There have been roses round my lute; but now
I must forsake them for the cypress bough:
Now is my tale of tears.-One night, the sky,
As if with passion, darken'd angrily,

And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main
Like hasty threats, and then were calm again;
That night, young Hero by her beacon kept
Her silent watch, and blamed the night, and wept,
And scarcely dared to look upon the sky:
Yet lulling still her fond anxiety-

With "Surely in such a storm he cannot brave,
If but for my sake only, wind and wave."

At length Aurora led young Day and blush'd;
In her sweet presence sea and sky were hush'd.
What is there beauty cannot charm? Her power
Is felt alike, in storm and sunshine hour;
And light and soft the breeze which waved the veil
Of Hero, as she wander'd, lone and pale,
Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye
Roving in tearful dim uncertainty.

Not long uncertain,-she mark'd something glide,
Shadowy and indistinct, upon the tide-
On rush'd she in that desperate energy,
Which only has to know, and, knowing, die-
It was LEANDER!

THE PROUD LADYE.

Oh, what could the ladye's beauty match,
An it were not the ladye's pride?
An hundred knights from far and near
Woo'd at that ladye's side.

The rose of the summer slept on her cheek,

Its lily upon her breast,

And her eye shone forth like the glorious star
That rises the first in the west.

There were some that woo'd for her land and gold,
And some for her noble name,

And more that woo'd for her loveliness;
But her answer was still the same.

"There is a steep and lofty wall,

Where my warders trembling stand,
He who at speed shall ride round its height,
For him shall be my hand."

Many turn'd away from the deed,

The hope of their wooing o'er ;

But many a young knight mounted the steed
He never mounted more.

At last there came a youthful knight
From a strange and far countrie,

The steed that he rode was white as the foam
Upon a stormy sea.

And she who had scorn'd the name of love
Now bow'd before its might,

And the ladye grew meek as if disdain

Were not made for that stranger knight.

She sought at first to steal his soul
By dance, song, and festival;
At length on bended knee she pray'd
He would not ride the wall.

But gaily the young knight laugh'd at her fears And flung him on his steed,

There was not a saint in the calendar

That she pray'd not to in her need.

She dared not raise her eyes to see

If Heaven had granted her prayer,
Till she heard a light step bound to her side,
The gallant knight stood there!

And took the ladye Adeline

From her hair a jewell'd band,
But the knight repell'd the offer'd gift,
And turn'd from the offer'd hand.

And deemest thou that I dared this deed,
Ladye, for love of thee?

The honour that guides the soldier's lance
Is mistress enough for me.

Enough for me to ride the ring,

The victor's crown to wear; But not in honour of the eyes Of any ladye there.

I had a brother whom I lost

Through thy proud crueltie, And far more was to me his love, Than woman's love can be.

I came to triumph o'er the pride

Through which that brother fell; I laugh to scorn thy love and thee, And now, proud dame, farewell!

And from that hour the ladye pined,
For love was in her heart,

And on her slumber there came dreams
She could not bid depart.

And she cut off her long dark hair,
And bade the world farewell,

And she now dwells a veiled nun

In Saint Marie's cell.

From The Troubadour

HANNIBAL'S OATH.

And the night was dark and calm,
There was not a breath of air,
The leaves of the grove were still,

As the presence of death were there;

Only a moaning sound

Came from the distant sea,

It was as if, like life,

It had no tranquillity.

A warrior and a child

Pass'd through the sacred wood,

Which, like a mystery,

Around the temple stood.

The warrior's brow was worn

With the weight of casque and plume,

And sun-burnt was his cheek,

And his eye and brow were gloom.

The child was young and fair,

But the forehead large and high, And the dark eyes' flashing light Seem'd to feel their destiny.

They enter'd in the temple,

And stood before the shrine,
It stream'd with the victim's blood,
With incense and with wine.

The ground rock'd beneath their feet,
The thunder shook the dome,
But the boy stood firm, and swore
Eternal hate to Rome.

There's a page in history

O'er which tears of blood were wept,

And that page is the record

How that oath of hate was kept.

CRESCENTIUS.

I look'd upon his brow,—no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,

He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er Despair
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that Death could take
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,-
He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now. Around he lock'd with changeless brow On many a torture nigh:

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands throng'd the road
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many a dint that told Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chain'd and alone,
The headsman by his side,

The plume, the helm, the charger, gone
The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.