Speak to me from thy hidden caves,
Voice of the solemn deep!

Hath man's lone spirit here

With storms in battle striven? Where all is now so calmly clear, Hath anguish cried to heaven?

-Then the sea's voice arose

Like an earthquake's under-tone: "Mortal! the strife of human woes

When hath not Nature known?

"Here to the quivering mast
Despair hath wildly clung,
The shriek upon the wind hath past,
The midnight sky hath rung.

"And the youthful and the brave,
With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
In darkness have gone down.

"They are vanish'd from this place

Let their homes and hearths make moan!

But the rolling waters keep no trace

Of pang or conflict gone!"

-Alas! thou haughty deep!

The strong, the sounding far!
My heart before thee dies-I weep
To think on what we are!

To think that so we pass,

High hope, and thought, and mind,
Even as the breath-stain from the glass,
Leaving no sign behind!

Saw'st thou nought else, thou main?
Thou and the midnight sky?

Nought save the struggle brief and vain,

The parting agony!

And the sea's voice replied,

“Here noble things have been!

Power with the valiant when they died,

66

To sanctify the scene:

Courage in fragile form,

Faith trusting to the last,

Prayer breathing heavenwards through the storm:

But all alike have pass'd!"

Sound on, thou haughty sea!

These have not pass'd in vain ;

My soul awakes, my hope springs free
On victor-wings again.

Thou from thine empire driven,

May'st vanish with thy powers;

But, by the hearts that here have striven,

A loftier doom is ours!

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER.

Rienzi. Claudia-nay, start not! Thou art sad; to-day I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale As marble; those unseeing eyes were fix'd On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent As sternly, as if the rude stranger, ThoughtAge-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless ThoughtHad knock'd at thy young giddy brain.

Claudia.

Mock not thine own poor Claudia.

Rien.

Nay, father,

Claudia used

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice
Prattling; and that light busy foot astir
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee
That ever wrought in hive

Cla.

Oh! mine old home.

Mine own dear home

Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird?

Cla.

Father, I love not this new state; these halls,
Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!

My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,

Shading the sun; my garden overgrown

With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;
My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse;
And old Camillo. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rien. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse, And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,

Ask Orient gems,

Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province
Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power?
Diamonds and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds

Of farthest Ind, like wingèd flowers, to flit
Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish,

The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo !
Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! not a bachelor

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel
To my fair daughter.

Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rien. Wilt have a list to choose from?

Listen, sweet!

If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,

And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them

Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall?

And if at eventide they heard not oft
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments; and then
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales.