Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, Ev'n to the Spring's glad voice.-Her own was low, A haughty brow, and Age has done with tears, That love was not for her, though hearts would melt One sunny morn, With alms before her castle gate she stood, 'Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger through them broke-the orphan maid From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept But never breath'd in human ear the name gaze Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame. What marvel if the anguish of surprise, The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, Awhile o'erpower'd her ?—from the weeper's touck She shrank-'twas but a moment-yet too much For that all humbled one-its mortal stroke Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke At once in silence.-Heavily and prone She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more- And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late! TO THE IVY. OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS. OH! how could Fancy crown with thee, In ancient days, the god of wine, And bid thee at the banquet be, Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound The Roman, on his battle plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwin'd thee, with exulting strains, Around the victor's tent; Yet there though, fresh in glossy green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,— Better thou lov'st the silent scene, Around the victor's grave. Where sleep the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past, Where years are hastening to efface Thou in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. Oh! many a temple, once sublime, Hath nought of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry. And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners wav'd of yore, O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore. High from the fields of air, look down Hath pass'd and left no trace. Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, And deck the humblest grave. |