Whose pulses are too choked for utterance;
The lingering look of eyes half blind with tears;
The yet more lingering kiss, as if it were
Her white arm round a stranger's neck, her fair brow
Bow'd on his shoulder, while her long black hair
The last long breath of life! Then the slow step, Stream'd o'er his bosom-There they sat, so still, Changing anon to one of hurried speed,
As that the heart doubted its own resolve!
The fix'd gaze of her, who, left behind,
Watches till shadows grow reality!
And then the sudden and sick consciousness
How desolate we are!-O, misery!
Like statues in that light; and Arnold thought
How often he had leant with Adeline
In such sweet silence. But they rose to go;
And then he mark'd how tenderly the youth
Drew his cloak round her, lest the dew should
fall
Thy watchword is, Farewell!—And Arnold took Upon her fragile beauty. They were gone-
A few sweet buds from off a myrtle tree,
And Arnold threw him on the turf, which still
And swore to Adeline, before the spring
Retain'd the pressure of her fairy feet-
Had cover'd twice that plant with its white Then started wildly from the ground, and fled
He would return. With the next morning's sun
Lord Arnold led his vassals to the war,
And Adeline was left to solitude-
The worst of solitude, of home and heart.
If I must part from those whom I have loved,
Let me, too, part from where they were beloved!
It wrings the heart to see each thing the same;
Tread over the same steps; and then to find
The difference in the heart. It is so sad-
So very lonely-to be the sole one
In whom there is a sign of change!
There are two words to tell the warrior's course,
Valour and Victory. But fortune changed,
And Arnold was a prisoner at last.
And there he lay and pined, till hope grew tired,
Even of its sweet self; and now despair
Reach'd its last stage, for it was grown familiar.
Change came, when there was not a thought of
change
But in his dreams. Thanks to a pitying Slave
Whom he had spared in battle, he escaped!
And over sea and land the pilgrim went.
It was a summer evening, when again
He stood before his castle, and he paused
In the excess of happiness. The sun
Had set behind the towers, whose square heights
Divided the red west; and on its verge,
Just where the crimson faded, was a star-
The twilight star-pale, like dew turn'd to light.
Through the fair park he wander'd on, and
pass'd
The lake and its white swans: at length he came
To his sweet garden and its thousand flowers.
The roses were in blossom, and the air
Oppress'd him with its fragrance. On a walk,
As if just fallen from some beauty's hair,
There lay a branch of myrtle-Arnold caught
Its leaves, and kiss'd them!-Sure, 'twas Ade-
He stood now by a little alcove, made
As life and death were on his speed. His towers
Were but a little distant from the sea;
And ere the morning broke, Arnold was toss'd
Far over the blue wave. He did not go,
As the young warrior goes, with hope and pride,
As he once went; but as a pilgrim, roam'd
O'er other countries, any but his own,
At last his steps sought pleasant Italy.
It was one autumn evening that he reach'd
A little valley in the Apennine:
It lay amid the heights—a restingplace
Of quiet and deep beauty. On one side
A forest of a thousand pines arose,
Darken'd with many winters; on the left
Stood the steep crags, where, even in July,
The white snow lay, carved into curious shapes
Of turret, pinnacle, and battlement;
And in the front, the opening mountains show'd
The smiling plains of grape-clad Tuscany;
And farther still was caught the sky like sweep
Of the blue ocean. Small white cottages
And olive trees fill'd up the dell. But, hid
By the sole group of cypresses, whose boughs,
As the green weeping of the seaweed, hung
Like grief or care around, a temple stood
Of purest marble, with its carved dome
And white Corinthian pillars strangely wreath'd
By the thick ivy leaves. In other days,
Some nymph or goddess had been worshipp'd
Whose name was gone, even from her own shrine.
The cross stood on the altar, and above
There hung the picture of Saint Valerie:
Its pale calm beauty suited well the maid,
Who left the idol pleasures of the world
For solitude and heaven in early youth.
And Arnold knelt to the sweet saint, and pray'd
For pity and for pardon; and his heart
Clung to the place, and thought upon repose.
He made himself a home in the same cave
Where once St. Valerie had dwelt: a rill,
Of flowers and green boughs-Adeline is there- That trickled from the rock above, his drink,
But, wo for Arnold, she is not alone!
So lovely, and so false !-There, there she sat,
The mountain fruits his food: and there he lived:
Peasants, and one or two tired pilgrims, all
Her head is on his bosom, and his lips
Feeding on her pale cheek!-He heard it all—
How that youth was her brother, just return'd
From fighting with the infidels in Spain;
That he had gone to Palestine to seek
Some tidings of her Arnold; and, meanwhile,
Herself had vow'd a barefoot pilgrimage
To pray St. Valerie to bless the search !-
And she indeed had bless'd it!-
There is that English castle once again,
With its green sweep of park and its clear lake;
And there that bower; and in its shade is placed
A statue of St. Valerie; and a shrine,
Graven with names of those who placed it here,
Record and tribute of their happiness—
Arnold and Adeline!
THERE rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud: "Tis not the tempest hurrying down,
"Tis not a summer cloud.
The smoke that rises on the air
Is as a type and sign;
A shadow flung by the despair
Within those streets of thine.
That smoke shuts out the cheerful day The sunset's purple hues,
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray, The morning's pearly dews.
Such is the moral atmosphere
Around thy daily life;
Heavy with care, and pale with fear,
With future tumult rife.
There rises on the morning wind
A low appealing cry,
A thousand children are resign'd
To sicken and to die!
We read of Moloch's sacrifice,
We sicken at the name,
And seem to hear the infant cries
And yet we do the same;
And worse-'twas but a moment's pain
The heathen altar gave,
But we give years,-our idol, Gain,
Demands a living grave!
How precious is the little one,
Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!
He sleeps as rosy as the south,
For summer days are long; A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lull'd by his nurse's song.
Love is around him, and his hours
Are innocent and free;
His mind essays its early powers
Beside his mother's knee.
When afteryears of trouble come,
Such as await man's prime,
How will he think of that dear home,
And childhood's lovely time!
And such should childhood ever be,
The fairy well; to bring
To life's worn, weary memory
The freshness of its spring.
But here the order is reversed,
And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,
One dull and darken'd page;-
Written with tears and stamp'd with toil,
Crush'd from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil
That never knew a flower.
Look on yon child, it droops the head,
Its knees are bow'd with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
"O, let me sleep again!"
Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes
Turn mournfully away;
Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,
And yet it is not day.
The lantern's lit-she hurries forth,
The spare cloak's scanty fold Scarce screens her from the snowy north, The child is pale and cold.
And wearily the little hands
Their task accustom'd ply;
While daily, some 'mid those pale bands,
Droop, sicken, pine, and die.
Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!
Man from the cradle-'tis too soon
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.
To labour ere their strength be come,
Or starve,-is such the doom
That makes of many an English home
One long and living tomb?
Is there no pity from above,
No mercy in those skies;
Hath then the heart of man no love, To spare such sacrifice?
O, England! though thy tribute waves
Proclaim thee great and free,
While those small children pine like slaves,
There is a curse on thee!
The balls that hang like drifted snow Upon the guelderose;
The woodbine's fairy trumpets, where The elf his warnote blows.
On every bough there is a bud,
In every bud a flower;
But scarcely bud or flower will last
Beyond the present hour.
Now comes a shower-cloud o'er the sky.
Then all again sunshine;
Then clouds again, but brighten'd with
The rainbow's colour'd line.
Ay, this, this is the month for me!
I could not love a scene
Where the blue sky was always blue,
The green earth always green.
It is like love; O, love should be
An ever-changing thing,—
The love that I could worship must
Be ever on the wing. )
The chain my mistress flings round me
Must be both brief and bright;
Or form'd of opals, which will change
With every changing light.
To-morrow she must turn to sighs
The smiles she wore to-day; This moment's look of tenderness, The next one must be gay.
Sweet April! thou the emblem art
Of what my love must be ;
One varying like the varying bloom
Is just the love for me.
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