That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and braia;
But that wild tale she brooked not to unfold,
And sealed is now each lip that could have told.
XXIII.

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast,
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,
They found the scattered dints of many a scar
Which were not planted there in recent war;
Where'er had passed his summer years of life,
It seems they vanished in a land of strife;
But all unknown his glory or his guilt,

These only told that somewhere blood was spilt,
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past,
Returned no more-that night appeared his last.

XXIV.

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale)
A Serf, that crossed the intervening vale,
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to mora,
And nearly veiled in mist her waning horn;
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood,
And hew the bough that bought his children's food,
Passed by the river that divides the plain

Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain :
He heard a tramp-a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood-before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow,
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time,
And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watched the stranger's course,
Who reached the river, bounded from his horse,
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from the shore,
Then paused, and looked, and turned, and seemed to watch,
And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flowed,
As if even yet too much its surface showed :
At once he started, stooped, around him strown
The winter floods had scattered heaps of stone;

Of these the heaviest thence he gathered there,
And slung them with a more than common care.
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean;
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glittered starlike on the vest,
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk,
A masssy fragment smote it, and it sunk :
It rose again but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,

Then deeply disappeared: the horseman gazed
Till ebbed the latest eddy it had raised;
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed,
And instant sparred him into panting speed.
His face was masked-the features of the dead,
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread;
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore,
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore
And such'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perished, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscorvered limbs to Ocean roll;
And charity upon the hope would dwell.
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell.
XXV.

And Kaled-Lara-Ezzelin, are gone,
Alike without their monumental stone!
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean

From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been;
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not,
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talked all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints;

And she would sit beneath the very tree
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;
And in that posture where she saw him fall,
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall;
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
And fold, and press it gently to the ground;
As if she stanched anew some phantom's wound.
Herself would question, and for him reply;
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined spectre in pursuit;
Then seat her down upon some linden's root,
And hide her visage with her meagre hand,
Or trace strange characters along the sand -
This could not last-she lies by him she loved;
Her tale untold-her truth too dearly proved.

A FRAGMENT OF

A TURKISH TALE.

« One fatal remembrance--one sorrow that throws
«Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes--
«To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring
« For which joy hath no balm--and affliction no sting. »
MOORE.

No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian's grave, That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff, First greets the homeward-veering skiff, High o'er the land he saved in vain : When shall such hero live again?

Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There, mildly dimpling Ocean's cheek,
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave;
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air

That wakes and wafts the odours there!
For there the Rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,

The maid for whom his melody,