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Whose spell is in the silent past,

Which saith to love and hope, "No more ;" No more, for hope hath long forsaken

Love, though at first it's gentle guide
First lull'd to sleep, then left to 'waken,
'Mid tears and scorn, despair and pride,
And only those who know can tell,
What love is after hope's farewell.
And first she spoke of childhood's time,
Little, what childhood ought to be,
When tenderly the gentle child

Is cherish'd at its mother's knee,
Who deems that ne'er before, from heaven
So sweet a thing to earth was given.
But she an orphan had no share
In fond affection's early care;

She knew not love until it came

Far other, though it bore that name.

"I felt," she said, "all things grow bright!

Before the spirit's inward light.
Earth was more lovely, night and day,
Conscious of some enchanted sway,
That flung around an atmosphere

I had not deem'd could brighten here.
And I have gazed on Moohreeb's face,
As exiles watch their native place;
I knew his step before it stirr'd
From its green nest the cautious bird.
I woke, till eye and cheek grew dim,
Then slept-it was to dream of him;
I lived for days upon a word
Less watchful ear had never heard:
And won from careless look or sign
A happiness too dearly mine.
He was my world-I wish'd to make
My heart a temple for his sake.
It matters not-such passionate love
Has only life and hope above;

A wanderer from its home on high,
Here it is sent to droop and die.
He loved me not-or but a day,
I was a flower upon his way:
A moment near his heart enshrined,
Then flung to perish on the wind."

She hid her face within her handsMethinks the maiden well might weep: The heart it has a weary task

Which unrequited love must keep ;
At once a treasure and a curse,
The shadow on its universe.
Alas for young and wasted years,
For long nights only spent in tears;
For hopes, like lamps in some dim urn,
That but for the departed burn.
Alas for her whose drooping brow
Scarce struggles with its sorrow now.

At first Nadira wept to see
That hopelessness of misery.

But, O, she was too glad, too young,
To dream of an eternal grief;

A thousand thoughts within her sprung,
Of solace, promise, and relief.
Slowly Zilara raised her head,

Then, moved by some strong feeling, said,
"A boon, sultana, there is one
Which won by me, were heaven won;
Not wealth, not freedom-wealth to me
Is worthless, as all wealth must be,
When there are none its gifts to share :
For whom have I on earth to care?
None from whose head its golden shrine
May ward the ills that fell on mine.
And freedom-'tis a worthless boon,
To one who will be free so soon;
And yet I have one prayer, so dear,

I dared not hope-I only fear."

"Speak, trembler, be your wish confest,
And trust Nadira with the rest."
"Lady, look forth on yonder tower,
There spend I morn and midnight's hour,
Beneath that lonely peepul tree—*
Well may its branches wave o'er me,
For their dark wreaths are ever shed
The mournful tribute to the dead-
There sit I, in fond wish to cheer
A captive's sad and lonely ear,
And strive his drooping hopes to raise,
With songs that breathe of happier days.
Lady, methinks I scarce need tell
The name that I have loved so well;
'Tis Moohreeb, captured by the sword
Of him, thy own unconquer'd lord.
Lady, one word-one look from thee,
And Murad sets that captive free."
"And you will follow at his side?"

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'Ah, no, he hath another bride;

And if I pity, canst thou bear

To think upon her lone despair?
No, break the mountain chieftain's chain,
Give him to hope, home, love again."

Her cheek with former beauty blush'd,
The crimson to her forehead rush'd,
Her eyes rekindled till their light
Flash'd from the lash's summer night.
So eager was her prayer, so strong
The love that bore her soul along.
Ah! many loves for many hearts;
But if mortality has known
One which its native heaven imparts

To that fine soil where it has grown;

* Bishop Heber mentions a picturesque custom prevalent in one of the Rajpoot tribes. The death of a warrior is only announced to his family by branches of the peepul tree strewed before his door.

"Tis in that first and early feeling,
Passion's most spiritual revealing;
Halt dream, all poetry-whose hope
Colours life's charm'd horoscope
With hues so beautiful, so pure—
Whose nature is not to endure.
As well expect the tints to last,
The rainbow on the storm hath cast.
Of all young feelings, love first dies,
Soon the world piles its obsequies;

Yet there have been who still would keep
That early vision dear and deep,
The wretched they, but love requires
Tears, tears to keep alive his fires:
The happy will forget, but those
To whom despair denies repose,
From whom all future light is gone,
The sad, the slighted, still love on.

The ghurrees are chiming the morning hour,
The voice of the priest is heard from the tower,
The turrets of Delhi are white in the sun,
Alas! that another bright day has begun.
Children of earth, ah! how can ye bear
This constant awakening to toil and to care?!
Out upon morning, its hours recall,
Earth to its trouble, man to its thrall,
Out upon morning, it chases the night,
With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight;
Out upon morning, which wakes us to life,
With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife.
And yet there were many in Delhi that day,
Who watch'd the first light, and rejoiced in the
ray;

They wait their young monarch, who comes from the field

With a wreath on his spear, and a dent on his shield.

There's a throng in the east, 'tis the king and his train:

And first prance the horsemen, who scarce can restrain

Their steeds that are wild as the wind, and as bold As the riders who curb them with bridles of gold: The elephants follow, and o'er each proud head The chattah that glitters with gems is outspread, Whence the silver bells fall with their musical sound,

While the howdah‡ red trappings float bright on the ground:

* THE GHURREE is a sort of gong, on which the hour is truck when the brazen cup fills, and sinks down in the water of the vessel on which it floats. This primitive method of reckoning time is still retained in India.

+ One fashion I confess to having omitted: however, here it is in plain prose. The tails of the chargers are often dyed a bright scarlet, which, when at full gallop, has much the appearance of leaving a track of fire after them.

THE HOWDAH is the seat on the elephant's neck; often formed of pure silver.

Behind stalk the camels, which, weary and worn, Seem to stretch their long necks, and repine at the

morn;

And wild on the air the fierce war-echoes come,
The voice of the atabal, trumpet, and drum:
Half lost in the shout that ascends from the crowd,
Who delight in the young, and the brave, and the
proud.

"Tis folly to talk of the right and the wrong,
The triumph will carry the many along.

A dearer welcome far remains,
Than that of Delhi's crowded plains:*
Soon Murad seeks the shadowy hall,
Cool with the fountain's languid fall;
His own, his best beloved to meet.
Why kneels Nadira at his feet?
With flushing cheek, and eager air,
One word hath won her easy prayer;
It is such happiness to grant,
The slightest fancy that can haunt

The loved one's wish, earth hath no gem,
And heaven to hope, too dear for them.

That night beheld a vessel glide,
Over the Ganges' onward tide;
One watch'd that vessel from the shore,
Too conscious of the freight it bore,
And wretched in her granted vow,
Sees Moohreeb leaning by the prow,
And knows that soon the winding river
Will hide him from her view forever.

Next morn they found the youthful slave
Still kneeling by the sacred wave;
Her head was leaning on the stone
Of an old ruin'd tomb beside,
A fitting pillow cold and lone,

The dead had to the dead supplied;
The heart's last string hath snapt in twain,
O, earth, receive thine own again:
The weary one at length has rest
Within thy chill but quiet breast.
Long did the young sultana keep

The memory of that maiden's lute;
And call to mind her songs, and weep,

Long after those charmed chords were mute. A small white tomb was raised to show That human sorrow slept below; And solemn verse and sacred line Were graved on that funereal shrine. And by its side the cypress tree Stood, like unchanging memory.

* DELHI.-"The remains of this once magnificent and populous city exhibit so desolate and melancholy a scene, that it has more the look of an assemblage of dilapidated mansions of the dead than the living; and it is at this time difficult to imagine it to have ever been any thing else than a vast and splendid cemetery."-Elliot.

And even to this hour are thrown

Green wreaths on that remember'd stone;
And songs remain, whose tunes are fraught
With music which herself first taught,
And, it is said, one lonely star
Still brings a murmur sweet and far
Upon the silent midnight air,
As if Zilara wander'd there.
O! if her poet soul be blent
With its ærial element,

May its lone course be where the rill
Goes singing at its own glad will;
Where early flowers unclose and die;
Where shells beside the ocean lie,

Fill'd with strange tones; or where the breeze

Sheds odours o'er the moonlit seas:

There let her gentle spirit rove
Embalm'd by poetry and love.

THE DANCING GIRL.

A LIGHT and joyous figure, one that seems As if the air were her own element; Begirt with cheerful thoughts, and bringing back Old days, when nymphs upon Arcadian plains Made musical the wind, and in the sun

Flash'd their bright cymbals and their whitest hands.

These were the days of poetry-the woods
Were haunted with sweet shadows; and the caves
Odorous with moss, and lit with shining spars,
Were homes where Naiades met some graceful

youth

Beneath the moonlit heaven-all this is past; Ours is a darker and a sadder age;

Heaven help us through it!-'tis a weary world The dust and ashes of a happier time.

JOHN KEMBLE.

O! GLORIOUS triumph, thus to sway at will All feelings in our nature; thus to work The springs of sympathy, the mines of thought, And all the deep emotions of the heart.

To colour the fine paintings of the mind,
And bid them move and breathe. Our island bard,
He who flung human life upon his page,
How much he owes the actor. Kemble once
Made Hamlet, Cato, and the Noble Moor,
Our own familiar friends—they lived, they look'd,
And left an actual image on the soul.

I would I could remember them, but he
Who looks yon pale and melancholy prince,
Was past before my time-yet still the stage
Is fancy's world of poetry to me-
For I have heard the pathos of the Moor
Tremble in broken music, when he bids
His last farewell to Venice, and implores
For charity and rest :-and I have wept
When the stern father slays his only child,
That he may keep her memory a thing
To shelter in his heart. Nor is she least
Amid these haunting shapes-that gentle wife,
Who kept one stainless faith through long, long

years,

Of utter hopelessness, and yet loved on;
Till Mantua ranks within my memory,
With those Italian cities which have been
The visions of my youth.

I know not how it acts on other minds,
But this I know, my most enchanted world
Is hidden when the curtain falls, and leaves
Remembrance only of its gorgeous dreams
And beautiful creations.

A LEGEND OF TEIGNMOUTH.

A STORY of the olden time, when hearts Wore truer faith than now-a carved stone Is in a little ancient church which stands 'Mid yonder trees, 'tis now almost defaced; But careful eye may trace the mould'ring lines, And kind tradition has preserved the tale; I tell it nearly in the very words Which are the common legend.

Some few brief hours, my gallant bark,
And we shall see the shore;
My native, and my beautiful,

That I will leave no more.

And gallantly the white sails swept
On, on before the wind;

The prow dash'd through the foam and left
A sparkling line behind.

The sun look'd out through the blue sky,
A gladsome summer sun;

The white cliffs like his mirrors show
Their native land is won.

And gladly from the tall ship's side,
Sir Francis hail'd the land,
And gladly in his swiftest boat,

Row'd onward to the strand.

"I see my father's castle walls

Look down upon the sea; The red wine will flow there to-night, And all for love of me.

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At length the time appointed came,
He knew that it was come;
With pallid brow and wasted frame,

That mariner sought home.

The worn-out vessel reach'd the shore,
The weary sails sank down;
The seamen clear'd her of the spoils
From many an Indian town.

And then Sir Francis fired the ship;
Yet tears were in his eyes,
When the last blaze of those old planks
Died in the midnight skies.

Next morning, 'twas a Sabbath morn
They sought that church, to pray;
And cold beside his maiden's tomb
The brave Sir Francis lay.

O, Death! the pitying that restored
The lover to his bride;

Once more the marble was unclosed,
They laid him at her side.

AIREY FORCE.

AYE, underneath yon shadowy side,
I could be fain to fix my home;
Where dashes down the torrent's pride,
In sparkling wave, and silver foam.

No other sound is waking there,

But that perpetual voice, which seems Like spirit music on the air,

An echo from the world of dreams.

They were more wise in other days; Then turn'd the hermit to his cell, And left a world where all betrays, Apart with his own thoughts to dwell.

Content to curb the heart, to be

Indifferent, quiet, mournful, cold With hopes turn'd into memory, With feelings that had lost their hold.

Far better this, than such vain life

As is in crowded cities known; Where care, repining, grief, and strife,

Make every passing hour their own.

There, by yon torrent's rushing wave,
I'd pass what yet of time remain'd;
And feel the quiet of the grave
Long ere that grave itself were gain'd.

THE REPLY OF THE FOUNTAIN.

How deep within each human heart,

A thousand treasured feelings lie; Things precious, delicate, apart,

Too sensitive for human eye.

Our purest feelings, and our best,

Yet shrinking from the common view; Rarely except in song exprest,

And yet how tender, and how true!

They wake, and know their power, when eve
Flings on the west its transient glow;
Yet long dark shadows dimly weave
A gloom round some green path below.

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