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JUANA

[JUANA, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.]

This love,

"It is but dust thou look'st upon.
This wild and passionate idolatry,
What doth it in the shadow of the grave?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart,
So must it ever end; too much we give
Unto the things that perish."

THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace room,

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom,

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and

red,

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still

to see,

Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free:

No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic

lay,

Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array.

But she that with the dark hair watched by the cold slumberer's side,

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no

pride;

Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that clay she

bent,

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence

blent.

And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like shadows of a cloud,

Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke

aloud;

She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, "Thou yet wilt wake,

And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one! for thy sake.

They told me this was death, but well I knew it could

not be;

Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for thee?

They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,

But I forbade--and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crowned!

With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,

And thy brow so proudly beautiful-who said that this was death?

Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,

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But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed

and strong.

I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like thee,

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light

of glee !

A frail and drooping form is mine-a cold unsmiling cheek

Oh! I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy heart to seek.

But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hear'st how I have kept

A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed and

wept

How in one long deep dream of thee my nights and days have past—

Surely that humble patient love must win back love at

last!

And thou wilt smile-my own, my own shall be the sunny smile,

Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!

No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall

pine

Oh! years of hope deferred were paid by one fond glance of thine !

Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou còmest from the chase

For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy

face!

Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless;

In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness.

But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice

In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of thy

voice.

Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and

tone,

And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone."

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured forth day by day,

The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every

grace

Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form

and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's

breast,

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to

his rest,

With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL

"A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Woman!-a power to suffer and to love;
Therefore thou so canst pity."

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WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum
On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke:
'Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come"
So the Red warriors to their captive spoke.
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,
A youth, a fair-haired youth of England stood,
Like a king's son; though from his cheek had flown
The mantling crimson of the Island blood,

And his pressed lips looked marble. Fiercely bright
And high around him blazed the fires of night,
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,

As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow

Lighting the victim's face but who could tell

Of what within his secret heart befell,

Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought Of his far home then so intensely wrought,

That its full image, pictured to his eye,

On the dark ground of mortal agony

Rose clear as day !—and he might see the band

Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand,

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