Was as a cloud passing before the stars. EGLAMOUR Set his lance; scarcely it jars The mail'd rings of the hauberk: down he bent

In time to shun the one his foeman sent; Wasting its strength it reach'd the lake beside,

And like a fallen tree dash'd in the tide. Their swords are out like lightning; one whose stroke

Is as the bolt that fells the forest-oak,
The other with light arm and ready wound.
At length the black knight's steed rolls on
the ground;
He rises like a tower. One desperate blow,
And the blood wells from EGLAMOUR's fair
brow;

His shield is dash'd in pieces: but just then,
Ere the recover'd blow was aim'd again,
He stakes his life upon a sudden thrust,
And his fierce foe is levell'd in the dust.
Gazed he in wonder on each giant limb,
Yet scarce he deem'd victory was won by

him.

He went on bended knee: "Now, virgin-queen,
Who hast my succour in this danger been,
Mother of God, these fair white deer shall be
Offer'd to-morrow at thy sanctuary."
He sat down by a fountain near, and tame
These gentle hinds now at his beckon came;
He lean'd on the soft grassy bed and slept,
And when he waked found they their watch
had kept.
Then sprang he on his steed. The Sun was
high,

Morning's last blush was fading from the sky
O'er a fair city; there with pious will
He turn'd, his vow'd thanksgiving to fulfil.

He enter'd victor; and around him drew The multitude, who could not sate their view

Gazing upon him who the black knight slew, And yet so young, so fair. Though somewhat

now

His cheek had lost its custom'd summerglow, With paleness from his wound, yet was not

one

Could say his peer they e'er had look'd upon. He found a stately church, and, bending there,

His spoil devoted,-pray'd his lover-prayer; When, rising from his knee, he saw a train With cross and chaunt enter the holy fane, Led by a man, though aged, of stately air, With purple robe, though head and feet were bare.

He ask'd the cause, and he was told, the king

Thus sought some mercy on his suffering; For that he had, in causeless jealousy, Exposed his wife and child to the rude sea. Hope thrill'd the bosom of our ocean-knight, Anxious he staid and watch'd the sacred rite; He saw the old man kneel before the shrine Where was the image of the Maid Divine. He pray'd to her that Heaven, now reconciled, Would pardon his great fault, and give his child

Back to his arms. With that the stranger set Full in his view the cloak and carkanet. One moment gazed the king upon his face; The next, and they are lock'd in fast embrace, While from their mutual eyes the warm

tears run.

The Virgin Mother hath restored his son. Hasty thanksgivings, anxious words were said;

Joy for the living, sorrow for the dead, Mingled together. Oh! for those sweet ties By which blood links affection's sympathies; Out on the heartless creed which nulls the claim

Upon the heart of kindred, birth, and name! Together seek they now the regal hall So long unknown to aught of festival; Once fill'd with mourning, as now fill'd with joy, While thousands gather round the princely boy.

Open'd the king his treasury, and gave His bounty forth free as the boundless wave; Feasting was spread, the dance, the masque, the song,

Whatever might to revelry belong :
Seem'd the young prince as if he had a
charm,

Love to take prisoner, envy to disarmı.
Yet e'en while floating thus on fortune's tide,
While each delight the past delight outvied,
Never omitted he at twilight-hour,
When sleep and dew fall on the painted flower,

There for the night like bosom-friends to dwell,

To kiss the ring of his sweet Isabelle.
He told his father, whose consent had seal'd
The gentle secret, half in fear reveal'd.
True love is timid, as it knows its worth,
And that such happiness is scarce for earth.
Waited he only for the princely band
With which he was to seek his foster-land,
When gazing on his treasured ring one night
He saw clouds gather on the emerald's light.
Like lightning he has flung him on the steed
His hasty spur then urged to fiery speed.
But leave we him to press his anxious way,
His band to follow with what haste they may;
And turn to the lorn princess who had kept,
With all a woman's truth, the faith she wept
Rather than spoke at parting. It was One
Whose love another faith had bade her
shun,-

Ah! shame and sign of this our mortal state,
That ever gentle love can turn to hate!—
Had caused her all this misery. He brought
A charge that she with arts unholy wrought:
For he had seen his rival's picture press'd
To its soft home and altar on her breast;
And hitherto unknown in that far land
Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand.

The fatal day is come, the pile is raised, As eager for its victim fierce it blazed. They led her forth: her brow and neck were bare,

Save for the silken veil of unbound hair;
So beautiful, few were there who could brook
To cast on her sweet face a second look.
There stood she, even as a statue stands,
With head droop'd downward, and with
clasped hands;

Such small white hands that match'd her
ivory feet,
How may they bear that scorching fire to
meet!

On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one
Cold as the icicle on carved stone
Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in
prayer

But, hark! there comes a distant rushing sound,

The crowd gives way before a courser's bound.

She turns her face; her scarce raised eyes behold

The unhelm'd head shine with its curls of gold.

Sir AMICE knew his rival. What! so slight, So young, would he dare cope with him in fight?

Their blades flash out, but only one is red; Rolls on the ground the traitor's felon head, The dust around with his life-blood is dyed, And EGLAMOUR darts to his maiden's side. Her lip is red, her eyes with tears are dim. But she is safe, and she is saved by him.

ing,

Sir AMICE rode around the weeping ring: Once, twice, the trumpet challenges: all fear To meet th' accuser's never erring spear. Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye, It cannot meet its last of agony.

They are contrasts each: the broider'd gold
And red gems shine on his mantle's fold;
While the young bride's simple russet-dress,
Thongh well it suits with her loveliness,
Is not a bridal robe fit for the bride
Of one so begirt with pomp and pride:

And on his brow and on his cheek
Are signs that of wildest passions speak,
Of one whose fiery will is his law;

And his beauty, it strikes on the heart with

awe:

And the maiden, hers is no smile to brook In meekness the storm of an angry look; For her forehead is proud, and her eyes' deep blue

Hath at times a spirit flashing through, That speaks of feelings too fierce to dwell In, woman, thy heart's sweet citadel.

He placed on the golden nuptial band; But the ring hath cut the maiden's hand, And the blood dripp'd red on the altar-stone,Never that stain from the floor hath gone. Away he flung, with a curse, that ring, And replaced it with one more glittering; And AGATHA smiled, as pleased to bear Gems that a queen might be joyed to wear. The priest urged that ring had been bless'd in vain,

And the Count and the maiden left the fane.

Change and time take together their flight, AGATHA wanders alone by night. Has change so soon over passion pass'd

So soon has the veil from love been cast? The day at the chase, and the night at the wine,

VIVALDI has left his young bride to pine, To pine if she would: but not hers the eye To droop in its weeping, the lip but to sigh; There is rage in that eye, on that lip there is pride,

As it scorn'd the sorrow its scorn could not hide.

Oh! frail are the many links that are In the chain of affection's tender care, And light at first: but, alas! few know How much watching is ask'd to keep them so. The will that yields, and the winning smile That soothes till anger forgets the while; Words whose music never yet caught The discord of one angry thought; And all those nameless cares that prove Their heaviest labour work of love. Ay, these are spells to keep the heart, When passion's thousand dreams depart: But none of this sweet witchcraft came To fan the young Count's waning flame. Passionate as his own wild skies, Rank and wealth seem'd light sacrifice To his German maiden's lowly state; Chose he as chooses the wood-dove his mate: But when his paradise was won, It was not what his fancy had fed upon.

Alas! when angry words begin Their entrance on the lip to win;

When sullen eye and flushing cheek
Say more than bitterest tone could speak;
And look and word, than fire or steel,
Give wounds more deep,-time cannot heal;
And anger digs, with tauntings vain,
A gulf it may not pass again.

Her lord is gone to some hunter's rite, Where the red wine-cup passes night; What now hath AGATHA at home? And she has left it lone to roam.

But evil thoughts are on her, now Sweeps the dark shadow o'er her brow. What doth she forth at such an hour, When hath the fallen fiend his power?

On through the black pine-forest she pass'd: Drearily moan'd around her the blast; Hot and heavy the thick boughs grew, Till even with pain her breath she drew; Flicker'd the moonlight over her path, As the clouds had gather'd together in wrath, Like the vague hopes whose false lures give birth.

To one half the miseries haunting our earth.
Maiden, ah! where is thy way address'd?
Where is the red cross that hung on thy
breast,

Safety and solace in danger and fear?
Both are around thee,-why is it not near?
Enter not thou yon cursed dell.
Thy rash step has enter'd. Lost maiden,
farewell!

Closed the huge and shapeless crags around,
There was not of life a sight or sound;
The earth was parched, the trees were sear'd,
And blasted every branch appear'd;
At one end yawned a gloomy cave,
Black, as its mouth were that of the grave;
And dark, as if the waters of death
Were in its depths, rose a well beneath.
But the deadliest sight of that deadly place
Was to gaze on the human wanderer's face:
Pale it was, as if fell despair

Had written its worst of lessons there;
The features set like funeral stone,
All of good or kind from their meaning gone;
And the look of defiance to heaven cast,
As if feeling such look must be the last.
Down she knelt by the well, to say
What never prayer may wash away.
It was not a sound that pass'd along,
Nor aught that might to our earth belong.
And her words at once in their terror died,
For the spirit she call'd on stood by her side;
Not one of those fearful shapes that teem
On the midnight fears of the maniac's dream.
But better she could have brook'd to gaze
On the loathliest semblance the grave dis-
plays,

Dreary it is the path to trace, Step by step, of sin's wild race. Pass we on to a lovely night, Shone the sea with silver moonlight; Who would ever dream, but such time Must be sacred from human crime? I see two silent figures glide Moodily by the radiant tide; I see one fall,-in AGATHA's breast VIVALDI's dagger had found a nest; I hear a heavy plunge, the flood, Oh! 't is crimson'd with human blood; I see a meteor shining fair, It is the sweep of golden hair; Float the waters from the shore, The waves roll on, I see no more.

Long years have pass'd, -VIVALDI's name Is foremost in the lists of fame. Are there, then, spirits that may steep Conscience in such a charmed sleep? No: haggard eye and forehead pale Tell sadly of a different tale;

And some said, not his wealth or power Could bribe them share his midnight-hour.

'Tis morn, and shout and trumpet's call Proclaim that it is festival;

The doge VIVALDI weds to-day
The bride that owns his city's sway;
Banner and barge float o'er that bride,
The peerless Adriatic tide.

The galleys paused,-the ring he took.
He bends again, his heart-streams creep;
Why starts the Doge with such wild look?
All marvel that he doth not fling
A pale hand beckons from the deep;
To the sea-
a-bride the marriage-ring.

He heard the murmur; none then scann'd,
Save his own eye, the spectral hand!
He drops the ring, then bends again
To snatch it from that hand in vain.
He follows what he could not save,
One false step sinks him in the wave!
All rush the victim to restore,
But never eye beheld him more.

'T was strange, for there they found the ring, Some said it was fit gift to bring, And lay upon the Virgin's shrine, Of human vanity a sign. And there, as if by miracle, One drop of blood beneath it fell; Lost the bright ring its ruby hue. And, pale as twilight's earliest dew, There still may curious eye behold The relic. But my tale is told.

Now welcome, fair MARGUERITE, to thee,
Fair flower of Provence-minstrelsy.
Came a lovely lady in place,
Like the twilight-star in her pensive grace.
White daisies were wreathed in the dark
brown shade

Of her tresses, parted in simple braid:
Her long eyelash was the shadow of night,
And the eye beneath was the morning bright;
For its colour was that of the diamond-dew
Which hath caught from the glancing light
its hue:

Her cheek was pale, for its blush soon pass'd,—
Loveliest tints are not those which last;
Then again it redden'd, again was gone,
Like a rainbow and rose in unison:
Her smile was sad, as if nature meant
Those lips to live, in their own content;
But fate pass'd o'er them her stern decree,
And taught them what suffering and sorrow
might be:

And sang she in sweet but mournful tone,
As her heart had the misery it painted known

THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS.

THE PROVENÇAL LADY'S LAY,

A SUMMER-ISLE, which seem'd to be A very favourite with the sea,