Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 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 "And the youthful and the brave, "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! To think that so we pass, High hope, and thought, and mind, Saw'st thou nought else, thou main? 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 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 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, My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle Shading the sun; my garden overgrown With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; 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 Of farthest Ind, like wingèd flowers, to flit The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo ! In Christendom but would right proudly kneel 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 |