Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee

my fields were won,—

And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier

train;

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face,-the king before the dead!

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?—

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this!

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?—

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,

Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire!

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,—

Thou canst not-and a king?-His dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,-upon the

silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look,-then turn'd

from that sad place :

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in mar

tial strain,

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain

THE TOMB

OF

MADAME LANGHANS.*

To a mysteriously consorted pair
This place is consecrate; to death and life,
And to the best affections that proceed
From this conjunction.

WORDSWORTH.

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither;

* At Hindelbank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from the sepulchre, with her infant in her arms, at the sound of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus:"Here am I, O God! with the child whom thou hast given me."

Hopes, from their source all holy, tho' of earth,
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth.

Of mingled prayer they told; of Sabbath hours;
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting;
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers;
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting;—
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart.

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence !

Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping!

A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense

Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, As, kindling up the silent stone, I see

The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee.

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past; Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking!