Though never lovelier brow was given
To houri of an Eastern heaven:

Her eye is dwelling on that bower
As every leaf and every flower
Were being numbered in her heart.

There are no looks like those which dwell On long-remembered things which soon Must take our first and last farewell.

Day fades

apace : another day,

That maiden will be far away,

A wanderer o'er the dark-blue sea,
And bound for lovely Italy,

Her mother's land. Hence, on her breast,
The cross beneath a Moorish vest,
And hence those sweetest sounds that seem
Like music murmuring in a dream
When in our sleeping ear is ringing
The song the nightingale is singing
When by that white and funeral stone
Half hidden by the cypress gloom
The hymn the mother taught her child
Is
sung each evening at her tomb.
But quick the twilight-time has past
Like one of those sweet calms that last
A moment, and no more, to cheer
The turmoil of our pathway here.
The bark is waiting in the bay;
Night darkens round: Leila, away
Far ere to-morrow o'er the tide,
Or wait and be Abdalla's bride.

She touched her lute: never again
Her ear will listen to its strain;
She took her cage, first kissed the breast,
Then freed the white dove prisoned there:
It paused one moment on her hand,

Then spread its glad wings to the air.
She drank the breath as it were health

That sighed from every scented blossom,

And, taking from each one a leaf,

Hid them like spells upon her bosom, Then sought the sacred path again

She once before had traced when lay A Christian in her father's chain,

And gave him gold and taught the way To fly. She thought upon the night When, like an angel of the light, She stood before the prisoner's sight, And led him to the cypress grove, And showed the bark and hidden cove, And bade the wandering captive flee In words he knew from infancy, And when she thought how for her love He had braved slavery and death, That he might only breathe the air

Made sweet and sacred by her breath. She reached the grove of cypresses:

Another step is by her side; Another moment, and the bark

Bears the fair Moor across the tide.

Another evening came, but dark;
The storm-clouds hovered round the bark
Of misery; they just could see
The distant shore of Italy

As the dim moon through vapors shone:
A few short rays, her light was gone.
O'erhead a sullen scream was heard
As sought the land the white sea-bird,
Her pale wings like a meteor streaming;
Upon the waves a light is gleaning--
Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death
To light the night-black depths beneath.
The vessel rolled amid the surge;
The winds howled round it like a dirge
Sung by some savage race; then came.
The rush of thunder and of flame:
It showed two forms upon the deck,
One clasped around the other's neck,
As there she could not dream of fear:
In her lover's arms could danger be near?
He stood and watched her with the
Of fixed and silent agony.
The waves swept on; he felt her heart
Beat close and closer yet to his;
They burst upon the ship: the sea

eye

Has closed upon their dream of bliss.

Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep
Beneath that ancient cedar tree
Whose solitary stem has stood.
For alone beside the sea,
years
The last of a most noble race
That once had there their dwelling-place,
Long past away. Beneath its shade

A soft green couch the turf has made,
And glad the morning sun is shining
On those beneath the boughs reclining.
Nearer the fisher drew. He saw

The dark hair of the Moorish maid

Like a veil floating o'er the breast

Where tenderly her head was laid, And yet her lover's arm was placed Clasping around the graceful waist; But then he marked the youth's black curls Were dripping wet with foam and blood, And that the maiden's tresses dark

Were heavy with the briny flood. Woe for the wind! woe for the wave! They sleep the slumber of the grave. They buried them beneath that tree: It long had been a sacred spot; Soon it was planted round with flowers By many who had not forgot Or yet lived in those dreams of truth, The Eden-birds of early youth, That make the loveliest of love, And called the place "The Maiden's Cove,' That she who perished in the sea Might thus be kept in memory.

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love,
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe:
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,

I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,"
What care I for whom she be?

GEORGE WITHER.

His fawns rose about him, and graceful they

played

Round the steps of their father in dingle and glade

As duly at morning and evening he led
To the tenderest herbage and mossiest bed.

Alas for his memory! the time will be short Ere they hasten as usual to food or to sport; Short time from their games shall the victims refrain,

And the fate of their father shall warn them. in vain.

And she whom he courted in thicket and dell,

Whom he wooed in the forest and tracked through the fell,

The beloved of his bosom, his favorite doeWill she mourn for the fate that has laid him so low?

Perhaps she may weep should she find in the

grove,

All cold and deserted, the lair of her love; But my buskin at morning was wet through and through:

Now show me at midday one trace of the dew.

DEER-SHOOTING.

Perhaps a new lover now roams at her side, With antlers as branching, as lovely a hide.

TWA

they hear

How he crashed through the thicket! how

fleetly he passed!

a deer."

I will not be silent. The roebuck is dead,