Back to thy maidens, with a lighten'd heart,
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate
From out an eagle's nest.

Cla. Alas! alas!

I tremble at the height.

Whene'er I think

Of the hot barons, of the fickle people,

And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.

Rien. Tremble! let them tremble:

I am their master, Claudia! whom they scorn'd,
Endured, protected.-Sweet, go dream of love!
I am their master, Claudia!

SONG.

HAIL to the gentle bride! the dove
High nested in the column's crest!

Oh, welcome as the bird of love,

Who bore the olive-sign of rest!

Hail to the gentle bride! the flower

Whose garlands round the column twine!

Oh, fairer than the citron bower,

More fragrant than the blossom'd vine!

Hail to the gentle bride! the star

Whose radiance o'er the column beams!

Oh, soft as moonlight seen afar—

A silver shine on trembling streams!

Hung its first banner out? When the gray rock,

Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed?

Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks

Started to see the proud lobelia glow

Like living flame? When through the forest gleam'd

The rhododendron? or the fragrant breath

Of the magnolia swept deliciously

O'er the half laden nerve?

In fleeting colors wrote their own decay,

And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast

That sang their dirge; when o'er their rustling bed

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail,
Heavy of wing and fearful; when, with heart
Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark`d
The signs of coming winter: then began
Then the haze,

The Indian's joyous season.

Soft and illusive as a fairy dream,

Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold.
The quiet rivers that were wont to hide
'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd
By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept,
While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky
Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged
In the same element. Slowly the sun,
And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved
And then it took upon its parting wing
A rainbow glory.

Gorgeous was the time,
Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee,
Our brother hunter, but to us replete
With musing thoughts in melancholy train.
Our joys, alas! too oft were woe to thee,

Yet ah, poor Indian! whom we fain would drive
Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands,
The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown,
And when we would forget, repeat thy name.

THE HOLY DEAD.

Wherefore I praised the dead who are already dead, more than the living who are yet alive."-SOLOMON.

THEY dread no storm that lowers,
No perish'd joys bewail;
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail:
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
No change upon their brow;
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh,
Though all earth's idols bow.

Who are so greatly blest?

From whom hath sorrow fled?
Who share such deep, unbroken rest
Where all things toil? The dead!
The holy dead. Why weep ye so
Above yon sable bier?

Thrice blessed! they have done with woe,

The living claim the tear.

Go to their sleeping bowers,

Deck their low couch of clay

With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers;

And when they fade away,

Think of the amaranthine wreath,

The garlands never dim,

And tell me why thou fly'st from death,

Or hid'st thy friends from him.

TALK WITH THE SEA.

We dream, but they awake;

Dread visions mar our rest;

Through thorns and snares our way we take,
And yet we mourn the blest!

For spirits round the Eternal Throne

How vain the tears we shed!
They are the living, they alone,

Whom thus we call the dead.

TALK WITH THE SEA.

I SAID with a moan, as I roamed alone,
By the side of the solemn sea,—
"Oh cast at my feet, which thy billows meet,
Some token to comfort me.

'Mid thy surges cold, a ring of gold

I have lost, with an amethyst bright,

Thou hast locked it so long, in thy casket strong, That the rust must have quenched its light.

"Send a gift, I pray, on thy sheeted spray, To solace my drooping mind,

For I'm sad and grieve, and erelong must leave

This rolling globe behind."

Then the Sea answered, "Spoils are mine,

From many an argosy,

And pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep,

But naught have I there for thee!"