XXXIV.

And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.

Yet would she smile-and that, too, hath its smile-
Circled with joy which reach'd her not the while,
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war

With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true.

XXXV.

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might
Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul,
A treasure all undreamt of;-as the night
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll

Unheard by day. It seem'd as if her breast
Had hoarded energies, till then suppress'd
Almost with pain, and bursting from control,

And finding first that hour their pathway free:

-Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be!

XXXVI.

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn,
Was fled; and fire, like prophecy's had sprung
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn-
Pride-sense of wrong—ay, the frail heart is bound
By these at times, ev'n as with adamant round,
Kept so from breaking!—yet not thus upborne
She mov'd, though some sustaining passion's wave
Lifted her fervent soul-a sister for the brave!

XXXVII.

And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings
Round woman in such hours!—a mournful sight,
Though lovely!-an o'erflowing of the springs,
The full springs of affection, deep as bright!
And she, because her life is ever twin'd

With other lives, and by no stormy wind

May thence be shaken, and because the light

Of tenderness is round her, and her eye

Doth weep such passionate tears-therefore she thus can die.

XXXVIII.

Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking scene,

As through a triumph move; and cast aside
Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's mien,

O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide,
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth,
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth,
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified;

Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the past,
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last.

XXXIX.

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest

Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which grows
Between the nurtur'd of the same fond breast,

The shelter'd of one roof; and thus it rose
Twin'd in with life.-How is it, that the hours
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose,

And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft,

From the heart's memory fade, in this world's breath, so oft?

XL.

But thee that breath had touch'd not; thee, nor him,

The true in all things found!-and thou wert blest Ev'n then, that no remember'd change could dim The perfect image of affection, press'd

Like armour to thy bosom !-thou hadst kept Watch by that brother's couch of pain, and wept, Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith Unto thy soul-one light, one hope ye chose-one death.

XLI.

So didst thou pass on brightly!--but for her,
Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken!
-All-merciful! to think that such things were,
And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken!
To think of that fair girl, whose path had been
So strew'd with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene!
And whose quick glance came ever as a token
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice

As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods rejoice!

XLII.

And she to die!-she lov'd the laughing earth
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers!
-Was not her smile even as the sudden birth
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers?
Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear,
Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hours

Flow'd from her lips, was to forget the sway

Of Time and Death below,-blight, shadow, dull decay!

XLIII.

Could this change be?-the hour, the scene, where last

I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind:

-A golden vintage-eve ;-the heats were pass'd,

And, in the freshness of the fanning wind,

Her father sat, where gleam'd the first faint star

Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar,

She, on the greensward at his feet reclin'd,

In his calm face laugh'd up; some shepherd-lay

Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play.