L'INCONNUE. S thy name Mary, maiden fair? And she, to whom it once was given, I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, And she who chains a wild bird's wing So, lady, take the leaf that falls, To all but thee unseen, unknown; In stillness read, in darkness seal, 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! The Rose is cooling his burning cheek That would lie by the Rose's side; Remember, remember, thou silly one, "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 golden sand on the sparkling shore, That he has not cheered with his fickle smile, Alas for the Lily! she would not heed, And bared her breast to the trembling ray The cloud came over the darkened sky, She looked in vain through the beating rain, ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. "A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE." HE twirled the string of golden beads, My grandsire's gift; the good old man And, bending lightly o'er the cord, With something like a youthful sigh, : "Well, one may trail her silken robe, And one may tread the dewy grass, "Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl "And, as she looked upon its leaves, To wear it when the bridal wreath She watched the flower, as, day by day, But he who gave it never came "O many a summer's morning glow 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, 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, |