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Unwitting of his colours, he had slain In the midst played a fountain, whose starry The father of his worshipped ISABELLE !

showers Fell like beams on the radiant flowers,

Whose colours were gleaming, as every one They met once more;—and ISABELLE was Burnt from the kisses just caught from the changed

sun; As much as if a lapse of years had past: And vases sent forth their silvery clouds, She was so thin, so pale, and her dim eye Like those which the face of the young Had wept away its luxury of blue.

moon shrouds, She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore But sweet as the breath of the twilight-hour A robe of black, with a white crucifix: When the dew awakens the rose's power. It told her destiny-her youth was vowed At the end of the hall was a sun-bright throne, To Heaven. And in the convent of the isle Rich with every glorious stone; That day she was to enter, Roland stood And the purple canopy overhead Like marble, cold, and pale, and motionless: Was like the shade o'er the dayfall shed; The heavy sweat upon his brow was all And the couch beneath was of buds half His sign of life. At length he snatched the

blown, scarf

Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone; That IsaBELLE had tied around his neck, And round, like festoons, a vine was rolled, And gave it her,-and prayed that she would Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was wave

of gold. Its white folds from the lattice of her cell But though graced as for a festival, At ench pale rising of the evening-star, There was something sad in that stately hall: That he might know she lived. They parted: There floated the breath of the harp and -Never

flute,Those lovers met again! But Roland built But the sweetest of every music is mute: A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt. There are flowers of light, and spiced perAnd every evening saw the white scarf waved,

fume, And heard the vesper-hymn of ISABELLE But there wants the sweetest of breath and Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river.

of bloom : One evening, and he did not see the scarf, And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, He watched and watched in vain ; at length For the smiling of woman shineth not here.

his hope

With urns of odour o'er him weeping, Grew desperate, and he prayed his IsaBELLE Upon the couch a youth is sleeping: Might have forgotten him: - but midnight His radiant hair is bound with stars,

Such as shine on the brow of night, And with it came the convent's heavy bell, Filling the dome with diamond-rays, Tolling for a departed soul; and then Only than his own curls less bright. He knew that ISABELLE was dead! Next day | And such a brow, and such an eye They laid her in her grave; and the moon As fit a young divinity;


A brow like twilight's darkening line,
Upon a mourner weeping there :-that tomb An eye like morning's first sunshine,
Was Roland's death-bed!

Now glancing through the veil of dreams
As sudden light at daybreak streams.
And richer than the mingled shade
By gem, and gold, and purple made,

His orient wings closed o'er his head;

Like that bird's, bright with every dye,

Whose home, as Persian bards have said, AN INDIAN TALE.

Is fixed in scented Araby.

Some dream is passing o'er him nowThe BAYADERE was taken from some faint re-A sudden flush is on his brow; collection of a tale I had either read or heard ; And from his lip come murmured words, and meeting with the word “ Bayadere" many

Low, but sweet as the light lute-chords vears after recalled it to my memory as a subject exquisitely poetical. I have been since told When o'er its strings the night-winds glide it was a poem of Goethe's. This poem has never To woo the roses by its side. been to iny knowledge translated ; and, being | He, the fair boy-god, whose nest ignorant of the German language, I am unable to say whether the tale conforms to the original

Is in the water-lily's breast; or not.

He of the many-arrowed bow,

of the joys that come and go THERE were seventy pillars around the hall, Like the leaves, and of the sighs Of wreathed gold was each capital,

Like the winds of summer-skies, And the roof was fretted with amber and gems, Blushes like the birds of spring, Such as light kingly diadeins;

Soon seen and soon vanishing ; The floor was marble, white as the snow He of hopes, and he of fears, Ere its pureness is stained by its fall below: He of smiles, and he of tears

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Young Campeo, he has brought

A martial salute to the radiant fold A sweet dream of coloured thought, That bore the lion-king wrought in gold. One of love and woman's power,

And last the elephant came, whose tower To MANDALLA's sleeping hour.

Held the lord of this pomp and power:
And round that chariot of his pride,

Like chains of wbite sea-pearls,
Joyless and dark was his jewelled throne, Or braids enwove of summer-flowers,
When MANDALLA awakened and found him Glided fair dancing-girls;


And as the rose-leaves fall to earth, He drank the perfume that around him swept, | Their light feet touched the ground, 'Twas not sweet as the sigh he drank as he But for the zone of silver bells


You had not beard a sound,
There was music, but where was the voice As, scattering flowers o'er the way,

at whose thrill Whirled round the beautiful array.
Every pulse in his veins was throbbing still ? But there was one who 'mid them shone
And dim was the home of his native star A planet Jovely and alone,
While the light of woman and love was afar; A rose, one flower amid many,
And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes But still the loveliest of any :
Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise. | Though fair her arm as the moonlight,
He veiled the light of his glorious race Others might raise an arm as white;
In a mortal's form and a mortal's face, Though light her feet as music's fall,
And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one Others might be as musical;
Who might dwell in his hall and share in But where were such dark eyes as hers?

his throne.

So tender, yet withal so bright,
As the dark orbs had in their smile

Mingled the light of day and night.
The loorie brought to his cinnamon-nest And where was that wild grace which shed
The bee from the midst of its honey-quest, A loveliness o'er every troad,
And open the leaves of the lotus lay A beauty shining through the whole,
To welcome the noon of the summer-day. Something which spoke of heart and soul
It was glory, and light, and beauty all, The Almas had passed lightly on,
When MANDALLA closed his wing in Bengal. The armed ranks, the crowd, were gone,
He stood in the midst of a stately square, Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square
As the waves of the sea rolled the thousands As she he sought still glided there,-


Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs strain, Their gathering war round the gorgeous car And will not know its look is vain! Where sat in his triumph the Subadar; At length he turned, -his silent mood For his sabre was red with the blood of the Sought that impassioned solitude,


| The Eden of young hearts, when first And his proudest foes were slaves in his chain; Love in its loneliness is nurst. And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of He sat him by a little fount;

his name,

A tulip-tree grew by its side, Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards A lily with its silver towers

he came.

Floated in silence on the tide;
With gems and gold on each ataghan, And far round a banana-tree
A thousand warriors led the van,

Extended its green sanctuary;
Mounted on steeds black as the night, And the long grass, which was his seat,
But with foam and with stirrup gleaming in With every motion grew more sweet,


Yielding a more voluptuous scent And another thousand came in their rear, At every blade his pressure bent. On white horses, armed with bow and spear, And there he lingered, till the sky With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid, Lost somewhat of its brilliancy, And with crimson belt for each crooked And crimson shadows rolled on the west,


And raised the moon her diamond-crest, Then followed the foot-ranks,-their turbans And came a freshness on the trees,


Harbinger of the evening-breeze, Like flashes of light from a mountain-cloud, When a sweet far sound of song, For white were the turbans as winter-snow, Borne by the breath of flowers along, And death-black the foreheads that darkened A mingling of the voice and lute,


Such as the wind-harp, when it makes Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest, Its pleasant music to the gale And each bore a lion of gold on his breast, Which kisses first the chords it breaks. For this was the chosen band that bore He followed where the echo led, The lion-standard,-it floated o'er

Till in a cypress-grove he found Their ranks like morning; at every wave A funeral train, that round a grave Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave Poured forth their sorrows' wailing sound; gold

And by the tomb a choir of girls,

And win her back in her tears to Heaven With measured steps and mournful notes, Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven : And snow-white robes, while on the air, Yes! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall, Unbound their wreaths, each dark curl floats, Her smile shall light up my starry hall!" Paced round and sang to her who slept Calm, while their young eyes o'er her wept. And she, that loveliest one, is here,

The moonlight is on a little bower, The morning's radiant Bayadere:

With wall and with roof of leaf and of flower A darker light in her dark eyes,-

Built of that green and holy tree For tears are there,-a paler brow

Which heeds not how rude the storm may be. Changed but to charm the morning's smile, Like a bridal canopy overhead Less sparkling, but more touching now. The jasmines their slender wreathings spread, And first her sweet lip prest the flute, One with stars as ivory white, A nightingale waked by the rose,

The other with clusters of amber light; And when that honey-breath was mute, Rose-trees four grew by the wall, Was heard her low song's plaintive close, Beautiful each, but different all: Wailing for the young blossom's fall, One with that pare but crimson flash The last, the most beloved of all.

That marks the maiden's first love-blush ; As died in gushing tears the lay,

By its side grew another one, The band of mourners passed away :

Palo as the snow of the funeral stone; They left their wreaths upon the tomb, The next was rich with the damask dye As fading leaves and long perfume

of a monarch's purple drapery; Of her were emblems; and unbound And the last had leaves like those leaves of Many a cage's gilded round, And set the prisoners free, as none

Worked on that drapery's royal fold. Were left to love now she was gone. And there were four vases, with blossoms And azure wings spread on the air,

filled, And songs, rejoicing songs, were heard; Like censers of incense, their fragrance disBut, pining, as forgotten now,

tilled; Lingered one solitary bird :

Lilies, heaped like the pearls of the sea, A beautiful and pearl-white dove,

Peeped from their large leaves' security; Alone in its remembering love.

Hyacinths with their graceful bells, It was a strange and lovely thing

Where the spirit of odour dwells To mark the drooping of its wing,

Like the spirit of music in ocean-shells : And how into the grave it prest,

And tulips, with every colour that shines Till soiled the dark earth-stain its breast; In the radiant gems of Serendib's mines; And darker as the night-shades grew,

One tulip was found in every wreath, Sadder became its wailing con,

| That one most scorched by the summer's As if it missed the hand that bore,

breath, As the cool twilight came, its store

Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow Of seeds and flowers. There was one Hide the heart that lies burning and black Who, like that dove, was lingering lone,

below. The Bayadere: her part bad been

And there, beneath the flowered shade
Only the hired mourner's part;

By a pink acacia made,
But she had given what none might buy, MANDALLA lay, and by his side,
The precious sorrow of the heart.

With eye, and breath, and blush that vied
She wooed the white dove to her breast, With the star and with the flower
It sought at once its place of rest:

In their own and loveliest hour, Round it she threw her raven-hair, Was that fair Bayadere, the dove It seemed to love the gentle snare,

Yet nestling in her long black hair: And its soft beak was raised to sip

She has now more than that to love,
The honey-dew of her red lip.

And the loved one sat by her there.
Her dark eyes filled with tears, to feel And by the sweet acacia-porch
The gentle creature closer steal

| They drank the softness of the breeze.Into her heart with soft caress,

Oh more than lovely are love's dreams, As it would thank her tenderness;

'Mid lights and blooms and airs like these ! To her 'twas strange and sweet to be And sometimes she would leave his side, Beloved in such fond purity,

And like a spirit round him glide: And sighed MANDALLA to think that sin A light shawl now wreathed ronnd her brow, Could dwell so fair a shrine within. Now waving from her hand of snow, “Oh, grief to think that she is one

Now zoned around her graceful waist, Who like the breeze is wooed and won! And now like fetters round her placed ; Yet sure it were a task for love

And then, flung enddenly aside,
To come like dew of the night from above Her many curls, instead, unbound,
Upon her heart, and wash away,

Waved in fantastic braids, till loosed, Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clay, Her long dark tresses swept the ground:

Then, changing from the soft slow step.

Her white feet bounded on the wind
Like gleaming silver, and her hair

There is a home like the home of our infancy. Like a dark banner svept behind :

o remembrances the these of our youth; the Or with her sweet voice sweet like a bird's all trees where tagast-beaghs we bare climbed. When it pour forth its first song in spring,

the hedge containing that prize a bird's nest.

the fairy-tale ve heard by the fireside, are thing The one like an echo to the other,

of deep and serious interest in maturity. The She ansvered the sigh of her soft Inte-string, heart, crushed or hardened by its intercourse And with eyes that darkened in gentlest tean

with the world, turas with affectionate delight

to its early dreams. How I pity those whose Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove,

childhood has been unbapor! to them one of the Woald she sing those sorrowing songs that sweetest spring of feeling has been atterly


denied, the most green and beautiful part of Some history of unhappy love.

life laid waste. Bet to those whose spring kas

beea what spring should ever be, fresh, baoyant, Yes, thou art mine! MSDALLA said,

and gladsome, whose cup has not been poisoned I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart;l at the first dranght, bow delicious is recollesI taught thee its tenderness.now I must teach tion! they traly brow the pleasures of memory. Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part; And then, from thy earth-stains purified.

- THERE is not In my star and my hall shalt thon reign my A valley of more quiet happiness,


Bosomed in greener trees, or with a river

Clearer than thine, GLADEMOIR! There are It was an evening soft and fair,

huge hills As surely those in Eden are,

Like barriers by thy side, where the tall When, bearing spoils of leaf and flower,

pine Entered the Bayadere her bower:

Stands stately as a warrior in his prime, Her love lay sleeping, as she thought,

Mixed with low gnarled oaks, whose yellow And playfully a bunch she caught

leaves Of azure hyacinth-bells, and o'er

Are bound with ruby tendrils, emerald shoots, His face she let the blossoms fall:

And the wild blossoms of the honeysuckle; “Why I am jealous of thy dreams,

And even more impervious grows the brier,

Covered with thorns and roses, mingled like Awaken at thy Aza's call." No answer came from him whose tone

Pleasures and pains, but shedding richly Had been the echo of her own.

forth She spoke again, no words came forth;

Its fragrance on the air; and by its side She clasped his hand, she raised his head,

| The wilding broom as sweet, which graceOne wild, loud scream, she sank beside,


Flings its long tresses like a maiden's hair As pale, as cold, almost as dead!

Waring in yellow beauty. The red deer
Crouches in safety in its secret lair;

The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets,
By the Ganges raised, for the morning-sun
To shed his earliest beams upon,

Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath; Js a funeral pile,-around it stand

And in the boughs above the woodlark builde, Pricets and the hired mourners' band.

And makes sweet music to the morning; But who is she that so wildly prays

while To share the couch and light the blaze?

All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes

Wail plaintively--the only sounds beside MANDALL 1's love, while scornful eye And chilling jeers mock her agony:

The hum of the wild bees around some trunk. An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame,

Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is reared To Brahma's race and Brahma's Dame!

Their honey-palace. Where the forest ends,

Stretches a wide brown heath, till the blue Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire

Becomes its boundary; there the only growth Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre;

Are straggling thickets of the white-flowered

thorn Then like a thought she darted by, And sprang on the burning pile to die!

And yellow furze: beyond are the grass


And of yet fresher verdure the young "Now thou art mine! away, away

wheat;To my own bright star, to my home of day!" These border round the village. The bright A dear voice sighed, as he bore her along

river Gently as spring-breezes bear the song, Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth ""Thy love and thy faith bave won for thee Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side, The breath of immortality.

Half hidden by the aged trees that time Maid of earth, MANDALLA is free to call | Has spared as honouring their sanctity. Aza the queen of his heart and hall!" | The old gray church is seen: its mossy walls

| And ivy-covered windows tell how long


It has been sacred. There is a lone path During his absence, how they numbered o'er Winding beside yon hill: no neighb'ring The days for bis return. Thrice hallowed height

shrine Commands 80 wide a view; the ancient of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside!


I do remember in my early youth The cottages, their gardens, and the heath, I parted from its circle; how I pined Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen With happy recollections—they to me By glimpses as the greenwood-screen gives Were sickness and deep sorrow: how I way.

thought One is now tracing it, who gazes round of the strange tale, the laugh, the gentle As each look were his last. The anxious gasp

smile That drinks the air as every breath brought Breathing of love,that whiled the night away.


The hour of absence past, I was again The hurried step, yet lingering at times, With those who loved me. What a beauty As fearful all it felt were but a dream

dwelt How much they tell of deep and inward In each accustomed face! what music hung


On each familiar voice! We circled in That stranger is worn down with toil and Our meeting ring of happiness. If e'er


This life has bliss, I knew and felt it then! His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow Is darkened with long suffering; yet he is Oh more than happy!-he has reached his But there was one Ronald remembered not,


Yet 'twas a creature beautiful as Hope, And Ronald is a wanderer no more. With eyes blue as the harebell when the dew How often in that fair romantic land Sparkles upon its azure leaves; a cheek Where he had been a soldier, he had turned Fresh as a mountain-rose, but delicate From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon As rainbow-colours, and as changefal too. The oak and pine; turned from the spicy air, The orphan ELLEN, have you then forgot To sicken for his own fresh mountain-breeze; Your laughing playmate ? RONALD would And loved the night, for then familiar things,

have clasped The moon and stars, were visible, and looked The maiden to his heart, but she shrank As they had always done, and shed sweet

back: tears

A crimson blush and tearful lids belied To think that he might see them shine again Her light tone, as she bade him not forget Over his own GLADESMUIR! That silver moon, So soon his former friends. But the next morn In all her perfect beauty, is now rising; Were other tears than those sweet ones that The purple billows of the west have yet

come A shadowy glory; all beside is calm, of the full heart's o’erflowings. He was And tender and serene-a quiet light, Which suited well the melancholy joy

The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers Of Ronald's heart. At every step the light

at last; Played o'er some old remembrance; now But he was now so changed, there was no the ray

trace Dimpled the crystal river; now the church Left of his former self; the glow of health, Had all its windows glittering from beneath of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek The curtaining ivy. Near and more near he And faded eye decay sat visible ;


| All felt that he was sinking to the grave. His heart beat quick, for the next step will be He wandered like a ghost around; would Upon his father's threshold! But he paused

lean, He heard a sweet and sacred sound-they For hours, and watch the river; or would lie


Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds In the accustomed psalm, and then they said Singing so cheerfully; and with faint step The words of God, and, last of all, a prayer Would sometimes try the mountain-side. He More solemn, and more touching. He could

loved hear

To look upon the setting fun, and mark Low sobs as it was uttered. They did pray The twilight's dim approach. He said he was His safety, his return, his happiness; Most happy that all through his life one wish And ere they ended he was in their arms! Had still been present to his soul--the wish The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky That he might breathe his native air again;The tempest gathered, and the heavy rain That prayer was granted, for he died at home. Beat on the casement; but they pressed

them round The blazing hearth, and sat while Ronald One wept for him when other eyes were spoke

dry, of the fierce battle; and all answered him Treasured his name in silence and in tears, With wonder, and with telling how they wept Till her young heart's impassioned solitude

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