Yes! once she trod its palaces,

With joyful heart and brow ;

And once, her own sweet silvery voice

In antique songs would flow.

She woke from childhood's blissful dreams,

That pass'd like spring-flowers' breath,
To know the might of earthly love,
Love stronger far than death!

He whom she loved was high of soul;
The world's cold, withering blast
No taint of ill, no shade of gloom

Had o'er his pathway cast.

They loved-nor dream'd that aught could change

That full deep happiness;

で

Nought knew they of mistrust, or doubt,

Of anguish, or distress.

There came a storm; the fierce wild gust

Of human wrath arose ;

Pride-passion-Death!' and she was left

Like a pale summer-rose

Torn from its stem-and yet she lived,
And they who work'd the woe
Gazed on, the while her burning tears
As unbound streams would flow.

They bore her in her grief away

To a far distant shore,

That there she might forget; and mourn

Her early love no more.

She mingled with the thoughtless world

She join'd the song and dance,
But yet no smile was on her lips,
No glad light in her glance.

Once she had pined to see again
Her dear Italian clime;
Now, she but long'd to flee away
From all the things of time.
Nor was the summons long delay'd;
The signal word was given;
Within the bounds of one brief hour,

Her mortal chains were riven.

S. S.-VOL. II.

MUSIC ON THE WATERS.

She stood, that night, amid the throng,
A bright, yet lonely star;

The fair and graceful form was there,

The hidden soul-afar;

Till that Venetian song outpour'd

Its beauty on the breeze;

(Once she had heard that plaintive strain

On Adria's sapphire seas.)

And then, the fierce strife re-awoke,
The swift blood came and fled;

The lips that once had breathed that lay
Were cold among the dead.

Once more return'd the tone, the scene,
The last long fond embrace;

And the soft cloud-like crimson pass'd
Quick from her fading face.

That hour upon the waters lone,
That voice long lost in death,
As in a magic glass came back
And hush'd her panting breath.
Yes! on the night when last she met
The gaze of those dear eyes,
He had pour'd forth those very notes,
Beneath the moonlit skies!

"Bring back the harp, and sing to me
That sweet song of the seas,"
She cried-" It is as harmony

Borne on the southern breeze.
That MUSIC ON THE WATERS bright,
That last, last thrilling strain,
No other lips than his should breathe,
Yet, sing that song again."

They swept the strings-the melody

Fill'd all the silent room,

She heard the well-remember'd tones

As from his far-off tomb.

They ceased-she spoke not-life had fled;

With that deep thrilling lay,

That died in echoes-her freed soul

Had burst its bonds of clay.

♦

61

HURDWAR-THE GATE OF VISHNOO.

BY L. E. L.

FLING wide the sacred city gates,

Wide on the open air;

A higher Conqueror awaits,

Than he whose name they bear.

He comes not in the strength of war,

He comes not in his pride;

No banners are around his car,

No trumpets at his side.

Not in the midst of arméd bands,

The Christian Chief appears;

No swords are in his followers' hands,

They strive with prayers and tears.

Though faint and weak those followers seem,

Yet mighty is their voice:

The Ganges' old and holy stream

Will in its depths rejoice.

Low is the voice in which they plead,

A voice of peace and love;

Peaceful and loving is the creed

Whose emblem is the Dove.

Far in the East a Star arose,

And with its rising brought

God's own appointed hour to those

By whom it had been sought.

And still that guiding star hath shone

O'er all its light hath won;

And it will still keep shining on

Until its work be done.