Doomed the long isles of Sidney-cove to see,
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee?
Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,
And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low
The plaint that owned unutterable woe;

Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom,
As bursts the morn on night's unfathomed gloom,
Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,
Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

"And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore,
My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!
Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn,
And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!
But not, my child, with life's precarious fire,
The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;
These shall resist the triumph of decay,
When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away!
Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,
But that which warmed it once shall never die!
That spark unburied in its mortal frame,
With living light, eternal, and the same,
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,
Unveiled by darkness- unassuaged by tears!
"Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,
One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep;
But when I gain the home without a friend,
And press the uneasy couch where none attend,
This last embrace, still cherished in my heart,
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part!
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,
And hush the groan of life's last agony!

"Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze; Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied? Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good Will woo thee from the shades of solitude! O'er friendless grief Compassion shall awake, And smile on innocence, for Mercy's sake!" Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If Fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored a while in every pleasing dream? Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,

By artless friendship blessed when life was new? Eternal HOPE! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began but not to fade.

When all the sister planets have decayed;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below;
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile!

THEODRIC;

A DOMESTIC TALE.

'T WAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below:
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form
That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared,
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin;
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green :
'T was transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were linked,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.

Amidst them one of spotless marble shone,

A maiden's grave,

That young

- and 't was inscribed thereon,

and loved she died whose dust was there: "Yes," said my comrade, "young she died, and fair! Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : Her fingers witched the chords they passed along, And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song: Yet wooed and worshipped as she was, till few Aspired to hope, 't was sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned, And died of love that could not be returned.

Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines
O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines:
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride

Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide,
And still the garden whence she graced her brow
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now.
How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake,
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland,
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,
Why had no gallant native youth the art

She, 'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong
By mountain-freedom-music-fancy-song,
Herself descended from the brave in arms,
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,
Dreamt of heroic beings; hoped to find
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind;

And, scorning wealth, looked cold even on the claim
Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.

Her younger brother, sixteen summers old,
And much her likeness both in mind and mould,
Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine,
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.
'T was when, alas! our empire's evil star
Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war;
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost.

The youth wrote home the rout of many a day ;
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say,
had ever made a valiant stand,-

One corps
The corps in which he served,-THEODRIC's band.
His fame, forgotten chief! is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory's sky;

Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show
Our fields of battle twenty years ago,

Will tell you feats his small brigade performed,
In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed.
Time was when songs were chanted to his fame,
And soldiers loved the march that bore his name:
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,
And that Helvetian's, UDOLPH's, most of all.
'T was touching, when the storm of war blew wild,
To see a blooming boy-almost a child-
Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs,
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,

And speed each task, and tell each message clear,
In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear.
THEODRIC praised him, and they wept for joy

In yonder house, when letters from the boy