Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,

Hush'd as by words of power.

With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd

Up to their mother's face;

With brows through parting ringlets rais'd,
They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread-
Forth from a poet's magic book

The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which pour'd
Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*
The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear,
Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a gondolier;

*It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men.

Of him she read, who broke the charm

That wrapt the myrtle grove;

Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, Young holy hearts were stirr'd;

And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet each pause between ;
When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,

Of proud, yet restless eye.

But drops that would not stay for pride,

From that dark eye gush'd free,

As, pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! e'en by thee!

"Am I so chang'd?—and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play'dThis brow hath been all bath'd in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made. We have knelt down and said one prayer, sang one vesper strain

And

My thoughts are dim with clouds of care-
Tell me those words again!

"Life hath been heavy on my head;
I come, a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here."

-She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept,
Shook all her thrilling frame—

She fell upon his neck, and wept,

And breath'd her brother's name.

Her brother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,

That came, the bitter world to flee,

A stranger to his own?

-He was the bard of gifts divine, Το sway the hearts of men; He of the song for Salem's shrine,

He of the Sword and Pen !

TO THE POET WORDSWORTH.

THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills,

The old and full of voices-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound-for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words.
While, in pleas'd murmurs, woman's lip might move,
And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.