THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW.

I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,

The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

The river flowed between.

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THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;

No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled;

Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

K

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FELICIA HEMANS.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

NATURE doth mourn for thee.

There is no need

For man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail,
As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise.
The little plant that never sang before,

Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell,
Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee,
As for a florist fallen. The ivy, wreathed

FELICIA HEMANS.

Round the gray turrets of a buried race,

And the tall palm that like a prince doth rear
Its diadem 'neath Asia's burning sky,

With their dim legends blend thy hallowed name.
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make
Whate'er it touched most holy. The pure shell,
Laying its pearly lip on Ocean's floor,

The cloistered chambers, where the sea-gods sleep,
And the unfathomed melancholy main,

Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.
Hark! from the snow-breasted Himmaleh to where
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud,

From the scathed pine tree, near the red man's hut,

To where the everlasting banian builds

Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan

For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height

An altar, and each cottage-home, the haunt

Of Poesy.

Yea, thou didst find the link

That joins mute nature to ethereal mind,

And make that link a melody.

The couch

Of thy last sleep, was in the native clime
Of song and eloquence and ardent soul,
Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle
So loved of favouring skies, yet banned by fate,
Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot.

K*

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