To every form his glance was turn'd, Save of the breathless queen : Though something, won from the grave's embrace, Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place, It was not for him to bear. Alas! the crown, the sceptre, The treasures of the earth, And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, The rites are closed:-bear back the dead Lay down again the royal head, There is music on the midnight— As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go; And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array, Are borne to the house of silence down, With her, that queen of clay! And tearlessly and firmly King Pedro led the train; But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, When they lower'd the dust again. 'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above Hymns die, and steps depart: Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love? THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. THOU 'rt passing hence, my brother! And from the hills, and from the hearth, With thee departs the lingering mirth, But thou, my friend, my brother! Where the dirge-like tone of parting words Tell, then, our friend of boyhood On the blue mountains, whence his youth. The light of his exulting brow, The vision of his glee, Are on me still-Oh! still I trust And tell our fair young sister, Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, Tell her my heart within me burns Once more that gaze to meet. And tell our white-hair'd father, An tell our gentle mother, THE RETURN. "HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? The free, the pure, the kind?" -So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, "Hath thy soul been true to its early love?" Whisper'd my native streams; "Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?" "Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air, "Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, I bring not my childhood's heart again "I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring's glorious dreams. "And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd— The prayer at my mother's knee; Darken'd and troubled I come at last, Home of my boyish glee! "But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone; And oh ye scenes of those bless'd years, MITFORD. RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. Thou art sad; to-day Rienzi. Claudia-nay, start not! To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice, In her small housewifery, the blithest bee Cla. Oh! mine old home! Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird? Cla. Mine own dear home! Father, I love not this new state; these halls, Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids, My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; |