LORD IVON.

She lives, my daughter!

Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb'd,
And let my heart down to its better founts
Of tenderness. I had no friends-not one!

My love gush'd to my wife. I rack'd my brain
To find her a new pleasure every hour-

Yet not with me-I fear'd to haunt her eye!
Only at night, when she was slumbering

In all her beauty, I would put away

The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her, And watch her through my tears.

One night her lips

Parted as I gazed on them, and the name
Of a young noble, who had been my guest,
Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall
The curtains silently, and left her there
To slumber and dream on; and gliding forth
Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star,
And swore, that if it pleased the God of light
To let me look upon the unborn child
Lying beneath her heart, I would but press
One kiss upon its lips, and take away
My life that was a blight upon her years.

I was that child!

ISIDORE.

LORD IVON.

Yes and I heard the cry

Of thy small " piping mouth" as 'twere a call
From my remembering star. I waited only
Thy mother's strength to bear the common shock
Of death within the doors. She rose at last,
And, oh so sweetly pale!

My heart misgave me as I

And thou, my child! look'd upon thee;

But he was ever at her side whose name
She murmur'd in her sleep; and, lingering on
To drink a little of thy sweetness more
Before I died, I watch'd their stolen love
As she had been my daughter, with a pure,
Passionless joy that I should leave her soon
To love him as she would. I know not how
To tell thee more.

*

Come, sweet! she is not worthy

Of tears like thine and mine!

*

She fled and left me

The very night! The poison was prepared-
And she had been a widow with the morn
Rich as Golconda. As the midnight chimed,
My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb,
I raised the chalice-but a weakness came
Over my heart; and, taking up the lamp,
I glided to her chamber, and removed
The curtains for a last, a parting look
Upon my child.

*

*

***

Had she but taken thee,

I could have felt she had a mother's heart,

And drain'd the chalice still. I could not leave

My babe alone in such a heartless world!

ISIDORE.

Thank God! Thank God!

TO ERMENGARDE.

I KNOW not if the sunshine waste

The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, oh! so leaden-paced !

The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair-
A weight is in the summer air,

And sadness in the sight of flowers;
And if I go where others smile,

Their love but makes me think of ours,
And heavier gets my heart the while.
Like one upon a desert isle,

I languish of the weary hours;

I never thought a life could be

So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee!

I sit and watch the summer sky.

There comes a cloud through heaven alone; A thousand stars are shining nigh

It feels no light, but darkles on!
Yet now it nears the lovelier moon;

And, flushing through its fringe of snow,
There steals a rosier dye, and soon
Its bosom is one fiery glow!
The Queen of Light within it lies!
Yet mark how lovers meet to part!
The cloud already onward flies,

And shadows sink into its heart,

And (dost thou see them where thou art?)
Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes!

Its light, like mine, is seen no, more,

And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before !

Where press this hour those fairy feet?
Where look this hour those eyes of blue?
What music in thine ear is sweet?

What odor breathes thy lattice through?
What word is on thy lip? what tone-
What look-replying to thine own?
Thy steps along the Danube stray-
Alas! it seeks an orient sea!
Thou wouldst not seem so far away

Flow'd but its waters back to me !

I bless the slowly coming moon

Because its eye look'd late in thine!

Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine;

The flower I press upon my brow

Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now!

THE CONFESSIONAL.

"When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold, Hearts that young love may touch, but never holdNot changeless, as the loved and left of old

Remember me-remember me

I passionately pray of thee!"

LADY E. S. WORTLEY.

I THOUGHT of thee-I thought of thee,
On ocean many a weary night—
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,

We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew beneath the straining sail-
But thou wert lost for years to me,
And, day and night, I thought of thee!

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In France amid the gay saloon,
Where eyes as dark as eyes may be

Are many as the leaves in June-
Where life is love, and even the air

Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, And song and dance and music are

With one warm meaning only fraught―