"If not, thou art lost; and never shalt see

Not earth-that's past but Heaven, or me.
There is a light cloud by the moon-
"Tis passing, and will pass full soon;

"If by the time its vapory sail
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed,
Then God and man are both avenged.

"Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill."

Alp looked to Heaven and saw on high

The sign she spake of in the sky.

But his heart was swollen and turned aside

By deep, interminable pride.

He sue for mercy! He dismayed

By wild words of a timid maid!

He, wronged by Venice, vow to save
Her sons devoted to the grave ?

No! though that cloud were thunder's worst,
And charged to crush him- let it burst!

He watched it passing-it is flown!
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake: "Whate'er my fate,
I am no changeling; 'tis too late!

"What Venice made me I must be,
Her foe in all-save love to thee.
But thou art safe; oh, fly with me!"

He turned, but she is gone!
Nothing is there but the column stone.

Hath she sunk in the earth,

He saw not—he knew not

or melted in air?

but nothing is there.

The night is past, and shines the sun
As if that day were a jocund one.

Hark, to the trump and the drum,

And the clash, and the shout, "They come ! they come!"

"Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,
That the fugitive may flee in vain!"
Forms in his phalanx, each Janizar,
Alp at their head, his right arm bare.

"When the culverin's signal is fired, then on,

Leave not in Corinth a living one!"

The reply was the shouts of fierce thousands in ire;
Silence-hark to the signal-fire!

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne
By the long and oft renewed

Charge of the Moslem multitude.

But on a spot where vantage ground
Against the foe may still be found,
Minotti stood, and the foes kept at bay
Outnumbered his hairs of silver gray.

Hark to the Allah shout! A band

Of the Mussulmans, bravest and best, is at hand;
Their leader, with arm bared, waves them on,
Thus in the fight is Alp ever known.

Still the old man stood erect,

And Alp's career a moment checked: "Yield thee, Minotti! quarter take, For thine own, thy daughter's sake."

"Never, renegado, never!

Though the life of thy gift would last forever! "Francesca! Oh, my promised bride

Must she, too, perish by thy pride?"

Then again in conflict mixing,

Clashing swords and spears transfixing,
Now the Othmans gain the gate,
Still resists its iron weight.

But the portal wavering grows and weak-
The iron yields, the hinges creak;

It bends-it falls-and all is o'er;
Lost Corinth may resist no more.

Darkly, sternly, and all alone,
Minotti stood o'er the altar-stone,

And made the sign of the cross, with a sigh
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby,

And still he stood, while, with steel and flame,
Inward and onward the Mussulmans came!
On the altar table they behold

The cup of consecrated gold,

Massy and deep, a glittering prize,
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes.

So near they came, the nearest stretched
To grasp the spoil he almost reached,
When old Minotti's hand

Touched with the torch the train

'Tis fired!

Spire, vaults, shrine, spoil, the slain,

The turbaned victors, the Christian band,

All that of living or dead remain,

Hurled on high with the shivered fane
In one wild roar expired!

ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL.

JOHN KEATS.

[Holman Hunt has made this poem the subject of a painting; he represents an interior with Isabella in listening attitude, leaning over a pot of Basil.]

FAIR Isabella with her two brothers dwelt,

Enriched from ancestral merchandise,
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories;

These brethren having found by many signs
What love Lorenzo for their sister had.
And how she loved him too, each unconfines
His bitter thoughts to other, wellnigh mad
That he, the servant of their trade designs,
Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad,
When 'twas their plan to coax her, by degrees,
To some high noble and his olive-trees.

And many a jealous conference had they,
And many times they bit their lips alone,
Before they fixed upon the surest way

To make the youngster for his crime atone;
At last they thought to seek some forest dim,
Then kill Lorenzo and there bury him.

So on a pleasant morning as he leant
Into the sunrise o'er the balustrade
Of the garden-terrace, they to him said:

"You seem, Lorenzo, in the quiet of content;

"But bestride your steed, to-day we mount,

To spur three leagues toward the Apennine;
Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count
His dewy rosary on the eglantine."

Lorenzo bowed, and to the courtyard passed alone,
Each third step did he pause, and listened oft
If he could hear his lady's matin-song,

Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;

He heard a laugh, and, looking up, saw her features bright Smile through an in-door lattice, with delight.

"Loved Isabel!" said he, "I was in pain
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow,
Ah! What if I should lose thee, when so fain
I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow

Of a poor three hours' absence? But we'll gain

Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow; Good-bye! I'll soon be back." "Good-bye," said she, And as he went she chanted merrily.

So the two brothers and their doomèd man

Rode past fair Florence to where Arno's stream,
With dancing bulrush itself doth gently fan;
Wan the brothers' faces in the ford did seem,
Lorenzo's flushed with love. They passed the water,
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.