As one by one, to touch that hand,

Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair,

Sit on the pale still face?

Death! Death! canst thou be lovely
Unto the eye of life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?

- It was a strange and fearful sight,

The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,
All gathered round the dead!

And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips rigidly compressed,
Lest the strong heart should fail :
King Pedro, with a jealous eye,
Watching the homage done
By the land's flower and chivalry
To her, his martyred one.

But on the face he looked not

Which once his star had been ;

To every form his glance was turned
Save of the breathless queen :

Though something, won from the grave's embrace,
Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,

It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that poured those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed, — bear back the dead

Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight,

A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapped in his folding robe

When they lowered the dust again.

'Tis hushed at last the tomb above,

Hymns die, and steps depart :

Who called thee strong as Death, O Love?

Mightier thou wast and art.

Felicia Hemans.

COIMBRA.

OFT from its crystal bed of rest
Mondego's tranquil waters glide;
Nor stop, till lost on ocean's breast,
They, swelling, mingle with the tide,
Increasing still, as still they flow,—
Ah! there commenced my endless woe.

There Beauty showed, with angel mien,
Whate'er is Beauty's loveliest mould, -
The enchanting smile, the brow serene,
And ivory forehead wreathed with gold;
A countenance which Love's soft art
Has graven forever on my heart.

Content and glorious with the pain

That shot from Beauty's radiant eyes,
From day to day I hugged my chain,
And played with life amidst my sighs,
E'en with my fervent war at peace,
Nor bade the dear illusions cease.

Though still those beaming orbs unclose,
For me their fires no longer shine;
Can those avail to soothe my woes,

If these bright beams no more are mine?

For radiant howsoe'er they be,

Alas! they are not bright for me.

Ah! who might guess of love so deep
I ere the unfathomed end should see,
Or dare to tell that aught would keep
My separated soul from thee?
That lost to hope, alone survives
The cherished joy remembrance gives.

Ah! who might say the glorious thought
Should, in a moment, cease to heave
This breast, with fond endearment fraught;
And hope itself no more deceive ?
Yet memory still recalls thy power,
And shall till life's receding hour.

Yet softly steals to soothe my grief
The thought that cheats me into bliss,
And gives me yet a faint relief

Midst all my bosom's wretchedness,
That in our happier hours you proved
You ne'er could love as I have loved!

Thus shall the pangs of absence steal
O'er thee, with half thy torturing woe;
But shouldst thou guess the pangs I feel,
Or should thy tear of anguish flow,
That tear would but my woes increase;
In death alone I seek for peace.

Yet whispered to the murmuring stream That winds these flowery meads among,

I give affection's cheating dream,
And pour in weeping truth my song
That each recounted woe may prove
A lasting monument of love.

Luis de Camoens. Tr. Mrs. Cockle.

Douro, the River.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE BANKS OF THE DOURO.

YROSSING, in unexampled enterprise,

CR

This great and perilous stream, the English host Effected here their landing, on the day

When Soult from Porto with his troops was driven.
No sight so joyful ever had been seen

From Douro's banks, - not when the mountains sent
Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets
Entered from distant seas their port desired;
Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners
So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal,
And short, sharp strokes of frequent musketry,
By the delivered habitants that hour.
For they who, beaten then and routed, fled
Before victorious England, in their day

Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell,
Filled yon devoted city with all forms

Of horror, all unutterable crimes;

And vengeance now had reached the inhuman race