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And then a slave bethought her of a harp;
The harper came, and tuned his instrument;
At the first notes, irregular and sharp,

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent,
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent; And he began a long low island song

Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call

To be so being; in a gushing stream

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,
Although her paroxysm drew towards its close;-
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her in the hope to save.

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;
Nothing could make her meet her father's face,
Though on all other things with looks intense

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace;
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence

Avail'd for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep-the power seem'd gone for ever.

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show
A parting pang, the spirit from her past :

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast

Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,

Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the black-
Oh! to possess such lustre-and then lack!

She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of heaven descend above
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.

Thus lived-thus died she; never more on her
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth: her days and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful-such as had not staid
Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well
By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.

That isle is now all desolate and bare,

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair;

No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.

But many a Greek maid in a loving song

Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander With her sire's story makes the night less long; Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her: If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrongA heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, For soon or late Love is his own avenger.

WORK AND CONTEMPLATION.

A Sonnet by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarolle;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,

Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel,
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian church-that we may do
Our father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus, swift and stedfast; thus, intent and strong;
While, thus apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.

TO A STOLEN RING.

By N. P. WILLIS, an American Poet.

OH for thy history now! Hadst thou a tongue
To whisper of thy secrets, I could lay

Upon thy jewell'd tracery mine ear

And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn
In that fair creature's pride, and thou hast felt
The bounding of the haughtiest blood that e'er
Sprang from the heart of woman; and thy gold
Has lain upon her forehead in the hour

Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast,
And life was but a bitterness with all
Its vividness and beauty. She has gazed
In her fair girlhood on thy snowy pearls,
And mused away the hours, and she has bent
On thee the downcast radiance of her eye
When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear.
And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and prest
Back on her heart its beatings, and put by
From her vein❜d temples the luxuriant curls,
And, in her peaceful sleep, when she has lain
In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams
Of her high heart came goldenly and soft,
Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt
The swelling of the clear transparent veins
As the rich blood rush'd through them, warm and fast.

I am impatient as I gaze on thee,

Thou inarticulate jewel! Thou hast heard
With thy dull ear such music!-the low tone
Of a young sister's tenderness, when night
Hath folded them together like one flower-
The sudden snatch of a remember'd song
Warbled capriciously-the careless word
Lightly betraying the inaudible thought
Working within the heart, and more than all,
Thou hast been lifted, when the fervent prayer
For a loved mother, or the sleeping one
Lying beside her, trembled on her lip,
And the warm tear that from her eye stole out,
As the soft lash fell over it, has lain
Amid thy shining jewels like a star.

THE CHERUB.

From COLERIDGE's Christabel.

Was it not lovely to behold
A cherub come down from the sky,
A beauteous thing of heavenly mould,
With ringlets of the wavy gold
Dancing and floating curiously?
To see it come down to the earth
This beauteous thing of heavenly birth!
Leaving the fields of balm and bliss,
To dwell in such a world as this!

I heard a maiden sing the while

A strain so holy, it might beguile
An angel from the radiant spheres

That have swum in light ten thousand years;

Ten times ten thousand is too few

Child of heaven, can this be true!

And then I saw that beauteous thing
Slowly from the clouds descending,
Brightness, glory, beauty blending,
In the mid air hovering.

It had a halo round its head,
It was not of the rainbow's hue,
For in it was no shade of blue,
But a beam of amber mixt with red,
Like that which mingles in the ray
A little after the break of day.
Its raiment was the thousand dyes
Of flowers in the heavenly paradise;
Its track a beam of the sun refined,
And its chariot was the northern wind;
My heart danced in me with delight,
And my spirits mounted at the sight,
And I said within me it is well;
But where the bower, or peaceful dell,
Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell?
Then I bethought me of the place
To lodge the messenger of grace;
And I chose the ancient sycamore,

And the little green by Greta's shore;
It is a spot so passing fair,

That sainted thing might sojourn there.

Go tell yon stranger artizan, Build as quickly as he can. Heaven shield us from annoy! What shall form this dome of joy! The leaf of the rose would be too rude For a thing that is not flesh and blood; The walls must be of the sunny air, And the roof the silvery gossamer, And all the ceiling round and round Wove half of light, and half of sound; The sounds must be the tones that fly From distant harp, just ere they die; And the light the moon's soft midnight ray, When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey. And such a bower of light and love,

Of beauty, and of harmonie.

In earth below, or heaven above,

No mortal thing shall ever see.

The dream is past, it is gone away! The rose is blighted on the spray.

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