Health, youth, and loveliness on her smile, Her abode that n.o.ble and ancient pile, She, surely, must happy be-- (With each wish fulfilled that wealth can fulfil, For as if by magic is wrought her will) A moment wait--we shall see!

At length she moves and heavily sighs, While wearily rest her violet eyes On her jewels richly wrought; Shuddering, she turns away her gaze From flashing diamond and ruby's blaze, As she whispers, "Too dearly bought!"

Then, slowly rising, the cas.e.m.e.nt nears, And looking abroad through a mist of tears Sighs: "Yes, I have earned it all: Crushed a manly heart that too truly loved, False to my. vows and to honor proved, To be Lady of Rathmore Hall.

"What are now its broad rich acres to me, Stretching out as far as my gaze can see?

With loathing I turn from the scene; My womanhood wasting in wild regret O'er a past that I would, but cannot, forget; O'er a life that might have been!

"Oh! for the humble, dear home of my youth, Its loving warm hearts, its unsullied truth, Its freedom from fashion's thrall.

And the blameless hopes--the bliss that was mine Ere awoke in my heart a wish to shine As Lady of Rathmore Hall!"

She stops, for, lo! in the chamber still, Loud barking of hounds and harsh accents fill The quiet and dreamy air; Swearing at menials--with lowering brow, Earl Rathmore, entering her presence now, Turns on her an angry stare.

A shudder runs through her--what does it tell?

A look in her eyes that not there should dwell-- She hates him--his wedded wife!

Surely angels grieve in their bliss above To see, where there should be perfect love, Disunion--unholy strife.

With an oath he mutters "Still moping, eh!

From hour to hour and day to-day; Not for this from thy lowly state-- Enticed by the beauty I'm weary of now, And smiles that have fled from thy sullen brow-- I made thee a Rathmore's mate."

With no word from her lips she to him replies, But the shadow deepens within her eyes, And she smiles in cold disdain; Yet her snowy eyelids haughty droop, And the calm, that disdains to his will to stoop, Mask an aching heart and brain.

With a muttered curse, in still harsher tone, He pa.s.ses out, and thus leaves her alone In her rich and gilded gloom Ah, no wretched wife through the whole broad land Is as weary of life as that lady grand As she sits in that splendid room.

If a daughter's soft arms should ever twine, Lady Rathmore, round that white neck of thine, Teach her not to barter all The guileless love of her innocent youth, Her premised vows and maidenly truth, For another Rathmore Hall.

THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ARNO.

'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale, Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.

She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright, And, like morning's smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight; Soft cheeks like sea-sh.e.l.ls tinted and radiant hazel eyes; But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.

Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true, Such as worldly breast, earth harden'd, pa.s.sion-wearied, never knew; And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell, There to seek an hour's communing with the Friend she loved so well.

Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair, Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care; The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,-- For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?

The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem; On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem, Murm'ring, "O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!"

But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love, One of those whom G.o.d culls early for His gardens bright above; And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day, And to Our Lady's chapel she came no more to pray.

One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile, Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while, And in sleep to both a vision of most wond'rous beauty came, Such as only visit souls which burn with heav'nly love's pure flame.

Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown; And surpa.s.sing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night, Was high Heaven's regal Mistress--Our Lady, fair and bright.

Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay; And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true, They said: "Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!"

High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright, And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight; 'Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow'd and reverent head, And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.

Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now; As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone, Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary's child had gone.

THE TWO BIRTH NIGHTS.

Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud, And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd; Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright, Rich festoons of glowing flowers--truly 'tis a wondrous sight.

Time and care and gold were lavished that it might be, every way, The success of all the season--brilliant fashionable gay.

'Tis the birth night of the heiress of this splendor wealth and state, The sole child, the only darling, of a household of the great.

Now the strains of the fast _galop_ on the perfumed air arise, Rosy cheeks are turning carmine, brighter grow the brightest eyes, As the whirling crowds of dancers pa.s.s again and yet again-- Girls coquettish, silly women, vapid and unmeaning men.

'Tis a scene to fill the thoughtful with a silent, vague dismay, And from its unholy magic we are fain to steal away; Out here in the quiet moonlight we may pause awhile and rest, Whilst the solemn stars of heaven bring back peace unto our breast.

Soft! who is the fair young being--she who nightly joins us now, In a robe of airy lightness, and with jewels on her brow, Fair as the most fair ideal dreaming poet e'er inspired, Or as lover, charmed by beauty, ever worshipped and admired.

Strange! what means that look so weary, that long-drawn and painful sigh; And that gaze, intense and yearning, fixed upon the starlit sky?

Is she not the child of fortune, fortune's pet and darling bright, Yes, the beauteous, courted heiress--heroine of the gala night?

From the crowds of ardent lovers, who would beset her way, Sickened by their whispered flatt'ries, she has coldly turned away; And, as now the thrilling music falls upon her wearied ear, She cannot resist a shudder, caused by mingled hate and fear.

"This is pleasure, then," she murmurs; _this_ is what the world calls bliss, Oh! for objects less unworthy, for a holier life than this!

I am weary of its folly. O, Great Father, grant my boon: "From its sinful, silken meshes, I pray Thee, free me soon!"

Did He answer? Now another year has pa.s.sed with rapid flight,-- O'er the crowded, silent city broods the spirit of the night; In the sick wards of the convent, fever-stricken, gasping, lies, One with death's damps on his brow, and its film o'er his eyes.

There beside him kneels a _Sister_, in coa.r.s.e dusky robe and veil, And with gentle care she moistens those poor lips so dry and pale; Now she whispers hope and courage, now she tells of Heaven bright-- Thus it is the gentle heiress celebrates her next birth-night.

Not a trace of weary languor rests upon that ivory brow, No vague sigh of restless yearning e'er escapes her bosom now; Yet more fair and happy looks she, in that simple garb I ween, Than when, robed in lace and jewels, she was called a ballroom's queen.

THE YOUNG GREEK ODALISQUE.

'Mid silken cushions, richly wrought, a young Greek girl reclined, And fairer form the harem's walls had ne'er before enshrined; 'Mid all the young and lovely ones who round her cl.u.s.tered there, With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, she shone supremely fair.

'Tis true that orbs as dark as hers in melting softness shone, And lips whose coral hue might vie in brightness with her own; And forms as light as ever might in Moslem's heaven be found, So full of beauty's witching grace, were lightly hovering round.

Yet, oh, how paled their brilliant charms before that beauteous one Who, 'mid their gay mirth, silent sat, from all apart--alone, Outshining all, not by the spells of lovely face or form, But by the soul that shone through all, her peerless, priceless charm.

But, say, what were the visions sweet that filled that gentle heart?

Surely to Azof, her liege lord, was given the greatest part,-- To him who prized her smiles beyond the power his sceptre gave, And, mighty sultan though he was, to her was as a slave.