KARL HENRY.

Oh! I were most base, Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her, Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she Met my advances with impassion'd pride, That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd The golden circlet in his band, rejected My suit with insult, and in memory of ancient feuds pour’d curses on my head, Her blessings overtook and baftled them! But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

EARL HENRY

Ah ! was that bliss Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man? For suddenly, impatient of its silence, Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them. Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou? I swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd The purpose and the substance of my being, I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers.Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower I now will go-all objects there will teach me Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet herSay nothing of me-I myself will seek herNay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment And keen inquiry of that scanning eye —

[EARL HENRY retires into the wood.

SANDOVAL.

Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously. But Oropeza

EARL HENRY

Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage, Beneath the walls, which opens out at length Into the gloomiest covert of the gardenThe night ere my departure to the army, She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, And to that covert by a silent stream, Which, with one star reflected near its marge, Was the sole object visible around me. No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry; So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! No leaflet stirrd;-yet pleasure hung upon The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. A little further on an arbour stood, Fragrant with flowering trees- I well remember What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness Their snow-white blossoms made-thither she led me, To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembledI heard her heart beat-if't were not my own.

SANDOVAL (alone). O Henry! always strivest thou to be great By thine own act-yet art thou never great But by the inspiration of great passion. The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And shape themselves: from Earth to Heaven they stand, As though they were the pillars of a temple, Built by Omnipotence in its own honour! But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand, And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins !

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER

INNOCENCE.

SANDOVAL.

A rude and scaring note, my friend!

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soil'd beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray!

EARL HENRY.

Oh! no! I have small memory of aught but pleasure. The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy. The stars above our heads were dim and steady, Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us : We were all life, each atom of our frames A living soul-I vow'd to die for her: With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

Gaily from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted highSoon on this unshelter'd walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.

O give me, from this heartless scene released,

To hear our old musician, blind and grey (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed),

His Scottislı tunes and warlike marches play,
By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the ledded hay
Wita merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.

ГНЕ

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT

THEATRE.
MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

Sittest behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorched and mildew'd bough,

Leatless 'mid the blooms of May !

Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unscen, behind the alder-trees,
For round their roots the fisher's hoat is tied,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own check is wet with quiet tears.

Ilim who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watchi'd with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look,

Anxious heard bis fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,

Soft his speech, and soft Iris sigh; But no sound like simple truth,

But no true love in his cye.

But (), dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, And the gust pelling on the out-house shed

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead,

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter; birds or trees, Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze,

Loathing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe: With a musing melancholy

Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! 89,

THE KEEPSAKE.

Mother sage

of Self-dominion, Firm thy steps, 0 Melancholy! The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

Wbile she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms :

Tue tedded bay, the first fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all

gone.
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Ilope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!
So will not fade the lowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the Powers whiclı most she knew I loved),
and, more belored than they, her auburn hair.

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring,

And embathe in heavenly light.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest

I These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Ileaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,

In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign

To mell at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain

Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, Making a quiet image of disquiet In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she own'd her love, And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy From off her clowing cheek, she satc and stretch'd

! One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six 10 iwelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nichi) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden.

Bark! the decp buzz of Vanity and flate!

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady cyes some maid of humbler state,

While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in ber mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring returnd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

Besides, whal vex'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going : This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL.

TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S « SHIPWRECK. »

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sinys he-
I love my Love, and my Love loves me!»

Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely bath been breathing here.

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells

up,

then sinks with fain caress, ds if to have you yet more near.

THE VISIONARY HOPE. Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against bis will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at liis conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd, Sickness within and miserable feeling : Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams : Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'er head the sky-lark shirills.

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why

That asking look ? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where?

Beloved ! flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply, had I been beguiled.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he wouldFor Love's Despair is but Hope's pininy Ghost! For this one liope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remember'd in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought

O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture dep

Has not Love's whisper evermore,

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear under-song in Clamour's hour.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

A FRAGMENT.