Ye birds! whose liquid warblings far and near
Make music to the green turf-board of swains;
To me, your light lays tell of April joy,--
Of pleasures--idle, as a long-loved toy;
And while my heart in unison complains,
Tears like of balm-tree flow in trickling wave,
And white forms strew with flowers a maid's untimely grave!
_New Monthly Mag._

* * * * *

THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.[1]

"If I could see him, it were well with me!"
_Coleridge's Wallenstein._

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquished city's halls,
As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls;
And the conquerors filled the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed:
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wailed the dead.

He looked down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below,
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets--and a gloom came o'er his brow:
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbals' tone;
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.
And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!
But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?
--I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul.