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"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem ! Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsman spoke louder in scorn,-
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:-

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream !"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.

THE DEATH OF AMIRALD'S MISTRESS.

WITH maddening step I sought the place;

I raised the mantle from her face,
And knelt me down beside to gaze
On all the mockery death displays,
Until it seem'd but sleep to me.
Death, oh, no! death it could not be.
The cold grey light the dawn had shed
Changed gradual into melting red;

L. E. L.

I watch'd the morning colour streak
With crimson dye her marble cheek;
The freshness of the stirring air
Lifted her curls of raven hair;
Her head lay pillow'd on her arm,
Sweetly, as if with life yet warm;
I kiss'd her lips: oh, God, the chill!
My heart is frozen with it still;
It was, as suddenly on me,
Open'd my depths of misery.

I flung me on the ground, and raved,
And of the wind that past me craved
One breath of poison, till my blood,
From lip and brow, gush'd in one flood.
I watch'd the warm stream of my veins
Mix with the death-wound's clotted stains;
Oh! how I pray'd that I might pour
My heart's blood, and her life restore!

And night came on: with what dim fear I mark'd the darkling hours appear; I could not gaze on the dear brow, And seeing was all left me now. I grasp'd the cold hand in my own, Till both alike seem'd turn'd to stone. Night, morn, and noontide pass'd away, Then came the tokens of decay.

'Twas the third night that I had kept
My watch, and, like a child, had wept
Sorrow to sleep, and in my dream
I saw her as she once could seem,
Fair as an angel: there she bent,
As if sprung from the element,

The bright clear fountain, whose pure wave
Her soft and shadowy image gave.
Methought that conscious beauty threw
Upon her cheek its own sweet hue,
Its loveliness of morning red :-

I woke, and gazed upon the dead.

I mark'd the fearful stains which now
Were darkening o'er the once white brow,-
The livid colours that declare

The soul no longer dwelleth there.
The gaze of even my fond eye,
Seem'd almost like impiety,
As it were sin for looks to be
On what the earth alone should see.
I thought upon the loathsome doom
Of the grave's cold, corrupted gloom;
Oh, never shall the vile worm rest,
A lover on thy lip and breast!
Oh, never shall a careless tread
Soil with its step thy sacred bed!
Never shall leaf or blossom bloom
With vainest mockery o'er thy tomb!

And forth I went, and raised a shrine
Of the dried branches of the pine,—
I laid her there, and o'er her flung
The wild flowers that around her sprung;
I tore them up, and root and all,

I bade them wait her funeral,

With a strange joy, that each fair thing
Should, like herself, be withering.
I lit the pyre-the evening skies
Rain'd tears upon the sacrifice;
How did its wild and awful light
Struggle with the fierce winds of night!

I watch'd the morning colour streak
With crimson dye her marble cheek;
The freshness of the stirring air
Lifted her curls of raven hair;
Her head lay pillow'd on her arm,
Sweetly, as if with life yet warm;
I kiss'd her lips: oh, God, the chill!
My heart is frozen with it still;
It was, as suddenly on me,
Open'd my depths of misery.

I flung me on the ground, and raved,
And of the wind that past me craved
One breath of poison, till my blood,
From lip and brow, gush'd in one flood,
I watch'd the warm stream of my veins
Mix with the death-wound's clotted stains;
Oh! how I pray'd that I might pour
My heart's blood, and her life restore!

And night came on: with what dim fear I mark'd the darkling hours appear; I could not gaze on the dear brow, And seeing was all left me now. I grasp'd the cold hand in my own, Till both alike seem'd turn'd to stone. Night, morn, and noontide pass'd away, Then came the tokens of decay.

'Twas the third night that I had kept
My watch, and, like a child, had wept
Sorrow to sleep, and in my dream
I saw her as she once could seem,
Fair as an angel: there she bent,
As if sprung from the element,

Meaningless, cold, corpse-like as those
No gentle hand was near to close.
And all seem'd as they look'd on me
In wonder, that I yet could be

A moving shape of warmth and breath,
Alone amid a world of death.

'Tis strange how much I still retain
Of these wild tortures of my brain,
Though now they but to memory seem
A curse, a madness, and a dream.

The Troubadour.

LOVE'S GIFT.-THE RUBY AND THE PEARL.

C. Dibdin.

RUBY, a gem of the Sylphic race,

Glowing with ardour, and beaming with grace;

From whose eyes shot a radiance, chaste, brilliant, and warm,

The mellow of splendour, the softness of charm;

Enamour'd became of a graceful girl

Of earthly mould, and he named her Pearl.

And O, that maiden was lily fair,
Perfect her form as true circles are:
And, O, how modest that maid serene,
And, O, how polish'd that maiden's mien ;
Pure as polish'd that graceful girl;

And Ruby he glow'd for the lovely Pearl.

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