THE LADY OF LURLEI.*

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

"SEEST thou the lady on yonder steep,
Whose crags beetle over the billowy deep?
Her robes of the sea-green waves are wove,
And her eyes are blue as the skies above:
Her golden tresses, like sunlight, roam
O'er a neck more pure than the wreathing foam,
As her long white arms on the breeze she flings,
And in sweet, low, silvery accents sings
To the still, gray morning her strange wild lay-
Away, to the lady, good boatman, away!"

A film crept over the boatman's sight,

And his arm grew weak, and his cheek grew white,
As he saw the lady poised high in air,
With her sea-green robes and her flowing hair!
"Sir knight, 't would peril our lives to ride,
In the stanchest boat, o'er this surging tide,
When yon wild lady at morn is seen
On Lurlei's cliff, with her robes of green!
Beware! for evil befalls the knight
Who dares to wish for a nearer sight!"
"Go, preach thy fears to the timid girl,
Or the craven coward, thou trembling churl !
The knight who the shock of an hundred fields
Has borne, to no fancied danger yields:
Then over the waves, with thy bounding skiff,
To the strange bright lady of Lurlei's cliff;
And take, as thy guerdon, this golden chain-
For me, none peril their lives in vain !",

He took the chain, and he spake no more,
But his strong arm shook, as he grasped the oar,
And gave his bark to the rolling deep,
To ferry the knight to the fatal steep!
The skies grew black, and the winds blew high,
And ominous birds flew shrieking by,
And roaring surges piled up the strand
With a terrible wall as they neared the land.
"Back, back!" the boatman with white lips cried,
Nor dare thus madly this fearful tide!"

66

But the brave knight turned with a dauntless brow,
And, boldly spurning the graceful prow,
Plunged fearlessly over the light skiff's side,
And eagerly breasted the foaming tide!
Strange faces arose to his troubled eye,
As the whirling waters swept wildly by-
Fierce voices hissed in his failing ear,
And his stout frame trembled, but not with fear,
For his breath he held and his arm he strained,
Till the waves were passed and the shore was gained.
Then, swiftly scaling the steep ascent,
Before the lady he breathless bent!

He laid his head on her bosom fair,
His fingers toyed with her golden hair-
While "Mine for ever," she wildly sung,
As round him her long white arms she flung!
"Bold knight, come down in the sunless deep,
Where peris warble and naiads sleep-
Come down and dwell with the ocean-maid,
Where the blight ne'er falls and the flowers ne'er
fade!"

*Lurlei is the name of a rocky cliff on the shores of the Rhine.

MY SLEEPING CHILDREN.

YE sleep, my children! On your soft, blue eyes— Those eyes that once, like summer sunlight glancing, From morn till eve with joy seemed ever dancing, A mournful slumber lies!

Ye sleep, but I-I wake to watch your rest; Yet not as erst, when, round your temples wreathing, The light locks stirred at every gentle breathing From your full, quiet breast.

No more my finger on my lips I lay, Lest some rude sound,some sudden footstep-jarring Your little couch, and the hushed stillness marring Should chase your sleep away.

Ah, no! the winds go moaning o'er your heads, And the sweet dryads of the valley, winging In airy circles, wild, shrill strains are singing Above your grassy beds!

But ye awake not-they disturb not now: And a vain gush of childlike grief comes o'er me, As the dread memory, sudden sweeps before me, That death is on your brow!

Oh, precious ones! that seemed too fair to dieMy soft-eyed Mary, child of seraph sweetness: Bright vision, vanished with a shadow's fleetness— Why hast thou left me ?—why? Wert weary, gentle dove, of this cold world? And didst thou long to rest thy little pinions Far in those bright and beautiful dominions,

Where they at last are furled?

Wert homesick, darling? Could thy little heart Yearn for a love more tender than we bore theeYearn for a watch more fond and faithful o'er thee,

That thou shouldst hence depart?

That thou shouldst hence, and leave me here behind To fold thy little robes in silent anguishTo dry my tears, then weep again—to languish For what I can not find!

Had my low cradle-song no longer charmsThat cradle-song whose soft and plaintive numbers Lulled thee each evening to thy peaceful slumbers

To keep thee in my arms

And thou, my boy! my beautiful-my own! Twin cherub of the one who stands beside me, Grieving that we within the earth should hide thee,

And leave thee all alone

Grieving that thou canst play with him no more; That, though his tears upon thy grave are falling, Thy voice replies not to his mournful callingUnheeded ne'er before!

Did the sweet cup of life already cloy, That from thy lips, ere scarcely it was tastedEre from its brim one sparkling gleam was wasted, Thou laidst it down, my boy?

Nay, wherefore question? To my pleading vain, No voice to still my spirit's restless yearningNo sweet reply, to soothe my heart's deep burning, Comes from your graves again!

Ye were-ye art not! Thus earth's bloom decays: I watch the flowers 'neath Autumn's footstep dying,

Yet know the spring-breath, through the valleys Each from its tomb will raise! [sighing,

But ye-oh ye! though soft the vernal rain, The sweet spring showers stern winter's chain dissolving

May round you fall earth's loveliest flowers evolving, Ye will not bloom again!

Though by the streams, and all the meadows o'er, Mid woods and dells, the south's gay clarion ringing, May peal, till life is everywhere upspringing,

Ye-ye will wake no more!

Nay, ye will wake! not here, not here-but there, In heaven! Oh, there ye bloom e'en now-where

never

Falls the chill blight, and each sweet flower for ever Lives beautiful and fair!

There shall I find you-stainless, pure, and bright, As the pure seraph-eyes, whose myriad numbers Are watching now, above your peaceful slumbers, From the far zenith's height:

There shall I clasp you to my heart once more, And feel your cheeks mine own with rapture pressing,

Till all my being thrills with your caressing,

And all its pain is o'er!

Dear ones, sleep on! A low, mysterious tone, Solemn yet sweet, my spirit's ear is filling— Each wilder grief within my bosom stilling, And hushing sorrow's moan.

It tells me that, no shadow on your brow, Far from the clouds that closely round me gather, Clasped on the bosom of the Good All-Father, Ye're blest and happy now.

Ay, blest and happy! never more shall tears Dim those sweet eyes; temptation ne'er shall round

Farewell awhile! Ye were my heart's delightYe were sweet stars, my spirit's clouds dissolving, Round which my heart was evermore revolving, Like some fond satellite.

Ah, well I loved you-but I yield you up, Without one murmur, at my Father's calling: With childlike trust, though fast my tears are falling, I drink the bitter cup.

I drink-for He, whom angels did sustain In the dread hour when mortal anguish met him, When friends forgot, and deadly foes beset him,

Stands by to soothe my pain.

I drink for thou, O God, preparedst the draught Which to my lips thy Father-hand is pressing : I know 'neath ills oft lurks the deepest blessingFather, the cup is quaffed!

'Tis quaffed-and now, O Father, I restore The little children thou in mercy sent me : Sweet blessings were they, for a season lent meTake back thine own once more!

Yet, oh, forget not, Lord, thy child is weak: The dregs are bitter which my lips are draining,

And my faint heart hath need of thy sustaining—

Father, thy child is weak!

Yet, take thine own! their souls are innocentTheir little lives were beautiful and blameless: I bring them back to thee, pure, white, and stainless, E'en as when they were lent.

Keep them, and make them each a shining gem Mid the bright things which fill the bowers of heaven, Till my soul, too, shall soar, earth's fetters riven, Home-home, to thee and them!

LAKE MAHOPAC.

LAKE of the soft and sunny hills,

What loveliness is thine! Around thy fair, romantic shore,

What countless beauties shine!
Shrined in their deep and hollow urn,
Thy silver waters lie-

A mirror set in waving gems
Of many a regal dye.
Like angel faces in a dream,

Bright isles upon thy breast,
Veiled in soft robes of hazy light,

In such sweet silence restThe rustle of a bird's light wing, The shiver of the trees,

The chime of waves-are all the sounds That freight the summer breeze.

Oh, beautiful it is along

Thy silver wave to glide,
And watch the ripples as they kiss

Our tiny vessel's side;
While ever round the dipping oar
White curls the feathery spray,
Or, from its bright suspended point,
Drips tinklingly away.

And pleasant to the heart it is
In those fair isles to stray,
Or Fancy's idle visions weave
Through all the golden day,

Where dark old trees, around whose stems
Caressing woodbines cling,

O'er mossy, flower-enamelled banks,
Their trembling shadows fling.

Oh, he who in his daily paths

A weary spirit bears,

Here in these peaceful solitudes

May he lay down his cares: No echo from the restless world

Shall his repose invade,

Where the spectres of the haunted heart
By Nature's self are laid.

I stood upon thy shore, fair lake!
Long parted was the day,

And shadows of the eventide

Upon the waters lay;

But from the sky the silver moon,
All radiant and serene,

Attended by eve's dewy star,

Smiled sweetly o'er the scene.

The earth was mute-no sound, save mine
Own beating heart, I heard,
When suddenly the listening air

With melody was stirred:

The low, faint chime of lapsing waves,
The voice of whispering boughs,
Waked by the night-winds gentle touch,
In mingled sweetness rose.

Oh, dear and hallowed was that hour:
O'er being's troubled tide

Still waters of eternal peace

Seemed solemnly to glide,
Whose anthems, deep, subdued, and low,
Through all my throbbing soul,
Like breathings from a brighter world,

In pleading murmurs stole.

Oh, dear and hallowed was the hour!
Along life's mazy track,

An angel from the paths of ill

Hath ofttimes lured me back;
It watched above me at my birth,
It led me when a child,
And here, beside the moonlit waves,
Once more upon me smiled.
Lake of the hills! around me yet
I feel thy magic spell-
Still, still by Fancy led, I pace

Thy dreamy island dell;

The sere leaves, rustling to my tread,
Are heaped upon the ground,
And the graves of long, long centuries
Lie thickly clustering round.

"T was hither, old traditions tell,
The Indian of yore

Forth from the peopled haunts of life
His dead in silence bore,

And, trenching reverently the sod,
Within earth's loving breast,
With his bow and arrows by his side,
Here laid him down to rest.

Fit place of sepulture! tall trees

In columned arches rise,

Through whose thick-woven boughs steal down Soft glimpses of the skies.

Amid their leaves, like spirit strains,

Eolian sounds awake,

And o'er the long-forgotten dead

A solemn requiem make.

Ah, peace! while on this rocky seat
Myself once more I cast,

And people all the island shades

With phantoms of the past,

Till from the grand old beetling rocks,
That far above me frown,

A thousand dusky faces gaze

In mournful silence down.

They gaze while in their troubled hearts
Wild memories seem to lie,

And fearful meanings darkly flit

O'er many a burning eye;

Pale warriors lift their folded hands
In mute, appealing prayer,

Then clasp them o'er their silent breasts,
In deep and still despair!

But, see-those sternly-lifted brows! Quick change comes o'er my dream: Each phantom form is flashing now

With strange and sudden gleam;
Swift feathery arrows cleave the air,
From coppice, trees, and rocks,
And the wild glen hisses to the paths
Of hurtling tomahawks!

I start--I clutch the air-and lo!
My fearful dream is o'er;
Kind human voices call me back

To the bright world once more—
Kind, faithful hands, that grasp mine own,
Conduct me from the dell:
One last, one lingering gaze on thee-
Thou place of graves, farewell!
Lake of the hills! my song has ceased;
But should my feet no more
Thread thy fair island glades, or pace
Thy richly varying shore,
A memory lives within my breast,
That, wheresoe'er I be,

As the heavens are mirrored by thy wave, Will ever mirror thee!

THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE. WARRIOR, rest: thy toils are ended— Life's last fearful strife is o'er; Clarion calls, with death-notes blended, Shall disturb thine ear no more. Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber

Peaceful-but how cold and stern! Thou hast joined that silent number

In the land whence none return. Warrior, rest: thy banner o'er thee

Hangs in many a drooping fold; Many a manly cheek before thee

Stained with tear-drops we behold.

Thine was not a hand to falter,

When thy sword should leave its sheath;

Thine was not a cheek to alter,

Though thy duty led to death.

Warrior, rest: a dirge is knelling
Solemnly from shore to shore;
"Tis a nation's tribute, telling
That a patriot is no more.

Thou, where Freedom's sons have striven,
Firm and bold, didst foremost stand;

Freely was thy life-blood given

For thy home and fatherland.

Warrior, rest: our star is vanished
That to victory led the way,
And from one lone hearth is banished
All that cheered life's weary day;
There thy young bride weeps in sorrow
That no more she hears thy tread-
That the night which knows no morrow
Darkly veils thy laurelled head.
Warrior, rest: we smooth thy pillow
For thy last, long earthly sleep;

Oh, beneath yon verdant willow
Storms unheard will o'er thee sweep.
There, 't is done!-thy couch awaits thee-
Softly down thy head we lay;
Here repose, till God translates thee
From the dust to endless day!

REUNION.

NAY, pause not yet! another strain-
A strain to bid the spirit start-
Glad songs for those who meet again,

And blend together heart with heart!
Give to the winds each anxious thought
Which o'er our bliss a shade might cast;
These hours, by weary absence bought,
Should be all sunshine to the last.

What though we part again to-morrow,
For years, perhaps, no more to meet ?
We will not of the future borrow

One pang to mar an hour so sweet.
Swell high the strain, then! let our souls
With mirth and gayety be filled,
And brightly, as each moment rolls,
Be drops of ecstasy distilled!

Hush, hark! amid our rapture now,

What strange, low, sorrowing tone comes near? Why steals a shadow o'er each brow,

And through each mirthful smile a tear?
Alas! the spirit can not brook

The voice of careless glee to-day,
But, from each thoughtless word and look,
Turns, sick and shuddering, away.

Oh, hush the song! lest feeling's tide

Grow mightier than may be controlled : Then calmly seated, side by side,

Each other's hand we'll fondly hold. Linger a little longer yet,

And breathe your sweet words o'er mine ear; Oh, I can die-but ne'er forget

This hour, so beautiful and dear!

PEBBLES.

GIVE me the pebble, little one, that I
To yon bright pool may hurtle it away:
Look! how'thas changed the azure wave to gray,
And blotted out the image of the sky!
So, when our spirits calm and placid lie-
When all the passions of the bosom sleep,
And from its stirless and unruffled deep
Beams up a heaven as bright as that on high,
Some pebble-envy, jealousy, misdoubt-
Dashed in our bosom's slumbering waves to jar,
Will cloud the mirrored surface of the soul,
And blot its heaven of joy and beauty out.
Sin! fling no pebble in my soul, to mar
Its solemn depths, and o'er it clouds to roll!

MRS. BAILEY is a daughter of the Rev. Thomas Shands, and was born in Sussex county, Virginia, on the twelfth of December, 1812. When she was about six years of age, her father removed to the West; and in 1833 she was married to Mr. G. Bailey, junior, subsequently editor of the Cincinnati Philanthropist, then of the Cincinnati Morning Herald, and now of the National Era, at Washington. In March, 1844, Mrs. Bailey became editress of The Youth's Monthly Visiter, at Cincinnati, and conducted it, with a circulation which arose to some three thou

LIFE'S CHANGES.

A LITTLE child on a sunny day,
Sat on a flowery bank at play;
The gentle breath of the summer air
Waved the curls of her golden hair,
And ever her voice rang merrily out
In a careless laugh or a joyous shout.

Beautiful was she as early morn,
When the dew is fresh on the blossoming thorn;
And methought as I looked on her fair young face,
Beaming with beauty and truth and grace,
How cold and heartless the world must be,
That could sully such spotless purity!

Years rolled by: in her maiden pride
She stood, a gentle and trusting bride-
How beautiful still! though a softening shade
O'er the dazzling hue of that beauty played,
While the tender glance of her soft blue eye
Told of a love that could not die:

And I prayed as I gazed on her placid brow,
Pure as a wreath of new-fallen snow,
That sorrow, the sorrow that comes to all,
Lightly and gently on her might fall.

Again I saw her: Time had been there,
Tipping with silver her golden hair;

He had breathed on her cheek, and its rosy hue
Was gone, but her heart was pure and true,
As when first I met her a budding flower,
Or a gentle maid in her bridal hour.

As mother and wife she had borne her part,
With the faith and hope of a loving heart;
And now when nature, with years opprest,
Looks and longs for her quiet rest,
With holy trust in her Father's love,
Awaiting a summons from above,
She lingers with us, as if to show
To the faint and weary ones below,
How oft to the faithful soul 'tis given
To taste on earth of the joys of heaven.

sand copies, until her removal to the District of Columbia, near the close of 1846. This periodical was perhaps the first of its class ever published in the country, and its contents justify the critical opinion of Mr. William D. Gallagher, that Mrs. Bailey is one of the ablest women of the age.

The poems of Mrs. Bailey have appeared in the journals edited by herself and her husband, and there has been no collected edition of them. They have less individuality than her prose, but they are informed with fancy and a just understanding.

THE PAUPER CHILD'S BURIAL.

STRETCHED on a rude plank the dead pauper lay:
No weeping friends gathered to bear him away;
His white, slender fingers were clasped on his breast,
The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest.
The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted;
No one cared for him, the desolate hearted :
In life none had loved him-his pathway, all sear
Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to cheer.
No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him,
In tones of affection and tenderness blessed him;
For ere his eye greeted the light of the day,
His mother had passed in her anguish away.
Poor little one! often thy meek eyes have sought
The smile of affection, of kindness unbought,
And wistfully gazing, in wondering surprise,
That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes.
And when in strange gladness thy young voice was
heard,

As in winter's stern sadness the song of a bird,
Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear,
Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear.

And when the last pang rent thy heartstrings in twain,

And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain,
No gentle one soothed thee, in love's melting tone,
With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown.
Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear
With the songs of the angels the dying may hear;
And thrillingly tender, amid Death's alarms,
Was thy mother's voice welcoming thee to her arms.
Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarse shroud,
reposes

In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses;
And while on thy coffin the rude clods are pressed,
The good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb to his breast.