THE

TROUBADOUR.

BY

FREDERIC MELLEN.

*

He leaned beneath the casement, and his gaze Went forth upon the night, as if his thoughts Held dark communion with its secret shadows; And as the light stole in among the leaves, There might be traced upon his marble brow The lines that grief, not time, had written there. He rested on his harp, and as his hand

Swept lightly o'er the strings, its sadden'd tone Seem'd like the echo of some spirit's moan.

Lady! the dark long night

Of grief and sorrow,

That knows no cheerful light,

No sun-bright morrow,

There is a resting place,

Cold, dark, and deep;

Where grief shall leave no trace,

And misery sleep.

Would I were slumbering there,

From life's sad dream;

The tempest's cold, bleak air,

My requiem.

Lady! my harp's sad song

Hath wing'd its flight;

But still, its chords along,

Murmurs my last 'good night!'

-The melody had ceased,—the harper gone ;
And, silent all, the waning night pass'd on,

WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.

BY B. B. THATCHER. *

Oh, lightly, lightly tread
Upon these early ashes, ye that weep

For her that slumbers in the dreamless sleep,

With

Of this eternal bed!

Hallow her humble tomb

your kind sorrow, ye that knew her well, And climbed with her youth's brief but brilliant dell, 'Mid sunlight and fair bloom.

Glad voices whispered round

As from the stars,-bewildering harmonies,——
And visions of sweet beauty filled the skies,
And the wide vernal ground

With hopes like blossoms shone:

Oh, vainly these shall glow, and vainly wreathe
Verdure for the veiled bosom, that may breathe

No joy-no answering tone.

ΝΟΤ
WEEP

FOR THE DEAD.

79

Yet weep not for the dead

That in the glory of green youth do fall,

Ere phrenzied passion or foul sin one thrall
Upon their souls hath spread.

Weep not! They are at rest
From misery, and madness, and all strife,
That makes but night of day, and death of life,
In the grave's peaceful breast.

Nor ever more shall come

To them the breath of envy, nor the rankling eye
Shall follow them, where side by side they lie-
Defenceless, noiseless, dumb.

Aye-though their memory's green,

In the fond heart, where love for them was born,"
With sorrow's silent dews, each eve, each morn,
Be freshly kept, unseen—

As the freed eagle of the skies, that pined,

But pines no more, for his own mountain wind,

And the old ocean-shore.

Rejoice! rejoice! How long

Should the faint spirit wrestle with its clay,

Fluttering in vain for the far cloudless day,

And for the angel's song?

It mounts! It mounts! Oh, spread The banner of gay victory-and sing. For the enfranchised—and bright garlands bringBut weep not for the dead!