'I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave! Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie; And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed on breezes borne,

When to thy couch I came and said, "Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!'

Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouched by slow

decay,

And I, the withered stem, remain-I would that grief might slay!

'Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be!

I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high ;A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!

That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.

-Why doth a mother live to say-my first-born and my dead?

They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory

won

-Speak thou, and I will hear my child, Ianthis! my sweet son !'

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the

young,

A fair-haired bride the funeral chant amidst her weeping

sung.

- Ianthis! lookest thou not on me 2-Can love indeed be fled!

When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had followed thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood as woman oft hath stood, where faithful hearts
are proved!

That I had bound a breast-plate on, and battled at thy side -It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!

But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?

Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,

Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine ? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart

Fast gushing like a mountain-spring and couldst thou thus depart?

Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting

breath?

-Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death !'

96

Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings

was led,

And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread ;

But not where noble blood flowed forth, where sounding javelins flew—

-Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last adieu ?

What now can breathe of gladness more, what scene, what hour, what tone?

The blue skies fade with all their lights,-they fade, since thou art gone!

Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved

-Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!'

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young,

Amidst her tears the funeral chant a mournful sister sung.

Ianthis, brother of my soul!-Oh! where are now the days

That laughed among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays?

When we two sported by the streams, or tracked them to

their source,

And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy first fearless course!

-I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, I see thy bounding step no more, my brother and my friend!

'I come with flowers-for spring is come !-Ianthis! art thou here?

I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy

སཱ་༎་་་ས།

12"

bier!

Thou shouldst be crowned with victory's crown-but oh! more meet they seem,

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream.

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More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early

low

-Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow:

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy

to send,

-Woe, that it smiles, and not for thee !-my brother and friend!'

my

Mrs Hemans.

THE CRUSADER.

He is come from the land of the sword and the shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine ;

The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest

Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast;
The courser is black as black can be,

Save the brow-star, white as the foam of the sea;
And he wears a scarf of broidery rare,

The last love-gift of his lady fair;

It bore for device, a cross and a dove,

And the words, ' I am vowed to my God, and my

He comes not back the same that he went,

For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been

spent ;

His golden hair has a deeper brown,

love!'

And his brow has caught a darker frown ;

And his lip hath lost its boyish red,

And the shade of the south o'er his cheek is spread;

But stately his steps, and his bearing high,

And wild the light of his fiery eye;

And proud in the lists were the maiden bright,

Who might claim the knight of the cross for her knight;