THE VALLEY OF Unrest.

Once it smiled a silent dell

Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visiter shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood

Over the magic solitude.

་

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees

That palpitate like the chill seas

Around the misty Hebrides!

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven

Uneasily, from morn till even,

Over the violets there that lie

In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave

And weep above a nameless grave!

They wave:-from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops.

They weep:-from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.

5

BRIDAL BALLAD.

THE ring is on my hand,

And the wreath is on my brow;

Satins and jewels grand

Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,

I felt my bosom swell

For the words rang as a knell,

And the voice seemed his who fell

In the battle down the dell,

And who is happy now.

But he spoke to reassure me,

And he kissed my pallid brow,

While a reverie came o'er me,

And to the churchyard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"

And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,

And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,

Behold the golden token

That proves me happy now!

Would God I could awaken!

For I dream I know not how,

And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,—

Lest the dead who is forsaken

May not be happy now.

D

THE SLEEPER.

Ar midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

The

rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!-and lo! where lies

(Her casement open to the skies) Irene, with her Destinies !