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The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowers
Had withered in the meadow; fig and prune
Hung wrinkling; the last apple glow'd amid
Its freckled leaves; and weary oxen blink'd
Between the trodden corn and twisted vine,
Under whose bunches stood the empty crate,
To creak ere long beneath them carried home.
This was the season when twelve months before,
O gentle Hamadryad, true to love!
Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood
Was blasted and laid desolate: but none
Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck
The moss beneath it, which alone remain'd
Of what was thine.

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Old Thallinos sat mute In solitary sadness. The strange tale (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole) Echion had related, whom no force Could ever make look back upon the oaks. The father said, "Echion! thou must weigh, Carefully, and with steady hand, enough (Although no longer comes the store as once!) Of wax to burn all day and night upon That hollow stone where milk and honey lie: So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd!" Thallinos bore it thither in the morn, And lighted it and left it.

And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trust.
Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate
She sorrowed for: he slender, pale, and first
Lapp'd by the flame of love: his father's lands
Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar.
Now stood the two aside the hollow stone
And look'd with steadfast eyes toward the oak
Shivered and black and bare.

"May never we
Love as they loved!" said Acon. She at this 41
Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say,
And thought not of its bliss, but of its end.
He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, and vow'd
Nor time nor other power, whereto the might
Of love hath yielded and may yield again,
Should alter his.

The father of the youth Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart,

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Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks, Nor shunn'd to look upon the hollow stone That held the milk and honey, nor to lay His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid Opposite hers, when finger playfully Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side. He did not think of this, as she would do If she were there alone. The day was hot; The moss invited him; it cool'd his cheek, It cool'd his hands; he thrust them into it And sank to slumber. Never was there dream Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad. She took him by the arm and led him on

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Along a valley, where profusely grew
The smaller lilies with their pendant bells,
And, hiding under mint, chill drosera,
The violet, shy of butting cyclamen,

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The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks,
Her offspring round her, the soft strawberry;
The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk,
The oleander's light-hair'd progeny
Breathing bright freshness in each other's face,
And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup
Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for gods.
The fragrance fill'd his breast with such delight
His senses were bewildered, and he thought
He saw again the face he most had loved.
He stopp'd: the Hamadryad at his side
Now stood between; then drew him farther off:
He went, compliant as before: but soon
Verdure had ceased: although the ground was
smooth,

Nothing was there delightful. At this change
He would have spoken, but his guide repress'd
All questioning, and said,

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"Weak youth! what brought Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt, My life-long residence? this bank, where first I sate with him the faithful (now I know Too late!) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home;

Be happy, if thou canst; but come no more Where those whom death alone could sever, died."

He started up: the moss whereon he slept III Was dried and withered: deadlier paleness spread Over his cheek; he sickened: and the sire Had land enough; it held his only son.

ROSE AYLMER

Ah, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

A FIESOLAN IDYL

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires,
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em,
And softer sighs that know not what they want,
Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree,
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,

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At what they seem'd to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.

I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
Such I believed it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them? when hath wind or
rain

Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walk'd off? 'Twere most ungrateful: for sweet

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Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot that, although half-erect
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms; since their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and
flies

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Of harder wing were working their way thro'
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detach'd,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun:
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 50
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said, "You find the largest." "This indeed,"
Cried she, "is large and sweet." She held one
forth,

Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her
doubt.

I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch

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Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!

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There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 8 Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours,

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Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more !

O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?

Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

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They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

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Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, 347 And as the slave departs, the man returns.

Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn,

Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland - and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,

Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, "O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country

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He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death, - the watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, 371 And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew: Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd

spear,

Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;-
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 381
And Freedom shriek'd - as Kosciusko fell!
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage
there,

Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air-
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! 390
Earth shook — red meteors flash'd along the sky,
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

Oh! righteous Heaven; ere Freedom found a

grave,

Why slept the sword omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy

rod,

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