

Alas! when once the heart shall learn To gaze on the glad scene, then turn To its own depths, and sadly say,Oh, what am I, and what are they? Masquers but striving to deceive Themselves and others; and believe It is enough, if none shall know The covered mass of care below. Sad lesson for the heart to bear, Seeing how pass the young, the fair; Forgot, as if they had not been The spirit of the stirring scene: Or sadder still to watch the bands, With kindly looks and fast-link'd hands; And know how that a word could move The fierce extreme of hate from love,That, sweep but o'er a fleeting year, Of all the many gather'd here, Now claiming friend's or lover's name, Not one may be in aught the same.

But not like this is Nature's face, Though even she must bear the trace Of the great curse that clings to all; Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall: There hides no darker doom behind, Like workings in the human mind, And the buds yield but to make way For leaves or fruits upon the spray ;Not thus man's pleasures, which depart And leave the scar'd or breaking heart.

On fair CLEMENZA went, her mood Deepening with the deep solitude; That gentle sadness which is wrought With more of tenderness than thought, When memory like the moonlight flings A softness o'er its wanderings,— When hope a holiday to keep Folds up its rainbow-wings for sleep, And the heart, like a bark at rest. Scarce heaves within the tranquil breast.When thoughts and dreams that moment's birth Take hues which are not of the earth.

But she was waken'd from her dream By sudden flashing of the wave; The cypress first conceal'd the stream, Then oped, as if a spirit gave, With one touch of his radiant wand, Birth to a scene in fairy-land.

'Twas a small lake, the honey-bee
Cross'd, laden, in security;
From it an elfin-island rose,

A green spot made for the repose
Of the blue halcyon, when an hour
Of storm is passing o'er its bower.
One lonely tree upon it stood,
A willow sweeping to the flood,
With darkling boughs and lorn decline,
As though even here was sorrow's sign.
"Twas even a haunted place; one part,
Like that which is in every heart.
Beyond, the gloom was laugh'd away
By sparkling wave and dancing spray ;-
One of those glowing spots that take
The sunbeams prisoners, and make
A glory of their own delight,
Below all clear, above all bright.
And every bank was fair; but one
Most shelter'd from the wind and sun
Seem'd like a favourite the rest
Bared to the open sky their breast;
But this was resting in the shade
By two old patriarch-chesnuts made,
Whose aged trunks peep'd gray and bare
Spite of the clustering ivy's care,
Which had spread over all its wreath,
The boughs above, the ground beneath ;—
Oft told and true similitude
For moralist in pensive mood,

:

To mark the green leaves' glad outside,
Then search what wither'd boughs they hide.
And here the Countess took her seat
Beneath the chesnut, shelter meet
For one whose presence might beseem
The spirit of the shade and stream;
As now she lean'd with upraised head,
And white veil o'er her bosom spread,
Hiding the gems and chains of gold
Which too much of rank's baubles told;
Leaving her only with the power
Of nature in its loveliest hour,
When to its musing look is given
The influence of its native heaven.
Her cheek was pale, the hue of thought,
Like image by the sculptor sought
For some sweet saint, some muse on whom
Beauty has shed all but her bloom,
As if it would have nought declare
The strife and stain of clay were there.
Braided Madonna-like, the wave
Of the black hair a lustre gave
To the clear forehead, whose pure snow
Was even as an angel's brow:
While there was in her gentler eye
The touch of human sympathy,-
That mournful tenderness which still
In grief and joy, in good and ill,
Lingers with woman through life's void,
Sadden'd, subdued, but not destroy'd.

And gazed the Countess on the lake, Loving it for its beauty's sake; Wander'd her look round, till its sight Became itself blent with the light;

Till, as it sought for rest, her eye Now fell upon a green mound nigh. With ivy hung and moss-o'er-grown Beside it stood a broken stone,

And on it was a single flower,

The orphan growth of some chance shower, Which brought it there, and then forgot All care of the frail nursling's lot,

A lily with its silver bells

Perfumed like the spring's treasure-cells;
Yet drooping, pale, as if too late
Mourning for their neglected state.
It was the fittest flower to grow
Over the conscious clay below.
Bethought the Countess of a tale
Connected with the lonely vale;
Some bard, who died before his fame;
Whose songs remain'd, but not his name:
It told his tomb was by the wave,
In life his haunt, in death his grave.
Sadly she mused upon the fate
That still too often must await
The gifted hand which shall awake
The poet's lute, and for its sake
All but its own sweet self resign,-
Thou loved lute! to be only thine.
For what is genius, but deep feeling
Waken'd by passion to revealing?
And what is feeling, but to be
Alive to every misery,

While the heart too fond, too weak,
Lies open for the vulture's beak?
Alas! for him possess'd of all
That wins and keeps a world in thrall,
Of all that makes the soul aspire,
Yet vow'd to a neglected lyre;
Who finds, the first, a golden mine,
Sees the veins yield, the treasures shine,
Gazes until his eye grows dim,
Then learns that it is not for him;
One who, albeit his wayward mood
Pines for and clings to solitude,
Has too much humanness of heart
To dwell from all his kind apart;
But seeks communion for the dreams
With which his vision'd spirit teems;
Would fain in other cups infuse
His own delights, and fondly woos
The world, without that worldliness
Which wanting, there is no success;
Hears his song sink unmark'd away,-
Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay,—
Lifts to his native heaven his eyes,
Turns to the earth, despairs and dies;
Leaving a memory whose reward
Might lesson many a future bard,
Or, harder still, a song whose fame
Has long outlived its minstrel's name.
Oh, must this be! CLEMENza said,
Thus perish quite the gifted dead!
How many a wild and touching song
To my own native vales belong,
Whose lyrist's name will disappear
Like his who sleeps forgotten here!
Not so; it shall be mine to give
The praise that bids the poet live.

But not his the love that changes not
'Mid the trials and griefs of an ill-starr'd
lot;

Not like the rainbow, that shines on high
Brighter and purer as darker the sky.
But woman's creed of suffering bears
All that the health and the spirit wears;
Absence but makes her love the more,

Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed

Over the faithless or over the dead.
She has not seen his face since that night
When she watch'd his shadow by pale
moonlight,

And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was left

And is not hers the heart alone That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won?

Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale,

But tell they not both the same fond tale? Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek,

To burn and die on the heart which they

seek.

Alas! that so often the grave should be The seal of woman's fidelity!

On the horizon is a star,

Its earliest, loveliest one by far;
A blush is yet upon the sky,
As if too beautiful to die,-
A last gleam of the setting sun,
Like hope when love has just begun;
That hour when the maiden's lute,
And minstrel's song, and lover's suit,
Seem as that their sweet spells had made
This mystery of light and shade.

That last rich sigh is on the gale Which tells when summer's day is over, The sigh which closing flowers exhale After the bee, their honey-lover, As to remind him in his flight Of what will be next noon's delight.

"T is a fair garden, almond-trees
Throw silver gifts upon the breeze;
Lilies, each a white-robed bride,
With treasures of pure gold inside,
Like marble-towers a king has made;-
And of its own sweet self afraid,

A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping,
Lovelier from its timid drooping:-
But in the midst is a rose-stem,
The wind's beloved, the garden's gem.
No wonder that it blooms so well:
Thy tears have been on every leaf;
And, MIRZALA, thy heart can tell
How lasting that which feeds on grief.

'T was a branch of roses her lover gave Amid her raven-curls to wave, When they bade farewell, with that gentle

sorrow

Of the parting that sighs: "we meet to-morrow;"

She was one summer-evening laid
Beneath the tulip-tree's green shade,
When from her favourite rose a cloud
Floated like those at break of day;-
She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud,
And there a radiant figure lay.
And in murmurs soft as those
Which sweep the sea at evening-close,
Spoke the Spirit of the rose:-
"MIRZALA, thy lover sleeps

While his mistress for him weeps.
He is bound by magic spell,

Of force which woman's love may quell;
I will guide thee to the hall

Where thy faith may break his thrall.
Think thou if thy heart can dare
All that thou must look on there.
Turn not thou for hope nor fear,
Till the marble-hall appear.
There thou wilt thy lover see
Dead to life, and love, and thee.
Only truth so pure as thine
Could approach the charmed shrine.
Press thy lips to the cold stone,
He will wake,-the spell be done!
Hast thou courage like thy love?
Follow thou the snow-white dove."

And MIRZALA rose up, and there Was a fair dove on that rose-tree, With white wings glittering on the air, Like foam upon a summer-sca. She follow'd it until she stood By where a little boat lay moor'd To the green willow, from the flood But by a water-flag secured. She enter'd, and it cut the tide; Odours and music fill'd the sail, | As if a rose and lute had sigh'd A mingled breath upon the gale. It was at first a lovely scene: Leaves and branches wreathed a screen, Sunbeams there might wander through; Glimpses of a sky of blue, Like the hopes that smile to cheer The earthliness of sorrow here; And like summer-queens, beside, Roses gazed upon the tide, Each one longing to caress Her own mirror'd loveliness; And the purple orchis shone Rich, as shines an Indian stone; And the honeysuckle's flower Crimson, as a sunset-hour;

But too soon the blooms are past,-
When did ever beauty last?
And there came a dreary shade,
Of the yew and cypress made,
Moaning in the sullen breeze;
And at length not even these,
But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd,
Relics of a ruin'd world.
Wide, more wide, the river grew,
Blacker changed its dreary hue,
Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye
Only gazed on sea and sky-
Sea of death, and sky of night,
Where a storm had been like light.

MIRZALA was pale, yet still Shrank she not for dread of ill. She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore; But little it recks to number o'er The wearying days, and the heavy fears, When hope could only smile through tears, The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd,

Till she came to a castle's gate at last.

"T was evening; but the glorious sky, With its purple light and Tyrian dye, Was contrast strange to the drear heath Which bleak and desolate lay beneath. Trees, but leafless all, stood there, For the lightning-flash had left them bare; The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind Of the Siroc had mark'd its red course; behind The bright clouds shone on the river's face, But the death-black waters had not a trace Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd:

It seem'd as if a curse were laid On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower,

And shut them out from the sunbeam's power; And with the last ray which the sunbeam

threw,

There were tall and stately trees
With green boughs, in canopies
For the rose beneath, that smiled
Like a young and favourite child;
With its purple wealth the vine,
Mixed with silver jessamine,
Stretch'd around from tree to tree,
Like a royal tapestry;

Sweet sounds floated on the air,
Lutes and voices mingled there,
And a thousand flowers blent
Into one delicious scent;
Singing birds, and azure skies,
Made a spot like Paradise.
MIRZALA paused not to lave
Her pale forehead in the wave,
Though each fountain was as bright
As if form'd of dew and light.
Paused she not for the sweet song,
On the rich air borne along.
Fair forms throng'd around with flowers
Breathing of spring's earliest hours;
Others from their baskets roll'd
Fruits of ruby and of gold.
Vainly nothing could delay,
Nothing win the maiden's stay.
And the magic scene again
Changed to a white marble-fane;
And as MIRZALA drew near,
Saw she two bright forms appear.
The first wore gorgeous coronet,
With topaz, pearl, and sapphire set,
And a diamond-zone embraced

The rich robe around her waist;
And as conscious of her power
In her great and royal dower,
With a smile that seem'd to say,
Only gold can clear thy way,
She her casket show'd, where shone

Precious ore and Indian stone.

"Oh! if gold could win his heart,
I would from the search depart;
All my offering must be
True and spotless constancy."
Then to the other shape she turn'd,
Whose cheek with crimson blushes burn'd

But to think love could be sold
For a heartless gift of gold.
From her lily-braided hair
Took the spirit bud as fair
As if to summer-suns unknown,
Gave it the maiden, and was gone.

Then MIRZALA stood by a portal barr'd, Where held the Lion King his guard; But touch'd by that bud the lion grew tame, And the chained portals asunder came. It was darkness all in that magic room, But a sweet light stream'd from the lily's bloom.

And MIRZALA look'd on her lover's face, And he woke at the touch of her soft embrace. Joy, joy for the maiden, her task is done,— The spell is broken, her lover is won.