L'INCONNUE.

S thy name Mary, maiden fair?
Such should, methinks, its music be;
The sweetest name that mortals bear
Were best befitting thee;

And she, to whom it once was given,
Was half of earth and half of heaven.

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
I look upon thy folded hair;
Ah! while we dream not they beguile,
Our hearts are in the snare;

And she who chains a wild bird's wing
Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls,

To all but thee unseen, unknown;
When evening shades thy silent walls,
Then read it all alone;

In stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal!

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY

HE sun stepped down from his golden

throne,

And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,

For a sleepy thing was she;

What is the Lily dreaming of?

Why crisp the waters blue ?

See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!
Her white leaves are glistening through!

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
In the lap of the breathless tide;
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;
He would love her better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true ; ·
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
And looked at the sky so blue.

Remember, remember, thou silly one,
How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,
Or flourish a blooming bride?
"O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
And he lives on earth," said she;

"But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come, And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, To smile on a thing like thee?

O no, fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne;

The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top,
Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,

That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,
And warmed with his faithless beam,-
And will he be true to a pallid flower,
That floats on the quiet stream?

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,
But turned to the skies afar,

And bared her breast to the trembling ray
That shot from the rising star;

The cloud came over the darkened sky,
And over the waters wide:

She looked in vain through the beating rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

"A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE."

HE twirled the string of golden beads,
That round her neck was hung,

My grandsire's gift; the good old man
Loved girls when he was young;

And, bending lightly o'er the cord,
And turning half away,

With something like a youthful sigh,
Thus spoke the maiden gray:·

:

"Well, one may trail her silken robe,
And bind her locks with pearls,
And one may wreathe the woodland rose
Among her floating curls;

And one may tread the dewy grass,
And one the marble floor,
Nor half-hid bosom heave the less,
Nor broidered corset more!

"Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl
Was sitting in the shade,
There's something brings her to my mind
In that young dreaming maid, -
And in her hand she held a flower,
A flower, whose speaking hue
Said, in the language of the heart,
'Believe the giver true.'

"And, as she looked upon its leaves,
The maiden made a vow

To wear it when the bridal wreath
Was woven for her brow;

She watched the flower, as, day by day,
The leaflets curled and died;

But he who gave it never came
To claim her for his bride.

"O many a summer's morning glow
Has lent the rose its ray,
And many a winter's drifting snow
Has swept its bloom away;
But she has kept that faithless pledge
To this, her winter hour,
And keeps it still, herself alone,
And wasted like the flower."

Her pale lip quivered, and the light

Gleamed in her moistening eyes;

I asked her how she liked the tints

In those Castilian skies?

"She thought them misty,

't was perhaps

Because she stood too near"; She turned away, and as she turned I saw her wipe a tear.

THE DYING SENECA.

E died not as the martyr dies,
Wrapped in his living shroud of flame;
He fell not as the warrior falls,
Gasping upon the field of fame ;

A gentler passage to the grave,

The murderer's softened fury gave.

Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles Had tracked the purple demon's path,

And yet another victim lived

To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; Could not imperial vengeance spare His furrowed brow and silver hair?

The field was sown with noble blood,

The harvest reaped in burning tears,

When, rolling up its crimson flood,

Broke the long-gathering tide of years; His diadem was rent away,

And beggars trampled on his clay.

None wept,

none pitied; they who knelt At morning by the despot's throne,