That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd
With peace, if human love hath ever still'd

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The yearning human breast.”

Away, fond youth!—An idle quest is thine; These have no trophy, no memorial shrine ;

I know not of their place!

'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,

Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,

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Have pass'd, and left no trace.

Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,

And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,

Their covering turf may bloom;

But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers,— Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,

Or poet hail'd their tomb."

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!

Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may

That which I pine to know!

tell

I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,

Records of joy and woe.” *

* Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1830.

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse.

MADAME DE STAEL.

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!

Thou, to whom its fires are given,

Joyously thy car hath roll'd

Where the conqueror's pass'd of old;

And the festal sun that shone,

O'er three hundred triumphs gone,
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.

* The trebly hundred triumphs.-BYRON.

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road, Freedom's foot so proudly trode ;

While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,

Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,

Touch'd with many a gemlike stain.

Thou hast gain'd the summit now!

Music hails thee from below ;

Music, whose rich notes might stir

Ashes of the sepulchre ;

Shaking with victorious notes

All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high

Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls-it dies

And thy voice is heard to rise

With a low and lovely tone

In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,

Murmurs tremblingly at first,

Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky

Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight

In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun!

Now thy living wreath is won.

Crown'd of Rome !-Oh! art thou not

Happy in that glorious lot?