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And so my heart's despair

Looks for thee ere the firstling smoke hath curl'd;

While the wrapt earth is at her morning prayer;

Ere yet she putteth on her workday air,

And robes her for the world,

Isabel.

When the sun-burst is o'er,
My lonely way about the world I take,
Doing and saying much, and feeling more;
And all things for thy sake,

Isabel.

But never once I dare
To see thine image till the day be new,
And lip hath sullied not the unbreathed air,
And waking eyes are few,

Isabel.

Then that lost form appears,
Which was a joy to few on earth but me:
In the young light I see thy guileless glee;
In the deep dews thy tears,

Isabel.

So with Promethean moan,

In widowhood renew'd I learn to grieve;

Blest with one only thought, that I alone

Can fade—that thou thro' years shalt still shine on

In beauty—as in beauty art thou gone,

Thou morn that knew no eve,

Isabel.

In beauty art thou gone;
As some bright meteor gleams across the night,
Gazed on by all, but understood by none,
And dying by its own excess of light,
Isabel.

THE DYING MINSTREL.

By Mary Ann Browse.

Slowly and sadly, day by day,

As a fountain drieth she faded away.

Seldomer walk'd she the oak-trees among,

Less and less frequent became her song.

She would sit for hours, with her silent gaze

Fix'd on the harp that had brought such praise

And fame to her in her happier days.

Sometimes her voice breathed in silvery words,

And her hand stray'd carelessly over the chords,

Making uncertain melody,

Broken and wild as the wind-harp's sigh.

She had come from her own delicious clime, With its vineyards and groves of the chesnut and lime; From the flowers that bask'd 'neath unbounded skies, Various and bright as the rainbow's dyes; From the tongues that praised her, the hearts that adored,From the valleys and hills that her first songs heard. She was lured from her land of sunshine and smiles, By the meteor hope, that so many beguiles. And now she was dying!—dying afar, With clouded hopes, and an altered star; And her couch by strangers' hands was spread, And unknown steps were around her bed. She fear'd not death—she knew it must come, But she thought 'twould be sweet to die at home; But, alas! she knew that her wish was vain, And she never must see her dear land again!

'Twas a summer-sunset, and that soft hour On the minstrel's soul had ever most power; And she pray'd she might leave the feverish hearth, And again in the calm light of even go forth. They led her out by the darkening sea, And she thought of her own bright Italy, And turn'd her eyes o'er the twilight wave, Towards the spot where she wish'd so much for a grave. She took her harp,—o'er each trembling string Her fingers soon were wandering;

Drawing forth note by note at first,

Careless of what the strain might be,
Till all at once the music burst

Into a sweet wild symphony:
And then the minstrel's soft voice rose,

While a tear was straying down her cheek,
Until she spake of her country's woes,

And then her song no more was weak;

And there came an unearthly light o'er her eye,
And her voice had a tone of prophecy,
As she spake of the time when her land should be
Named with the nations of those who are free:
The black curls stream'd on the ivory neck,—
Who would have thought that form was a wreck!
And the blue veins swell'd in the sunken brow,
And her cheek had a wild and feverish glow,
And the hot tears into the dark eyes sprang,
As of her own dear home she sang.

But the song died away—and with it, too,
Faded the cheek's unnatural hue;
She bow'd her head, and hush'd were her words,
But her hand still wander'd amidst the chords;
And that ceased too,—but they thought that she
Was but in some dream of ecstasy,
And had only paused awhile for breath—
Little thought they 'twas the pause of death!
They raised the tresses, that fell like a veil
Over the face—that face was pale;
Her heart was still—and her spirit high
Had pass'd with the-soul of the melody!

LOVEiS MEMORIES.
By J. Dennis.

Down by the woods, where the blooming purple heather
Sheds its sweet perfume in the pleasant morning prime,
In the quiet hill-shade we wander'd forth together,
Gladdening our young hearts with many an ancient rhyme:

Chaunting some old ballad, some wild and artless measure;

Or reading about Rosalind among the forest boughs:

In the golden age of courting, when the minutes, wing'd

with pleasure, Flew lightly at the whispering of lovers' fervent vows.

And sometimes on the page such a glorious light would

glisten— Such a flash from out the ether of a bright and purer sphere— That we closed the book with wonder, and sat us down to

listen, For we thought that angel voices were singing to us near.

Glimpses of a golden future, tender memories of the past, Hopes of deep and solemn import, from their spirit-home

above— Slightly veiled from our seeing by the glory round them

cast— Come like mirror'd shapes before us when the soul is fill'd

with love.

And the light which love had kindled had shed its halo

round us As we gazed upon the woodland with its old majestic trees, Mid the depth of nature's stillness how its silken fetters

bound us, And the secrets of the future were whisper'd 'mong the

leaves.

Not the noblest strain of music pealing through the solemn

aisles, Till the old cathedral towers seem to vibrate with the spell, Fills the spirit with such rapture, or the fancy so beguiles, As the music of love's making on the chords it knows so

well.

Years have flown—for youth is fleeting—love is like a

stranger guest; Yet the memory of its glory melts like music on our souls; Wits may sneer and fools deride it, pointing with a courtly

jestBut the passions of the morning manhood's calmer noon

controls.

THE QUARRY MAN.
By J. Bp.adshawe Walker.

The sun has seen him all day long,

With the sweat upon his brow, Tearing, with sinewy arm and strong,

Huge blocks from their beds below!

Little he knows, or seeks to ken,

Of all the great world beside; Who wields the sword, or who the pen,

Or if tyrants realms divide.

No need hath he of dainties rare,

Or of costly pampering wines; His lips are kiss'd by fragrant air,

On the rude rock where he dines.

That ruddy child, besmeared o'er With blackberries ripe, hathcome

With his frugal meal across the moor, From a lowly cottage home.

Again he seeks the ponderous rock,

And he strikes with giant might: The work of ages feels the shock,

And it rushes into light!

His time is measured by the sun—

Now he hails its western ray; Another hard day's toil is done,

And he whistles on his way.

Cheerly along the lone green lane,
To his straw-thatch'd cot he goes;

He hears his children's voice again,
And 'tis there his joys repose.

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