XI. TO EGERIA.

Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
And I cannot behold thee save in dreams!
I may not hear thy voice, nor list thy tread,
Nor see the light that ever round thee gleams.
Fairest and best! mid summer joys, ah, say,
Dost thou e'er think of one who thinks of thee--
The Atlantic-wanderer, who, day by day,
Looks for thine image in the deep, deep sea?
Long months, and years, perchance, will pass away,
Ere he shall gaze into thy face again;

He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may
Await him, on the future's shipless main;
But, thank'd be memory! there are treasures still,
Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.

XII-CUBA.

What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? "Land ho! all hands ahoy!"—I'm on the deck. 'Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright. A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck. And lo! along the horizon, bold and high, The purple hills of Cuba! hail, all hail! Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale! O! scene of life and joy! thou art array'd In hues of unimagined loveliness— Sing louder, brave old mariner! and aid My swelling heart its rapture to express; For from enchanted memory never more [shore! Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial

THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST.

WE will not deplore them, the days that are past;
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They are lengthen'd by sorrow and sullied by care;
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare;
Yet, now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
We have cherish'd fair hopes, we have plotted
brave schemes,

We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams; Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the hand,

And the steps we have climb'd have departed like

sand;

Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft,
And honour, bright honour, and freedom are left?
O! shall we despond, while the pages of time
Yet open before us their records sublime! [gold,
While, ennobled by treasures more precious than
We can walk with the martyrs and heroes of old;
While humanity whispers such truths in the ear,
As it softens the heart like sweet music to hear?
O! shall we despond while, with visions still free,
We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea;
While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight,
And the stars are a joy and a glory by night:
While each harmony, running through nature, can
raise

In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise ?
O! let us no longer then vainly lament
Over scenes that are faded and days that are spent:

But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, Let us look to the future and not to the past!

THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. HONOUR'D be the hero evermore,

Who at mercy's call has nobly died!
Echoed be his name from shore to shore,
With immortal chronicles allied!
Verdant be the turf upon his dust,

Bright the sky above, and soft the air!
In the grove set up his marble bust,
And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give

His eulogium to the future years!
Not the victor in his country's cause,
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Not the framer of a nation's laws

Shall deserve a greater fame than he!
Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day,
How a youth, by Christian zeal impell'd,
Swept the sanguinary games away,

Which the Coliseum once beheld? Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers, With the city's chivalry and pride, When two gladiators, with their spears, Forward sprang from the arena's side. Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long, As, with shields advanced, the athletes stoodWas there no one in that eager throng

To denounce the spectacle of blood? Aye, TELEMACHUS, with swelling frame,

Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more: Few among the crowd could tell his nameFor a cross was all the badge he wore! Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien,

Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand;
And, while all were wondering at the scene,
Check'd the encounter with a daring hand.
"Romans!" cried he-"Let this reeking sod
Never more with human blood be stain'd!
Let no image of the living GOD

In unhallow'd combat be profaned!
Ah! too long has this colossal dome
Fail'd to sink and hide your brutal shows!
Here I call upon assembled Rome

Now to swear, they shall forever close!"
Parted thus, the combatants, with joy,

Mid the tumult, found the means to fly;
In the arena stood the undaunted boy,

And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
Peal'd the shout of wrath on every side;
Every hand was eager to assail!
Slay him! slay!" a hundred voices cried,
Wild with fury-but he did not quail!
Hears he, as entranced he looks above,

Strains celestial, that the menace drown? Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,

Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain!

Death and terror circled him about

But he stood and perish'd-not in vain! Not in vain the youthful martyr fell!

Then and there he crush'd a bloody creed! And his high example shall impel

Future heroes to as great a deed! Stony answers yet remain for those

Who would question and precede the time! In their season, may they meet their foes, Like TELEMACHUS, with front sublime!

SUMMER IN THE HEART.

THE cold blast at the casement beats,
The window-panes are white,

The snow whirls through the empty streets-
It is a dreary night!

Sit down, old friend! the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o'erflowing! fill!

Though Winter howleth at the gate,

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

For we full many summer joys

And greenwood sports have shared, When, free and ever-roving boys,

The rocks, the streams we dared! And, as I look upon thy face

Back, back o'er years of ill, My heart flies to that happy place, Where it is summer still!

Yes, though, like sere leaves on the ground,

Our early hopes are strown,

And cherish'd flowers lie dead around,
And singing birds are flown,—

The verdure is not faded quite,

Not mute all tones that thrill; For, seeing, hearing thee to-night,

In my heart 'tis summer still!

Fill up the olden times come back!

With light and life once more

We scan the future's sunny track,

From youth's enchanted shore !
The lost return. Through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;

Gone is the winter's angry gloom-
In our hearts 'tis summer still!

THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE.

Is there but a single theme
For the youthful poet's dream?
Is there but a single wire
To the youthful poet's lyre?
Earth below and heaven above-
Can he sing of naught but love?
Nay! the battle's dust I see!
God of war! I follow thee!
And, in martial numbers, raise
Worthy peans to thy praise.
Ah! she meets me on the field-
If I fly not, I must yield.
Jolly patron of the grape!
To thy arms I will escape!

Quick, the rosy nectar bring;
"Io BACCHE" I will sing.
Ha! Confusion! every sip
But reminds me of her lip.
PALLAS! give me wisdom's page,
And awake my lyric rage;
Love is fleeting; love is vain;
I will try a nobler strain.
O, perplexity! my books
But reflect her haunting looks!
JUPITER! on thee I cry!
Take me and my lyre on high!
Lo! the stars beneath me gleam!
Here, O, poet! is a theme.
Madness! She has come above!
Every chord is whispering "Love!"

THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA. 'Tis a dreary thing to be Tossing on the wide, wide sea, When the sun has set in clouds,

And the wind sighs through the shrouds,
With a voice and with a tone

Like a living creature's moan!
Look! how wildly swells the surge
Round the black horizon's verge!
See the giant billows rise

From the ocean to the skies!
While the sea-bird wheels his flight
O'er their streaming crests of white.
List! the wind is wakening fast!
All the sky is overcast!
Lurid vapours, hurrying, trail
In the pathway of the gale,

As it strikes us with a shock
That might rend the deep-set rock!
Falls the strain'd and shiver'd mast!
Spars are scatter'd by the blast!
And the sails are split asunder,
As a cloud is rent by thunder;
And the struggling vessel shakes,
As the wild sea o'er her breaks.

Ah! what sudden light is this,
Blazing o'er the dark abyss?
Lo! the full moon rears her form
Mid the cloud-rifts of the storm,
And, athwart the troubled air,
Shines, like hope upon despair!
Every leaping billow gleams
With the lustre of her beams,
And lifts high its fiery plume
Through the midnight's parting gloom:
While its scatter'd flakes of gold
O'er the sinking deck are roll'd.
Father! low on bended knee,
Humbled, weak, we turn to thee!
Spare us, mid the fearful fight
Of the raging winds to-night!
Guide us o'er the threatening wave:
Save us!-thou alone canst save!

Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight;

Wake they thy glance of scorn,

Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern?

Thou of the soft, deep tone,*

For whose rich music gone,

Kindred and tribe full soon may vainly yearn!

Wo for the trusting hour!

O, kingly stag, no hand hath brought thee down: "T was with a patriot's heart, Where fear usurped no part,

Thou camest, a noble offering-and alone!

For vain yon army's might,

While for thy band the wide plain own'd a tree,

And the wild vine's tangled shoots

On the gnarl'd oak's mossy roots
Their trysting-place might be.

Wo for thy hapless fate!

Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief!

Thy sadly-closing story, Thy quickly-vanish'd glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief.

*OSEOLA was remarkable for a soft and flute-like voice.

Wo for the bitter stain

That from our country's banner may not part! Wo for the captive-wo!

For bitter pains and slow

Are his who dieth of the fever'd heart!

O, in that spirit-land,

Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath pass'd; Chief! by those sparkling streams,

Whose beauty mocks our dreams,

May that high heart have won its rest at last!

THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

MOTHER! I bring thy gift;

Take from my hand the dreaded boon-I pray, Take it; the still, pale sorrow of the face Hath left upon my soul its living trace,

Never to pass away,

Since from these lips one word of idle breath Blanch'd that calm face. O, mother! this is death!

What is it that I see

From all the pure and settled features gleaming? Reproach! reproach! My dreams are strange and wild.

Mother! hadst thou not pity on thy child?

Lo! a celestial smile seems softly beaming On the hush'd lips;-my mother! canst thou brook Longer upon thy victim's face to look ?

Alas! at yester morn

My heart was light, and to the viol's sound

I gayly danced, while crown'd with summer flowers, And swiftly by me sped the flying hours;

And all was joy around

Not death! O, mother! could I say thee nay? Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away!

Take it! my heart is sad ;

And the pure forehead hath an icy chill.

I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven
Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given;

And the pale face appals me, cold and still, With the closed lips. O, tell me! could I know That the pale features of the dead were so?

I may not turn away

From the charm'd brow; and I have heard his Even as a prophet by his people spoken; [name And that high brow in death bears seal and token Of one whose words were flame.

O, Holy Teacher! couldst thou rise and live, Would not those hush'd lips whisper, "I forgive?"

Away with lute and harp

With the glad heart forever, and the dance!
Never again shall tabret sound for me!
O, fearful mother! I have brought to thee

The silent dead with his rebuking glance,
And the crush'd heart of one to whom is given
Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven!

"TIME, FAITH, ENERGY."*

HIGH words and hopeful!-fold them to thy breast,
Time, Faith, and Energy, are gifts sublime;
If thy lone bark the threatening waves surround,
Make them of all thy silent thoughts a part.
When thou wouldst cast thy pilgrim-staff away,
Breathe to thy soul their high, mysterious sound,
And faint not in the noontide of thy day,-

Wait thou for Time!

Wait thou for Time-the slow-unfolding flower
Chides man's impatient haste with long delay;
The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun-
The golden fruit of suffering's weighty power
Within the soul-like soft bells' silvery chime
Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won,
Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrine,
Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way.
Wait thou for Time-it hath a sorcerer's power
To dim life's mockeries that gayly shine,
To lift the veil of seeming from the real,
Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower,
With golden tracery on the sands of life,
And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal,
To a high purpose in the world of strife.
Wait thou for Time!

Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith,
Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea:
A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass
Through a dim world, untouch'd by living death,
A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night,
Soothing the grief from which she may not flee-
A herald of glad news-a seraph bright,

Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be.

Yea, Faith and Time, and thou that through the hour

Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand,
Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire,
Gifted the drooping soul with living power,
Immortal Energy! shalt thou not be

With the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire,
Link'd with each vision of high destiny,

Till on the fadeless borders of that land

Suggested by a passage in BULWER'S "Night and Morning."

Where all is known we find our certain way,
And lose ye, mid its pure effulgent light?
Kind ministers, who cheer'd us in our gloom,
Seraphs who lighten'd griefs with guiding ray,
Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawn-
ing,

Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom

Will not our hearts, where breaks the cloudless morning,

Joy that ye led us through the drooping night?

GIVE ME ARMOUR OF PROOF.

GIVE me armour of proof, I must ride to the plain;
Give me armour of proof, ere the trump sound again:
To the halls of my childhood no more am I known,
And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath
blown!

Till the conflict is over, the battle is past-
Give me armour of proof-I am true to the last!

Give me armour of proof-bring me helmet and spear;

Away! shall the warrior's cheek own a tear? Bring the steel of Milan-'t is the firmest and best, And bind o'er my bosom its closely link'd vest, Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain! Give me armour of proof-I have torn from my heart Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part; Bring the sword of Damascus, its blade cold and bright,

That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight; And stay--let me fasten your scarf on my breast, Love's light pledge and true--I will answer the rest!

Give me armour of proof--shall the cry be in vain, When to life's sternest conflicts we rush forth

amain?

The knight clad in armour the battle may bide; But wo to the heedless when bendeth the tried; And wo to youth's morn, when we rode forth alone, To the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown! Give us armour of proof--our hopes were all high; But they pass'd like the meteor lights from the sky; Our hearts' trust was firm, but life's waves swept away

One by one the frail ties which were shelter and stay;

And true was our love, but its bonds broke in twain: Give me armour of proof, ere we ride forth again. Give me armour of proof--we should turn from

LINES SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN "MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK."*

BEAUTIFUL child! my lot is cast;
Hope from my path hath forever past;
Nothing the future can bring to me
Hath ever been shadow'd in dreams to thee;
The warp is woven, the arrow sped,
My brain hath throbb'd, but my heart is dead:
Tell ye my tale, then, for love or gold?—
Years have pass'd by since that tale was told.
God keep thee, child, with thine angel brow,
Ever as sinless and bright as now;
Fresh as the roses of earliest spring,
The fair, pure buds it is thine to bring.
Would that the bloom of the soul could be,
Beautiful spirit! caught from thee;
Would that thy gift could anew impart
The roses that bloom for the pure in heart.
Beautiful child! mayst thou never hear
Tones of reproach in thy sorrowing ear:
Beautiful child! may that cheek ne'er glow
With a warmer tint from the heart below:
Beautiful child! mayst thou never bear
The clinging weight of a cold despair;
A heart, whose madness each hope hath cross'd,
Which hath thrown one die, and the stake hath lost.
Beautiful child! why shouldst thou stay?
There is danger near thee,-away! away!
Away! in thy spotless purity;
Nothing can here be a type of thee;
The very air, as it fans thy brow,

May leave a trace on its stainless snow;

Lo spirits of evil haunt the bowers,

And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers.
Beautiful child! alas, to see

A fount in the desert gush forth for thee,
Where the queenly lilies should faintly gleam,
And thy life flow on as its silent stream
Afar from the world of doubt and sin,-
This weary world thou must wander in;
Such a home was once to my visions given,-
It comes to my heart as a type of heaven.

Beautiful child! let the weary in heart
Whisper thee once, ere again we part;
Tell thee that want, and tell thee that pain
Never can thrill in the throbbing brain,
Till a sadder story that brain hath learn'd,
Till a fiercer fire hath in it burn'd;
God keep thee sinless and undefiled,
Though poor, and wretched, and sad, my child!
Beautiful being! away, away!

The angels above be thy help and stay,
Save thee from sorrow, and save thee from sin,
Guard thee from danger without and within.
Pure be thy spirit, and breathe for me
A sigh or a prayer when thy heart is free;
In the crowded mart, by the lone wayside,
Beautiful child! be thy God thy guide.

"Nelly bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage. . There

was but one lady who seemed to understand the child,

LIFE AND DEATH.

"La mort est le seul dieu que J'osais implorer."

Nor unto thee, O pale and radiant Death! Not unto thee, though every hope be past, Though Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no

more,

Nor earth again one cherish'd dream restore,
Or from the bright urn of the future cast
Aught, aught of joy on me.

Yet unto thee, O monarch! robed and crown'd,
And beautiful in all thy sad array,

I bring no incense, though the heart be chill,
And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill,

Shines not as once the wonted light of day,
Still upon another shrine my vows
Shall all be duly paid, and though thy voice
Is full of music to the pining heart,
And woos one to that pillow of calm rest,
Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart,
Still, not to thee, O Death!

I pay my vows, though now to me thy brow
Seems crown'd with roses of the summer prime,
And to the aching sense thy voice would be,
O Death! O Death! of softest melody,
And gentle ministries alone were thine,

Still I implore thee not.

But thou, O Life! O Life! the searching test
Of the weak heart! to thee, to thee I bow;
And if the fire upon the altar shrine
Descend, and scathe each glowing hope of mine,
Still may my heart as now
Turn not from that dread test.

But let me pay my vows to thee, O Life!
And let me hope that from that glowing fire
There yet may be redeem'd a gold more pure
And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount and soar
Their flight the higher,

Released from earthly hope, or earthly fear.

This, this, O Life! be mine.

Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bindLet others seek thy false and dazzling gleams, For me their light went out on early streams, And faded were thy roses in my grasp,

No more, no more to bloom. Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night, Shine out when all is dark, So would I, cheer'd by hopes more purely bright, Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, If, but at last, the toss'd and weary barque Gains the sure haven of her final rest.

and she was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her quite. There were many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the two young men, (not unfavourably at them,) and left her to herself. She motioned away a gipsy-woman, urgent to tell her fortune, saying, that it was told already, and had been for some years, but called the child towards her, and taking her flowers, put money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home, and keep at home, for God's sake.