This looks not a bridal, the singers are mute,
Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute;
Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound,
And the robe of her marriage floats white on the ground.
Oh! where is the lover, the bridegroom?-oh! where?
Look under yon black pall-the bridegroom is there!
Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the same,
And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 'mid flame!
They have raised the death-pyre of sweet-scented wood,
And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood

Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled ;-their song
Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along,
That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love?
That one pure, wild feeling all others above:
Vowed to the living, and kept to the tomb !-
The same in its blight as it was in its bloom.
With no tear in her eye, and no change in her smile,
Young ZADIE had come nigh to the funeral pile.
The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their sound;
Silent they stood by that holiest mound.

From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a breath,
When the maiden stood by the place of death!
One moment was given the last she might spare!
To the mother, who stood in her weeping there.
She took the jewels that shone on her hand;
She took from her dark hair its flowery band,
And scattered them round. At once they raise
The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise.
A prayer is muttered, a blessing said,--
Her torch is raised;-she is by the dead.
She has fired the pile! At once there came
A mingled rush of smoke and of flame:
The wind swept it off. They saw the bride,-
Laid by her AZIM side by side.

The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair :
Like a banner of fire they played on the air.
The smoke and the flame gathered round as before,
Then cleared;-but the bride was seen no more!

I heard the words of praise, but not
The one voice that I paused to hear;
And other sounds to me were like

A tale poured in a sleeper's ear.
Where was LORENZO?-He had stood

Spell-bound; but when I closed the lay,
As if the charm ceased with the song,
He darted hurriedly away,
I masqued again, and wandered on
Through many a gay and gorgeous room ;
What with sweet waters, sweeter flowers,
The air was heavy with perfume.
The harp was echoing the lute,
Soft voices answered to the flute,
And, like rills in the noon-tide clear,
Beneath the flame-hung gondolier,
Shone mirrors peopled with the shades
Of stately youths and radiant maids;

And on the ear in whispers came
Those winged words of soul and flame,
Breathed in the dark-eyed beauty's ear
By some young love-touched cavalier;
Or mixed at times some sound more gay,
Of dance, or laugh, or roundelay.
Oh, it is sickness to the heart
To bear in revelry its part,
And yet feel bursting:-not
Which has part in its suffering, -
The laugh as glad, the step as light,
The song as sweet, the glance as bright;
As the laugh, step, and glance and song,
Did to young happiness belong.

one thing

I turned me from the crowd, and reached
A spot which seemed unsought by all-
An alcove filled with shrubs and flowers,
But lighted by the distant hall,
With one or two fair statues placed,
Like deities of the sweet shrine.
That human art should ever frame
Such shapes so utterly divine!
A deep sigh breathed, I knew the tone;
My cheek blushed warm, my heart beat high :--

One moment more I too was known,-
I shrank before LORENZO's eye.

He leant beside a pedestal.

The glorious brow, of Parian stone,

Of the Antinous, by his side,

Was not more noble than his own! They were alike: he had the same Thick-clustering curls the Roman wore-

The fixed and melancholy eye

The smile which past like lightning o'er
The curved lip. We did not speak,
But the heart breathed upon each cheek;
We looked round with those wandering looks,
Which seek some object for their gaze,
As if each other's glance was like

The too much light of morning's rays.
I saw a youth beside me kneel ;
I heard my name in music steal ;
I felt my hand trembling in his ;-
Another moment, and his kiss
Had burnt upon it; when, like thought,
So swift it past, my hand was thrown
Away, as if in sudden pain.

LORENZO like a dream had flown!
We did not meet again :-he seemed
To shun each spot where I might be;
And, it was said, another claimed
The heart-more than the world to me!

I loved him as young Genius loves,
When its own wild and radiant heaven

Of starry thought burns with the light,
The love, the lite, by passion given.
I loved him, too, as woman loves-
Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn:
Life had no evil destiny

That, with him, I could not have borne! I had been nurst in palaces;

Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home

In Paradise, had he been near!
How sweet it would have been to dwell,
Apart from all, in some green dell
Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers;
And nestling birds to sing the hours!
Our home, beneath some chesnut's shade,
But of the woven branches made:

Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail
The rose hears from the nightingale;
And waked at morning by the call
Of music from a waterfall.
But not alone in dreams like this,
Breathed in the very hope of bliss,
I loved: my love had been the same
In hushed despair, in open shame.
I would have rather been a slave,

In tears, in bondage, by his side,
Than shared in all, if wanting him,
This world had power to give beside !
My heart was withered, and my heart
Had ever been the world to me;
And love had been the first fond dream,
Whose life was in reality.
I had sprung from my solitude,
Like a young bird upon the wing
To meet the arrow; so I met

My poisoned shaft of suffering.
And as that bird, with drooping crest
And broken wing, will seek his nest,
But seek in vain; so vain I sought
My pleasant home of song and thought.
There was one spell upon my brain,
Upon my pencil, on my strain;
But one face to my colours came ;
My chords replied but to one name-
LORENZO!-all seemed vowed to thee,
To passion, and to misery !
I had no interest in the things

That once had been like life, or light; No tale was pleasant to mine ear,

No song was sweet, no picture bright. I was wild with my great distress, My lone, my utter hopelessness! I would sit hours by the side Of some clear rill, and mark it glide, Bearing my tears along, till night Came with dark hours; and soft starlight Watch o'er it shadowy beauty keeping,

FAREWELL!-we shall not meet again
As we are parting now!
I must my beating heart restrain-
Must veil my burning brow!
Oh, I must coldly learn to hide
One thought, all else above-
Must call upon my woman's pride

To hide my woman's love!
Check dreams I never may avow;
Be free, be careless, cold as thou!
Oh! those are tears of bitterness,
Wrung from the breaking heart,
When two, blest in their tenderness,
Must learn to live-apart!
But what are they to that lone sigh,
That cold and fixed despair,
That weight of wasting agony
It must be mine to bear ?
Methinks I should not thus repine,
If I had but one vow of thine.
I could forgive inconstancy,
To be one moment loved by thee!
With me the hope of life is gone,
The sun of joy is set;
One wish my soul still dwells upon-
The wish it could forget.
I would forget that look, that tone,
My heart hath all too dearly known.
But who could ever yet efface
From memory love's enduring trace?
All may revolt, all may complain-
But who is there may break the chain!
Farewell! I shall not be to thee

More than a passing thought;
But every time and place will be
With thy remembrance fraught!
Farewell! we have not often met,-
We may not meet again;
But on my heart the seal is set
Love never sets in vain !

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Legends of olden times in Greece,
When not a flower but had its tale;
When spirits haunted each green oak;
When voices spoke in every gale;
When not a star shone in the sky
Without its own love history.
Amid its many songs was one
That suited well with my sick mind.
I sang it when the breath of flowers
Came sweet upon the midnight wind.

LEADES AND CYDIPPE.

She sat her in her twilight bower,
A temple formed of leaf and flower;
Rose and myrtle framed the roof,
To a shower of April proof;
And primroses, pale gems of spring,
Lay on the green turf glistening
Close by the violet, whose breath
Is so sweet in a dewy wreath.
And oh, that myrtle! how green it grew !
With flowers as white as the pearls of dew
That shone beside; and the glorious rose
Lay, like a beauty in warm repose,
Blushing in slumber. The air was bright
With the spirit and glow of its crimson light.

CYDIPPE had turned from her columned hall,
Where, the queen of the feast she was worshipped by all;
Where the vases were burning with spices and flowers,
And the odorous waters were playing in showers;
And lamps were blazing-those lamps of perfume
Which shed such a charm of light over the bloom
Of woman, when Pleasure a spell has thrown
Over one night-hour and made it her own.
And the ruby wine-cup shone with a ray,
As the gems of the East had there melted away;
And the bards were singing those songs of fire,
That bright eyes and the goblet so well inspire ;-
While she, the glory and pride of the hour,
Sat silent and sad in her secret bower!
There is a grief that wastes the heart,

Like mildew on a tulip's dyes,-
When hope, deferred but to depart,
Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs:
When love's bark, with its anchor gone,
Clings to a straw, and still trusts on.
Oh, more than all!-methinks that Love

Should pray that it might ever be
Beside the burning shrine which had
Its young heart's fond idolatry.
Oh, absence is the night of love!
Lovers are very children then;
Fancying ten thousand feverish shapes,
Until their light returns again.

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