With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil,
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,
Vested in colours of the living flame.

Even as the snow, among the living rafters
Upon the back of Italy, congeals,

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

And then, dissolving, filters through itself,
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as a taper melts before a fire,

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ;

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies
Compassion for me, more than had they said,

"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?"

The ice that was about my heart congealed,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.

Confusion and dismay, together mingled,

Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged,
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,
And with less force the arrow hits the mark;

So I gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

GENTLE Spring!-in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display!

For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou,-thou makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,

We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,

When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place

Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ;—

'Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee !

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright!

Awake, and chase this fatal thought!-Unclose

Thine eye but for one moment on the light!

Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

Sweet error!-he but slept,-I breathe again;
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!
O when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?