Another day, another night,
And the sailor on the deep

Hears the low chant of a funeral rite
From the lordly chapel sweep.

It comes with a broken and muffled tone,
As if that rite were in terror done:

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power,
And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and woe,
Through the aisle the mourners go;
With a hush'd and stealthy tread,
Bearing on the noble dead;
Sheath'd in armor of the field-
Only his wan face reveal'd,
Whence the still and solemn gleam

Doth a strange sad contrast seem

To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches wavering in every hand,

For they dread each moment the shout of war,
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend:
No sound comes back like the sound of yore,
Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;
By the red fountain the valiant lie,
The flower of Provençal chivalry;
But one free step, and one lofty heart,
Bear through that scene to the last their part.
She hath led the death-train of the brave,
To the verge of his own ancestral grave;
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway,
But the struggling passion must now have way;
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil,
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail;`
The pride on the lip is lingering still,

But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill;
Anguish and triumph are met at strife,
Rending the cords of her frail young life;
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier,
Lifting her voice, as if death might hear.—
"I won thy fame from the breath of wrong
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!
Now call me hence, by thy side to be,
The world thou leav'st has no place for me.
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth-
Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth!
Give me my home on thy noble heart,-
Well have we loved, let us both depart!"-
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay,
The living cheek to the cheek of clay;

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.
The living cheek!-Oh! it was not in vain,
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain;
She is there at rest in her place of pride,
In death how queen-like-a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed one!-she might not stay
When the crown had fallen from her life away;
She might not linger a weary thing,

A dove with no home for its broken wing,
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,
That know not its own land's melodies.
From the long heart-withering early gone;

She hath lived-she hath loved-her task is done!

203

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

"Tableau, où l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; union redou table de la mort et de la vie !"-Madame de Stael.

THERE was music on the midnight:
From a royal fane it roll'd,

And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;

For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.

There was hurrying through the midnight
A sound of many feet;

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness
Along the shadowy street:

And softer, fainter, grew their tread,

As it near'd the minster gate,

Whence a broad and solemn light was shed

From a scene of royal state.

Full glow'd the strong red radiance

In the centre of the nave,
Where the folds of a purple canopy
Swept down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom,
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,
Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavillion,
High on a glittering throne,

A woman's form sat silently,
Midst the glare of light alone.
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still-
The drapery on her breast

Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,
So stonelike was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music
Shook e'en the dust below,

When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!

Then died away that haughty sound,

And from the encircling band

Stepp'd prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound. With homage to her hand.

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering

Over each martial frame,

As one by one, to touch that hand,
Noble and leader came?
Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair,
Sit on the pale still face?

Death! death! canst thou be lovely
Unto the eye of life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?

-It was a strange and fearful sight,
The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light.
All gather'd round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips rigidly compress'd,
Lest the strong heart should fail:
King Pedro, with a jealous eye,
Watching the homage done,
By the land's flower and chivalry,
To her, his martyr'd one.

But on the face he looked not,

Which once his star had been;

To every form his glance was turn'd,

Save of the breathless queen;

Though something, won from the grave's embrace,

Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,

It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,

Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed:-bear back the dead

Unto the chamber deep!

ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

205

Lay down again the royal head,

Dust with the dust to sleep!
There is music on the midnight-
A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again,
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart :

Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?

Mightier thou wast and art.

ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN

"O sanctissima, O purissima!

Dulcis Virgo Maria,

Mater amata, intemerata,

Ora, ora pro nobis."-Sicilian Mariner's Hymn

IN the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea
And by the star-light gleams,

Mother of sorrows! lo, I come to thee!

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie
All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once did'st move,

In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou know'st the grief, the love,

The fear of woman's soul;-to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, could'st watch and weep-

Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress'd!

There is a wandering bark

Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave:

Oh! let thy soft eye mark

His course; be with him, holiest, guide and save!

VOL. II.-18

My soul is on that way;

My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim;
Through the long weary day

I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him.

Aid him-and me, too, aid!

Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess!
On thy weak child is laid

The burden of too deep a tenderness.

Too much o'er him is pour'd

My being's hope-scarce leaving Heaven a part;
Too fearfully adored,

Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

I tremble with a sense

Of grief to be;-I hear a warning low

Sweet mother! call me hence!

This wild idolatry must end in woe

The troubled joy of life,

Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known;

And, worn with feverish strife,

Would fold its wings; take back, take back thine own!

Hark! how the wind swept by!

The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave

Hope of the sailor's eye,

And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save!

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world unreach'd by human thought,
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,

Answer me, answer me!

Have we not communed here of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours,
Was not to perish as a rose's breath,

To melt away, like song from festal bowers?

Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye's last light was mine-the soul that shone Intensely, mournfully, through gathering hazeDid'st thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze!

Hear, hear, and answer me!

Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife,