I saw the monarch of a realm;
The law was but his breath;
But soon he left his gilded throne,
And pressed the couch of death.

I saw the chieftain, in his arms,
Stride ploudly o'er the plain;
But e'er the sound of battle ceased,
He fell amid the slain.

I saw the artist's bright'ning brow,
Lit by an inward flame;

But e'er his budding hopes had bloomed,
He died without a name.

I saw the poet, o'er whose page

Creations start to light;

But soon the fair creations fell,
In chaos and in night.

I saw a ship go gayly forth,
With hearts as true as brave;
But ere the morning streaked the east,
It sank beneath the wave.

Ah, who can show us any good,
Since life is but a span?

None, none but thee, O Son of God!
O suffering Son of Man!

IV. THE BARTERED BRIDE.

(1840.)

THE Bridegroom is merry in revel and dance,
And his pleasures the mirth of the moment enhance;
But the Bride cannot smile 'mid the glad and the gay,
For her heart is o'erclouded with sorrow to-day.

Let her weep! 'tis the only relief to her soul!
Flow, flow, ye bright tear-drops, and heed not control!
And may you, though shed in such bitterness now,
Be turned into jewels to garnish her brow!

She thinks of the past, and the tableaux arise,
A remembrance, like Eve's, of her lost Paradise;
She turns to the future, the vision is drear,
The bloom is departing, the verdure is sear.

Her first trusting faith to another was given;
His image to her was an image of heaven;
When his footsteps approached, like a fawn leaped
her heart;

And it almost stood still, as she heard him depart.

But her father denied her; his nature severe,
Was unmoved by her sigh, and untouched by her
tear;

So alone to the rose-covered arbor she goes,
To think of her lost one, and weep o'er her woes.

She has gone; and wherever she goes she shall find,
That the strife to forget but the more doth remind;

And the father that bartered the priceless for gold,
Shall repent for the heart that to sorrow he sold.

For wealth cannot purchase content for that heart,
Nor to anguish and torture a cordial impart;
And mid the gay scenes of her brilliant career,
She is sadly still sighing, "My home is not here!"

Thus the flow'ret, removed from the bower of its birth,

In clime uncongenial bows drooping to earth; And the birdling, a captive remote from its nest, Will pine in a palace, and languish to rest.

V. THE ENGLISH NUN.

(1840.)

THE mother's gentle hand is laid
With blessings on her head,
And forth upon the mighty deep
Resistless she is sped.

And still she feels the pressure soft

Of that maternal hand;

As fades amid the distance blue
He own, her native land.

And still she hears the pleasant tones

That filled her childhood's home;

And still she hears her mother speak,

66

Thy father, child, has come."

Once more she courses on the lawn,
And twines her hair with flowers;
And wanders in the woodland wild,
And rests beneath its bowers.

But these are dreams; aye, very dreams; Bright fragments of the past;

Far, far from home, and friends, and love, The ship is flying fast.

Now fade the castles one by one,

'Till lost amid the night;

And shore and hill beyond the wave
Are sinking from her sight.

But darkness multiplies our thoughts,
And magnifies our grief;

And thus does midnight bring to her
No herald of relief.

Yet does she hope; Hope ever lives,
E'en in the desert drear;

Like Hagar's angel, pointing out
The fountain cool and clear.

O, can the father's heart forget
His loving child's caress;

Her sweet, confiding innocence,
Her words of tenderness?

Nay, nay; he surely must relent!
His heart may be severe;
But melts the heart of adamant,
Beneath a daughter's tear!

Nor surely can the church require
The heart reluctant given;
For joy alone should make the robe
That decks the bride of Heaven.

And when her Edward knows her wrongs,
He'll peril life and land;

To set her free, a thousand swords
Shall flash at his command.

With these delightful dreams of hope
Still floating through her brain,
She sinks in soft and gentle sleep,
And night and silence reign.

Thus sad and weary passed the days,
Beneath the weight she bore;
"Till, like a knell, the sound arose-
"Behold Italia's shore!"

O, what to her is Italy,

Its sunshine and its flowers,