And suddenly, from that rich board,
Why rose the wassail-band?

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder o'er his face
Flushed the proud warrior-blood:

And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried,
'Wherefore this mourning vest?

And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest? "

"Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features of thy line
In each fair little one!

Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,

Yet there thine own quick spirit lies,
Thy brother's children see!

"And where is he, thy brother, where? He, in thy home that grew,

And smiling, with his sunny hair,

Ever to greet thee flew?

How would his arms thy neck entwine,

His fond lips press thy brow!

My son! O, call these orphans thine, -
Thou hast no brother now!

"What! from their gentle eyes doth naught Speak of thy childhood's hours,

And smite thee with a tender thought

Of thy dead father's towers?

Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When reared together there,

Through the old woods like fawns ye flew, Where is thy brother—where?

“Well didst thou love him then, and he
Still at thy side was seen!

How is it that such things can be
As though they ne'er had been?

Evil was this world's breath, which came
Between the good and brave!

Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offered to the grave.

"And let them, let them there be poured!
Though all unfelt below,

Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.

O, death is mighty to make peace;

Now bid his work be done!

So many an inward strife shall cease,
Take, take these babes, my son!"

His eye was dimmed, the strong man shook With feelings long suppressed;

Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strained them to his breast.

And a shout from all in the royal hall
Burst forth to hail the sight;

And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met

At the Kaiser's feast that night.

OLYMPIA MORATA.

Felicia Hemans.

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING HER GRAVE AT HEIDELBERG.

A

TOMBSTONE in a foreign land cries out,

O Italy! against thee: she whose death
This stone commemorates with no common praise,
By birth was thine; but, being vowed to Truth,
The blood-stained hand that lurks beneath thine alb
Was raised to strike, and lest one crime the more
Should stand in thine account to heaven, she fled.
Then hither came she, young but erudite,

With ardor flushed, but with old wisdom stored
(Which spake no tongue she knew not), apt to learn
And eloquent to teach, and welcomed here
Gave the brief beauty of her innocent life
An alien race to illustrate, and here
Dying in youth (the beauty of her death.
Sealing her life's repute) her ashes gave
An honor to the land that honored her.

- Jerusalem! Jerusalem! which killest

The prophets! if thy house be desolate,
Those temples too are desolate, and that land,
Where Truth's pure votaries may not leave their dust.

Henry Taylor.

WE

HEIDELBERG, ON THE TERRACE.

E stood upon the castle's height,
So full of old romances;

The moon above shone clear and bright,
And silvered all our fancies.

The Neckar murmured in its flow, The woods with dew were weeping, And, lighting up the depths below, The quiet town seemed sleeping.

The battlements rose grim and still
In majesty before us,

And floating faintly up the hill

We heard a students' chorus.

Inspired by the brimming cup,
Their words were wildly ringing;

They sang of love, - and

took up

The burden of their singing.

I spoke to you in sweet surprise
A little while you hovered;

Then in the depths of those gray eyes
Your answer I discovered.

We vowed that while the Neckar's flow (How low the words were spoken !) Ran undisturbed these towers below, Our troth should rest unbroken.

Again beneath these walls I stand,
And here my footsteps linger,

Where once I pressed with loving hand
This token on your finger.

But now the well-loved view I see

Its old enchantment misses;

The evening breeze sighs back to me
The shadows of our kisses;

Untired still the Neckar flows

In the soft summer weather;

But last year's leaves and last year's vows

Have flown away together.

Walter Herries Pollock.

Heisterbach, the Abbey.

THE MONK OF HEISTERBACH.

N cloister Heisterbach a youthful mouk

IN

Went sauntering through the garden's farthest ground, Reading God's Holy Word in silence, sunk In musings on eternity profound.

He reads, and hears the Apostle Peter say:
"One day is with the Lord a thousand years,
A thousand years with him are but a day,"
But, in his maze of doubt, no clew appears.