-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have pass’d o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the

chain ; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ;

For me I depart to a brighter shore,
Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's,-fare ye well,

farewell !

MISS LANDON.

BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.

I Look'd upon his brow,-no sign

Of guilt or fear was there,
He stood as proud by that death-shrine

As even o'er Despair
He had a power ; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that Death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,

He raised them haughtily ;
And had that grasp been on the brand,

It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now;
Around he looked with changeless brow

On many a torture nigh ;
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before ; he rode

Upon a coal-black steed, And tens of thousands throng'd the road,

And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many dint, that told

Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,

The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ;

The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near :
And yet no sign or sound of fear

Came from that lip of pride ;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than did his now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke

With an uncover'd eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke

Who throng'd to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,

A nation's funeral cry, Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot and her latest one.

EXTRAOTS FROM THE IMPROVISATRICE.

FAREWELL, my lute !-and would that I

Had never waked thy burning chords ! Poison has been upon thy sigh,

And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame

Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute? I should have been the wretch I am,

Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above,

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong ; It was not song that taught me love,

But it was love that taught me song.

He spoke not when the others spoke,

His heart was all too full for praise ;
But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine

Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill
Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no word that others said

Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
My hand kept wandering on my lute,

In music, but unconsciously ;
My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high,
A flush of dizzy ecstacy

Crimsoned my cheek ; I felt warm tears
Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet,
My wild heart's most bewildering beat,

Consciousness, without hopes or fears,

Of a new power within me waking,
Like light before the morn's full breaking.

I loved him as young Genius loves,

When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light,

The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves

Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny

That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been purst in palaces ;

Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home

In Paradise, had he been near! How sweet it would have been to dwell, Apart from all, in some green dell Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ; And nestling birds to sing the hours ! Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade, But of the woven branches made : Our vesper hymn, the low lone wail The rose hears from the nightingale ; And waked at morning by the call Of music from a waterfall. But not alone in dreams like this, Breathed in the very hope of bliss, I loved : my love had been the same In hushed despair, in open shame. I would have rather been a slave,

In tears, in bondage, by his side, Than shared in all, if wanting him,

This world had power to give beside !