And I have heard celestial fountains burst !

What here shall quench it?

Dost thou not rejoice,

When the spring sends forth an awakening voice

Through the

young woods?-Thou dost!-And in

that birth

Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, Thousands, like thee, find gladness!-Couldst thou

know

How every

breeze then summons me to go!

How all the light of love and beauty shed

By those rich hours, but woos me to the Dead!
The only beautiful that change no more,

The only loved!—the dwellers on the shore
Of spring fulfill'd!—The Dead!—whom call we so ?
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know
Things wrapt from us!-Away!—within me pent,
That which is barr'd from its own element

Still droops or struggles !-But the day will come-
Over the deep the free bird finds its home,

And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets
The sea at last; and the wing'd flower-seed meets
A soil to rest in :-shall not I, too, be,

My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr'd
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard,
Whose agony of triumph won thee back

Through the dim pass no mortal step may track,
Yet shall we meet !-that glimpse of joy divine,
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.*

Courage was cast about her like a dress

Of solemn comeliness,

A gather'd mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace.

DONNE.

THE war-note of the Saracen

Was on the winds of France;

It had still'd the harp of the Troubadour,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,

* Founded on an incident in the early French history.

Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray

In a chapel where the mighty lay,

On the old Provençal shore;

Many a Chatillon beneath,

Unstirr'd by the ringing trumpet's breath,

His shroud of armour wore.

And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, Gave quivering life to the slumber pale

Of stern forms couch'd in their marble mail,

At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,
The silent throngs of that burial-place.

They were imaged there with helm and spear,
As leaders in many a bold career,

And haughty their stillness look'd and high,
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory:
But meekly the voice of the lady rose

Through the trophies of their proud repose;

Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid,
Under their banners of battle she pray'd;
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love,
Upraised to the Virgin's pourtray'd above,
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave.
And her fragile frame, at every blast,
That full of the savage war-horn pass'd,
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart,
When it vainly strives from its cage to part,—
So knelt she in her woe;

A weeper alone with the tearless dead—

Oh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, Or the dust had stirr'd below!

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone,

Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's

moan;

Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands?

No! a breathless vassal before her stands !